The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3)

by D. Rus

  The group paused as the prisoner looked for his tombstone, then hurried to pick up his stuff under the guards' paranoid stares. Finally, the first patient was shepherded to my feet. Literally to my feet, as by then I'd already made myself comfortable in the chair once again. It rested on a platform built with silver ingots that the dwarves had fetched from the amulet ingredient storage. What else did you expect? My self-proclaimed status imposed certain obligations on me. Image is our everything, whoever said that. It wasn't for nothing Chinese emperors grew three-feet long nails to show their superiority and the absence of the need for any physical work—I don't think they could as much as wipe their backside, could they? Apparently, this torture was worth it if it instilled sufficient awe in their subjects.

  A thin line of bodyguards separated me from the approaching warrior. Glaring around him, he slowly bared his twin swords glinting with moon silver. Apparently coming to the conclusion that he couldn't do anything more valiant than die like a pig in a slaughterhouse, he dropped all ideas of a kamikaze attack and switched to plan B.

  He curved his lips arrogantly, striking a pompous pose. His eyes glazed over, focusing on the game interface as he activated item destruction. With a pop, the air filled with a colorful metal mist as the degrading fragments of the noble twin swords descended onto the rough cobblestones.

  Widowmaker started in indignation. I motioned him to stop, waiting for the performance to end. Indeed, the warrior reached into his bag with a demonstratively slow gesture, trying not to alert the guards and not to appear afraid. He scooped out a handful of glittering jewelry and hurled it onto the steps of my throne.

  "Never have our clan warriors brought dishonor onto themselves by lowering their weapons before their enemy. May it never happen, ever!"

  He crossed his arms on his chest, freezing statue-like, tactfully omitting any mention of the replacement jewelry he'd just offered.

  Widowmaker forwarded me his analyst's promptly generated report. According to the Kravchenko catalog, the price of his rings alone was on a par with the cost of the twin Moonlight Swords, and as for the set of fancy bracelets and the platinum earring, those weren't even listed. Little wonder; every cluster had its share of local ethnic items that didn't exist outside of their dominion.

  I suppressed a smile of joy by pulling a grim and unhappy face. Smacking my lips, I shook my head in irritation. "I appreciate the brave deed of the noble warrior by accepting his fair exchange."

  Happy now, my friend? Sufficiently flattered and proud of yourself? There's plenty of wool for your ears where this came from, as long as your teammates repeat your noble but stupid gesture. This way I could kill two birds—by receiving even more loot than initially expected but also by considerably weakening the hostile clan. I'd estimated the losses in their group's elite gear to be about 20%. I could read his teammates like an open book: they were impressed by his valiant deed, impatient to repeat his gesture. A ballad about the greedy laowai and the noble Shui Fong warriors was already brewing in their delirious minds. Very well, friends. Time to stand and deliver.

  I signaled with my fingers, restarting the human conveyor belt. Two more teams of five mercs each were added to speed up the process. Now every thirty seconds a new portion of top gear was flung at my feet. One of the warriors attempted to cheat, tossing a handful of cheap costume jewelry into the generous heap of items—only to be publicly rebuked and have the error of his ways explained to him. I don't think that their ethics disapproved of cheating when it involved gullible enemies, but apparently no one wanted to end up in the ballad as the greedy little piggy. The donations kept pouring in even bigger and fatter than before—and considerably more generous.

  When there were only a few prisoners remaining—just some petty clan officials—a sudden crashing sound behind my back made me jump. The already-relaxed guards grabbed their weapons.

  I swung round just in time to see the wall of a distant shed disintegrate in a semicircle of dust and debris, revealing an enormous battle golem with the fragile tiny shape of a golem driver on his neck.

  The monstrous creature, a work of genius that married mechanics and magic, was armed with two steel multi-thonged scourges that squirmed in its hands of their own accord, reaching and destroying everything within ten paces of it. Every few seconds, a double-action crossbow fired from his monstrous shoulder with terrifying precision.

  The golem headed for the gates—slowly but quite surely, scaring off the laborious dwarves and pulling in all the unengaged raiders who tried to hang on to him like a pack of hunting dogs to a bear. I had to give the mercs their due: the prisoners' guards weren't tempted by the melee, they didn't even stare that much. Seasoned soldiers, they knew immediately that the moment was perfect for the prisoners to try to break through—and they knew that the prisoners realized it, too.

  I glanced at the petty official in front of me, his face a mask of obedience. He froze in a subservient bow waiting for my orders. This was by no means a warrior. All his life he'd been measuring everyone against his hierarchical yardstick, knowing his own place and the pecking order within it. You could break your tongue pronouncing his title: Guan Jiali—"Armor keeper".

  "What kind of creature is that?"

  This cross between a butler and an armorsmith curved his back at some inconceivable angle before bleating helpfully,

  "Heavy Golem 114, Breakthrough Assault modification. Designed by our brilliant—I call it mad—Master Si Ling. The pilot is Gimmick, his volunteer student. He'll fight for his mechanoids like the berserker he is. Which is exactly what we're witnessing now..."

  In the meantime, the golem had almost broken through to the gates, having lost 75% hits. It didn't resemble a shiny new car fresh from the assembly line any more. Then, however, he exhibited some erratic behavior, ducking aside as it stumbled along the castle wall losing sheets of armor and miscellaneous bits of magic on the way. The mercs trailed behind him. Whatever had attracted him there?

  "He's creating a ruse..." the armorsmith whispered, his chin pointing inconspicuously at the demolished shed.

  I sat up, about to open my mouth, but it was too late. A swift shadow dashed out of the darkness behind the breached wall and leapt across the court, taking away its rider, a gray-haired goblin in octagonal aviator's glasses.

  "Can't believe he's gone..." the armorsmith whispered in a simmering fury. It didn't look as if he liked the rider.

  "WTF was that?"

  "That was Grand Master Si Ling," my self-appointed informer crowed through clenched teeth. "Nine million gold he invested in his own leveling. Skill level 507. He has his own two-level apartment in the donjon and a personal harem of six!"

  His eyes glistened with envy, helping me to better understand the powers that drove him: envy, vanity, the desperate craving to be recognized. You need to nurture your relationship with this kind of people in your enemy's camp; you need to hand-feed them and stroke the scruffs of their necks.

  Gosh. I cringed as I visualized it. Politics was a dirty business: I really needed to have a sauna fitted in my castle and confess my sins regularly to the Fallen One. Having said that, he was unlikely to admonish me; commending me for my wrongdoings would be more like him. He was a funny kind of god: he didn't teach you humility.

  Time to throw the guy the first bone. I tsk-tsked to catch his wary and immediately averted glance, then transferred fifty thousand gold to his account. To do that, all I needed to know was his name, Wang. The goblin, small and agile, startled, a question glistening in his raised eyes.

  I PM'd him,

  I appreciate the information. Any intel concerning your clan and cluster, their political and economic setups, will be well compensated. Now go. You've been standing here for too long. You shouldn't attract the other prisoners' attention.

  Wang contorted again, backing off into the crowd, not daring to turn round in the presence of a VIP like myself. I was probably the only person who could see his nostrils flare, his face shining
with triumph: his gifts had been recognized, he'd been rewarded and commended, making him a big man with staggering prospectives. I wasn't upset about the money—after all, all I'd done was return to him the equivalent of what he'd lain at my feet a little earlier, which was an impressive stack of battle scrolls, over two thousand of them. Most likely, he'd pilfered them from the armory hoping to blame looters for their disappearance.

  All in all, the money was worth it. Gold shouldn't always be one's objective: it's more of a tool to achieve your goals. There's always plenty of money around, but spies and informers in your enemy's camp are hard to come by, making someone like this Wang guy worth his weight in gold. I just wondered if anyone had already attempted to recruit some of my own men. It doesn't take much if a soul craves money and entertains some alternative morals. A quick PM exchange followed by a soundless money transfer—and he is an enemy agent...

  In the meantime, the mercs were so infuriated with the loss of the Grand Master that they had attacked the golem with redoubled zeal. Already much worse for wear, he lasted but ten seconds, collapsing to its knees with the groan of metal subjected to unbearable stresses. It tumbled to its side, raising a cloud of dust over the flagstones as the earth shattered underfoot.

  The warriors surrounded the prostrate behemoth like Viet Cong fighters gathering around an American bomber that had been swamping their jungle with napalm and toxic Agent Orange. They pulled out the pilot's unconscious body, disoriented after his loss of contact with the golem, and, shouting cheerfully, dragged him to my feet.

  Surprised, I studied a slightly battered fair-haired kid—Gimmick, wasn't it?—who stood out dramatically in the Asian crowd.

  "He isn't Chinese, is he?" Widowmaker voiced my doubts.

  The boy stopped impersonating a dead body and opened his eyes. "So what if I'm Belorussian? And who would you be?"

  "Belorussian!" Widowmaker guffawed and began reciting in singsong,

  "We, Belorussians, with brotherly Russia

  We sought better roads to a happier life-"

  He stopped and squinted at the boy. "How does it go next, d'you remember?"

  The kid smiled,

  "Together we fought for our freedom and future,

  Together we stand now, the victors of strife."

  Widowmaker never ceased to amaze me. How was that for checking out the kid? Anyone could call himself Belorussian and pose under any kind of blond avatar. But you couldn't really expect a Chinese to know the original lyrics to a Soviet-era Belorussian national anthem. That would be going too far.

  Actually, I should be busy creating a similar native-speaker quiz for my own clan, to blow cover of any potential enemy agents:

  1. Who was Kitten Bow Wow?

  2. Tell me three Stirlitz jokes.

  3. Say the following phrase using only Russian f-words: "What a shame this important part has broken down as I won't be able to find a replacement now; I'm so sick and tired of it all I could go and drop off the edge of the world."

  By that time, they'd helped the kid back to his feet and brushed him off, slapping his shoulder rather friendly if suspiciously. "So how come you ended up serving the local thugs, dude?"

  He shrugged. "My dream is to become a Grand Master and create unique mechanoids. But you all know, don't you, that a golem animator is the most difficult and expensive specialization in the whole of AlterWorld? There're no tried and tested ways to achieve it as everyone has to find his own, but you can't do it in less than two years and ten million gold."

  Somebody whistled. "It's easier to become an MBA graduate and start your own business IRL."

  Gimmick nodded. "Maybe. I'm perma anyway so whatever happens in your magicless world is none of my concern. But here, no clan was interested in leveling their own Master. They either can't afford it or they would rather buy another couple of castles. Shopkeepers did help me at first, though. They rushed me up to three hundred but then I had to spend a whole year crafting all sorts of cheap crap for them while struggling to raise profession another ten points."

  As he spoke, I sent two inquiries: one to Oksana, still fussing around the trancelike Alexis, and the other to my freshly-minted informer. I wanted to double-check the kid's story using independent sources. I began to form some ideas concerning this golem-building maniac: I had a thing or two to offer him—and I knew it was something nobody else could give him.

  Widowmaker in the meantime had zoned out to check on the raid situation. His stare glazed over as he switched to his internal interface, singling out the idle onlookers and dispatching them to their posts.

  "So I busted my hump for a year working for them," Gimmick went on, "and then I became a journeyman, traveling out and about and porting to all sorts of funky places. I offered my free services to everyone who was willing to give me a meal and a chance to make anything at all simply to level up my skill. I didn't go too far, though. First time they captured me was in the Romanian nano cluster. One of their Gypsy kings wanted to have an invincible army of steel soldiers. When I told him my price range, he didn't look convinced, so he sent me down to make elixirs for sale. A month later I escaped: I made some nice explosives out of whatever ingredients I had, enough to blow up one-third of their castle. After that, I was captured respectively by Albanians, Malaysians, Pakistani and finally, the Chinese. Lone permas are in for a lot of trouble. Honestly, I didn't resist that much. I just took from each owner whatever he had to offer and moved on," he gave me a disarming smile.

  I reread my informers' reports. "So now you have your profession leveled up to 480?"

  "Yeah. Twenty more, and I'll be a Grand Master. Then a couple years more to get fifty more points, and I'll become the Greatest Master Animator, the first in AlterWorld!"

  I felt like the serpent of temptation in Paradise as I brought my lips to his ear whispering, "How would you like to become the Greatest Master the day after tomorrow?"

  Staring at me like a hypnotized rabbit, the kid nodded. "Wha-what do you m-mean?" he stammered.

  "I mean a place of divine power that gives +10 to any profession. Your skill will soar beyond your wildest dreams. Besides, we're currently working on summoning Aulë, the patron god of all craftsmen. Are you ready to join my clan to work for yourself and for its defense? And by the way, what are you planning to do once you get your desired skill?"

  Gimmick gasped, choking on his emotions, and fumbled with his bag's strings. Stacks of blueprints tumbled to the floor, followed by parchment sheets stamped with colored seals; scrolls spilled in all directions, unfolding like carpet runners. Finally, Gimmick produced a pile of official-looking papers.

  "This," he shook them in the air, "is a hundred and six golem recipes I invented and had them patented by the Admins. Recon golems, battle golems, utility golems, stationary golems! You've just seen one yourselves, haven't you? The Cheetah 8 Light Ranger, the one Master has escaped on. It's my design. This one, as well!"

  Gingerly, the Belorussian reached into his pocket, producing a thick pack of paper rather worn at the folds. He unwound it into an enormous blueprint covered with the colored signs of power channels, triangular symbols of magic crystals and the round ones of soul stones. My practiced eye glanced at the saucerlike hologram of the Admins' seal in the corner. Below it ran the finely calligraphed script of the recipe. My stare ran along the lines as my jaw slowly dropped:

  Mithril, 3520 lb. (approximate costs: 16 million gold)

  Accumulating crystals, large, 12 (approximate costs: 1.2 million gold)

  ………

  Divine Blood, 1 serving (approximate costs: unknown)

  And to add insult to injury,

  Minimum profession level requirement: 575.

  "My Juggernaut," Gimmick whispered amorously. "To build it and die, as life will lose all meaning afterward. There'll be nothing left to look forward to."

  Chapter Eleven

  Moscow Region. The Home Sweet Home high-security residential estate.

  Taali climbed
out of the shower. She'd been soaking under its powerful jets for a long time, washing her body clean of the railway grime and trying to rub off the imaginary smell of burnt carbide, gun oil and the droplets of blood eating through her hands. No, she didn't consider herself a murderer. Her conscience was clear: the rapists and killers had simply gotten their comeuppance. If there was a gunshot in response to every stolen child, every racketeered business and every instance of case-fixing by corrupt judges—the world would be a different place. A rifle in the weapons safe by your bed was a much better voting bulletin than the useless sheet of paper you were supposed to throw into the ballot box.

  Taali wiped herself dry with a fluffy towel and threw it into the laundry basket, studying herself in the misted mirror. She ran her hands over her full breasts, small but high, and habitually pinched the skin on her stomach, checking for any traces of extra fat. Good enough for a fitness magazine cover. Not a fashion magazine—you could literally feel the difference between an athlete and a model, a toned peach against a shriveled apple with its diet-inflicted skeletal beauty of a malnourished chicken, its slack skin and nominal muscle bruised and contused with the slightest poke. Victims of mass media and artificial beauty standards.

  She posed on the spot, smiling at her reflection. Shame that AlterWorld's vibe tattoos weren't available in real life. Her nostrils flared, her cheeks burning treacherously as the memory of the passionate roses that entangled the virtual shoulders of her avatar had gone too far, bringing back the images of her nocturnal exploits with her faithful knight.

  Max. She sniffled, her eyes glistening wetly. She missed him. Him, and all the bright colors of the virtual world that was about to become her home for good. She missed her trusted friends and her right to decide her own life and fate. Time to do it, then! Enough excuses! What's the point dragging it out?