by D. Rus
In the meantime, the Ferryman hovered in the chat allowing me some time to digest their proposal. Then he went on,
In actual fact, I have a proposition to make. Would you mind me porting over to you? It'll probably be easier to talk that way.
My inner paranoiac jumped up and gave him a mental finger. And rightly so. My clan's protection was not so much swords and sorcery as our anonymity and the complete absence of teleport points within the Dead Lands. Whoever wanted to admire the First Temple's glittering walls would have to get past Tianlong first and he, even though sick with all the divine mana he was gorging on, wouldn't refuse a nice crunchy sentient. Therefore my answer was,
I'm afraid it's impossible. You're welcome to relate your suggestion here.
His answer was:
Very well, then. We've developed a support protocol for those groups strong enough to venture into areas not covered by navigational beacons. We will send our man to join your group whose job it will be to plot coordinates and expand our exit points database. In that case, our portal services are rendered free of charge which will allow you to make considerable savings. In addition, you're getting an extra team member even if he may not be the strongest in combat. Last but not least, in appreciation of your contribution to the development of the worldwide portal net, you'll be getting a lifetime 10% discount on our services. What do you think of that? Take your time, I'm not in a hurry.
Oh well. Nine grand saved and an extra team member, plus a promising business relationship with an influential guild. I couldn't see any drawbacks. I just had to accept it. The only thing that worried me was that it compromised the whole op's security, but then again, with three hundred raiders none of whom was in the least interested in keeping any of it secret, what compromise was I talking about? I could just as easily contact newspapers myself, that way I at least got paid for an exclusive. How much had the reporters paid us for their invitations to watch Vertebra the Bone Dragon's escape, ten grand? It was probably worth looking into it further.
It took me some time to unearth the contacts of my tame reporter, the one who'd interviewed me for that tobacco alliance article. I PM'd him asking nonchalantly how much they offered for a raid report from the uncharted Frontier lands complete with storming a city peopled by monsters level 200+.
The reporter's thespian abilities had failed him: I sensed his interest straight away which allowed me to talk up my fee to fifteen grand. Excellent. While I was at it, I sent my go-ahead to the Ferrymen agreeing to their conditions and asking for a contract as well as the nearest teleport point and their freshly-minted raid member.
Finally, the mercs. As their VIP customer whose history of orders exceeded a hundred thousand gold, this time I was entitled to all the perks. I contacted perk #1—my personal manager. Even despite the group's sheer size, my demands were simple: I wanted the same guys who'd stood by me that day at the main square in the City of Light. I'd seen them in action, we had some good vibes going, what else could one need? Zena's team was an absolute must, plus Alorrienar, a.k.a. Widowmaker, a.k.a. Alexis, as my junior coordinator.
This time they really made me wait. To make sure their VIP client didn't lose his enthusiasm, they switched me to their guild's info feed. I scanned a good dozen status-tracking windows: current contracts, available teams, their leaders' stats, and the arena fights schedule complete with betting rates. Quite an eye opener. I hadn't even noticed the requested fifteen minutes go past.
Their answer was basically positive. Widowmaker was available and ready to start recruiting the group. Three hundred men at a hundred and fifty grand a day in total plus 10% for the open-ended contract with the option of daily automatic renewal. I had to agree to that because I didn't have the slightest idea when I might need to terminate the contract. It would be a pain to pay for an unneeded two extra days or discover that the contract's expired two hours away from my destination.
They sent in the contract. I signed it digitally, becoming fifteen thousand bucks poorer. The price of a mid-range car. I'd apparently cracked it: I'd love to know whoever was driving my well-used Hyundai I'd flogged just before going perma. How proud I'd been buying it at the time!
My PM pinged. Zena. Now why wasn't I surprised?
Hi chief! Together again, cool. Is it a long job? I got plans for this weekend.
I did a quick bit of math. No way. You'd better cancel it. Forty-eight hours on the road plus another day doing the job itself. Double it for any emergencies.
Bummer. Never mind. At least it's never a dull moment with you. You didn't forget your promise to fix Bomba up with that well-behaved troll of yours, did you? Hope it wasn't a load of teenage BS under the influence of alcocreams? The gal has feelings too, you know.
Shit! I slapped my virtual forehead. She was right, I'd forgotten all about it! I had my reasons, of course: it wasn't as if I'd spent the last few days on a pleasure cruise, but still.
A man's got to do what a man's got to do. I bid a hasty goodbye explaining that I had to get the raid together.
I made a mental note to pop in at the castle to pick Snowie up before our departure. Let them get to know each other better: there's nothing like problems and hardships on the road to reveal a character. Anyone can don the mask of a charismatic heartbreaker for a two-hour date. Now try to conceal your true self on the march or in action...
PM pinged again. There he was, junior coordinator Widowmaker. I couldn't be happier pressing Start Chat.
"Alorrienar, the raid's junior coordinator as per clause 17 of Mercenaries Regulations. Hi Chief!"
"Same here! I'm really happy you were available."
His answer came after a pause. "Honestly, I'd been out on a job. But once I received your message I got this guy who agreed to a swap. He owed me one anyway, so now we're even. Do make it worth my while! The City of Light battle got its own painting in the Guild's Hall of Fame. Our guys had special badges made with a number and the picture of the Bone Dragon. Some jealous motherfuckers call it Bacon Drone, but well, they're always welcome to prove their point in the arena."
"What's with the number?" I was sincerely curious. I could be witness to AlterWorld's first military medal.
Back IRL, I'd had this friend with a decent albeit not exactly legal collection of wartime medals. I didn't remember much about it but now Widowmaker's words brought it all back. My friend had had this German medal, "Die Medaille Winterschlacht im Osten 1941/1942" awarded for the 1941-1942 winter campaign in Russia. The Germans themselves had nicknamed it Deep-Frozen Meat. There had also been a Tank Attack breast badge with a number that signified the number of the attacks. I'd love to know what kind of numbers the mercs had on theirs.
Widowmaker didn't make a secret of it. "Numbers from 0 to 276. Meaning, how fast you croaked. The smaller the number the longer you lasted."
"And what about zero?"
"Zero are those who survived the show. Twenty-four in total, me included."
"Wow. Congrats! Now about it being worth your while. The objective is fifteen hundred miles away. An unexplored area in the heart of the Frontier. The Lost City. You're gonna like it, I promptly remembered the Fallen One's expression."
"Very well, then. Count my lost soul in—where do I need to sign in blood? Actually, I hoped you were putting together an Inferno raid. I saw an interesting auction offer the other day."
I smiled. "A digital signature is enough. We're in the twenty-first century, after all. And as for Inferno—you're still young enough to make it. Very well, then. What's with the group?"
"61% of your old party have confirmed their availability. I expect that number to rise another 10 to 20% in the next half-hour. The others are contracted out. Groups will muster within four hours. Will be ready to teleport to your chosen point by o-sixteen hundred. Are you going to port us there yourself or will you have the Ferrymen do it?"
"I will. We'll have their representative with us as well as the media. I'm about to switch them over to you for further coor
dination."
"Accepted. I define the assignment angle as a farm raid. Lots of loot and dead mobs, correct?"
I paused thinking, then nodded, "You could say that."
"I see. Need any mules?"
"Which means?"
"Which means the loot is all yours but it doesn't mean that my mercs have to lug it. Fifty pounds per person is all you can count on. This you'll reach in the first twenty-four hours, and then what?"
"Then... the mules?"
"Exactly. It's a guild of sorts that offers services by some chars with a very peculiar leveling pattern. Strength maxed out, a bag for a thousand slots, an empty PK counter plus lots of gear and artifacts that work two ways: to increase strength and reduce the carried item's weight. Each one of those guys can easily carry two or three tons. It's a bit like a removal man grabbing a baby grand under each arm, then taking the stairs to the sixteenth floor."
"Wow. How many will we need?"
"Five at least. I can contact them myself if you wish. We have to hire them often."
"Goodie goodie. What else?"
"One last thing," he pointed out. "Are we taking a treasurer?"
"A treasurer? What for?"
"You have any idea how much money a group of three hundred swords would farm in five days? Hundreds of thousands in gold normally. The weight isn't the problem—PKs are. Even with an empty counter, a PK still gets all your cash. Enter the Treasurers. Very special guys with the sole task of surviving with your gold intact. Crazy amounts of hits—some say 30,000, others 50,000—plus passive and active shields, excellent resistance to magic and some very fast portals. In combat they're as useless as a chocolate teapot, but their survival skills are beyond all definition. Also, they offer insurance on your money so in case of loss you're paid back in full. Not that I've heard about them ever having to do so."
"Jesus. Whatever do people do these days to earn a living."
"That's the free market for you. Supply and demand. Probably invented by some smartshit who had to choose between either earning a hundred bucks a month by doing some low level farming or investing a couple of years' worth of his time and money into leveling his char and joining the mercs for one grand a month. Alternatively, he had to find his own way. He tried offering his services and turned out, he was in high demand. So they can afford to charge much higher rates than your regular top merc."
"How so?" my inner greedy pig voiced his indignation.
"You guess. Mercs and other warriors basically just have fun playing. While his is a boring daily drudge in the guise of a very lacking character. You pay for the discomfort inflicted."
"I see. Very well, then: five mules and a storage vault—I mean a Treasurer."
"Roger that. I'm done, then. We'll be waiting for you about o-fifteen hundred in assembly hall three."
"OK. See you there."
Squinting, I closed all the windows. I was as tired as a one-armed paper hanger. I squeezed my fatigued eyes shut—and when I opened them again, I discovered a hound puppy sleeping on my lap. I also heard a rustle in the grass by the Fallen One's throne. Trying not to wake the pooch, I craned my neck, squinting in the general direction of the noise. Seeing what was going on, I jumped up, indignant.
"Give it back, you bastard! This is mine!"
The wretched White Winnie grinned, revealing a mouthful of precious divine crystals. He reached into the grass, picked up another one, shoved it inside his cheek and disappeared with a pop, direction unknown.
I dropped to my knees, rummaging through the fragile grass. Nothing. Every single crystal was gone, snatched by the wretched animal!
A tiny mite of a girl climbed out of the sandbox and tottered over to me, attracted by the noise. She looked at my distraught face. "Is it @#$%#?"
"What do you think?" I forced myself to say.
Chapter Four
Excerpt from classified correspondence sent via the AlterWorld internal corporate network
To: Chairman of the Board
From: Head of Security
They've done it, Sir! Our hand-fed Congressmen have just leaked us some information—independently from each other, mind you—about Congress' decision to nationalize AlterWorld and turn it into state property subject to governmental control. It's been done under the pretext of taking care of the digitalized nationals' safety in light of newly revealed facts on virtual violence, slavery and financial crimes. We'll be made the scape goat, Sir, regardless of whether the goat has been long dead or is still alive and bleating!
I'm still not sure of the true reasons behind it but I have a funny feeling that the NSA's geeks are on to something. Project Arizona 6's budget (that's the project dealing with virtual reality and perma effect research) has been increased sixteenfold! There's some unhealthy activity reported in the White House—not only the NSA people but also some of the leading bankers and Federal Reserve workers. In view of all this, information about a large guarded convoy apparently sent by the NSA from Arizona 6 directly to Fort Knox sounds quite believable. Unfortunately, the op's top security levels didn't allow us to root out anything on the convoy's cargo or destination but judging by the way their armored vehicles were down on their axles with their load, whatever they carried wasn't virtual gold or gaming artifacts.
We have less than a week, Sir, to react to this. The nationalization decision has already cleared government and been transmitted to their security forces. Please advise.
To: Head to Security
From: Chairman of the AlterWorld Corporation Board
Well done, Rick. I've double-checked the information and it looks like you're right. With this, I give you my permission to engage the Vault 13 scenario. All we need to do now is play for time. You can't expect a thousand individuals on the Ark List to enter FIVR capsules simultaneously and inconspicuously—especially considering the fact that the Omega perma installation is still in its final testing phase. We need three weeks, Rick—and you are going to give them to us. Don't forget that your family are ##211-217 on the list too and about to leave with the first group that's due the day after tomorrow.
In order to do that, I authorize you to initiate the following procedures of Judgment Day protocol:
Leak the greater mass of our compromising files to the media. Let them skin our politicians alive.
Initiate a series of scandals by framing certain Congressmen as well as the individuals on my personal black list. Use all the previously discussed scenarios: drugs, underage boys, arms with filed serial numbers—and don't be afraid to engage our people in the media and the police force all the way to the top. Time to play our trump cards. This is our last stand.
If push comes to shove, you'll have to activate the 09/11 scenario. Once the sky turns black with the soot from burning skyscrapers, the government will have more important things to worry about.
And most importantly, Rick—don't worry about a thing, just make sure you do everything we agreed upon. Remember everything you can look forward to now: immortality, your own castle, and complete impunity.
As per protocol, I am to leave tomorrow with the bulk of top management, replacing ourselves with our lookalikes: physical as well as virtual. You are to go digital with the last security group via the Omega installation which should be fully functional by then. Even if you have to fight your way into it, that's not a problem. The installation is completely self-sufficient and it would take them weeks to battle their way in through a hundred feet of reinforced concrete followed by two miles of caves stuffed with various automatic response systems. By then, everyone who is supposed to get to AlterWorld will already be there. On the fifteenth day, the op-controlling AI will activate the detonator blowing up all twelve hundred capsules. God be with us!
* * *
I scrambled back to my feet and brushed the earth and grass off my knees. Sniffing indignantly, I dropped onto the divine seat. Fury seethed inside me, my inner greedy pig whistling quietly like some ethereal boiling kettle. Divine blood of a High God
, snatched from under my very nose!
I went as far as filling in a search form: how to get rid of White Winnie, trap White Winnie, before I realized the sheer ridiculousness of it. I waved my hand at the mallorn tree—which creaked indignantly—and went back to my work.
What was that thing that kept spinning in the back of my head? Which of today's tasks hadn't I actioned yet? I went through my mental to-do list. The maps! That was it. I still hadn't bought them.
I almost felt sick as I opened the auction window for the umpteenth time, looking for the vendor I needed. I marked the nearest teleport point as the starting location, then made a query for the maps covering the remaining two hundred and fifty miles. The vendor paused, deep in calculation, then woke up and promptly presented me with a bill. Twenty-one thousand gold. A predictably large sum even though there was no question whether to pay it or not: information equaled money these days. Which was something I knew better than anyone after having sold the coordinates of my Gigantic Fly Trap field to the Vets for one million gold.
Now it was well and truly over. I still had three hours before I had to join the mercs. I could use the time to do something useful.
Having said that... should I go and see Grym? I really shouldn't leave the old fox to his own devices—what with him being the Fallen One's faithful follower and all that. Besides, I had a warm nostalgic feeling for the old boy. He was sort of my Yoda—the teacher who helped me open my eyes and eased me into this world. That was it. I had to go and get him.