The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3)

by D. Rus

  Time to leg it. The last overloaded dwarf exited the dungeon and reported in the chat that the castle was empty as a barn in springtime, stripped of the last mouse. The warehouses would be empty within the next ten minutes. Excellent. We were on schedule.

  I nodded at the prisoners. "Do you reckon they're thinking of ratting to their clan that they've seen your men here?" I asked Serpent. "They seem to be taking note of everything that's happening."

  His cheekbone twitched, betraying his mistake. Then his face lit up. "You can sell them to me! How much do you want per head?"

  This kind of wording made me feel uneasy. Still, the Shui Fong hadn't replied yet, obviously playing for time either hoping to win the prisoners back in battle or even counting on them to deal us a blow to our backs.

  I cringed, then explained our prisoner swap principle to him: a Russian-speaking slave for each Chinese PoW.

  Serpent shook his head. "It's not impossible to find a hundred and fifty Russian-speaking slaves in fifteen minutes. Even our clan shelters a couple dozen of them, all victims of tragic circumstances sent to us by providence. But Sir Laith, I would dare call such strategy shortsighted. Such demand will inevitably result in soaring interest in and prices for your fellow countrymen. In other words, you will actually encourage headhunters to target your cluster in the hopes of high profits."

  That set me thinking. I really didn't want to put the Russian slaves on a pedestal, making them the object of slave traders' especial interest. My goals were entirely different: I wanted every slave trader to shrink and turn pale the moment a potential slave opened his mouth and used the language of Tolstoy to tell them where to go stuff themselves. I wanted them all to know that cavalry wouldn't be far behind and that it would chop off any greedy hands right up to their asses.

  But surely Serpent had his own agenda in mind? "What do you suggest?" I looked up at the man.

  He smiled oh so sweetly. "Thirty Russian slaves and a unique treasure from our clan storeroom in exchange for all the prisoners."

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Surprise me."

  He rolled his eyes, promising something out of this world, then shot a rapid succession of words into the chat. Soon the portal's iridescent film parted, letting out the Maoists' treasurer surrounded by five guards. He approached us. Obeying Serpent's nod, he reached into his inventory for an ancient-looking little box made of dark wood. Carefully he opened the lid. Inside, a small hand mirror rested on a cushion of worn suede. The mirror was made of some sort of pinkish metal, its surface polished to perfection.

  The Mirror of the Creator

  Durability: 1/1. Indestructible

  Extra characteristics: none

  Gingerly I took it my hands. It was heavy—probably, half a pound. Not a single scratch that could point to its ancient origins. "What's the catch?"

  The Belorussian guy leaned close to my ear, whispering, "Sir, that's adamant. By God! Nine ounces of pure adamant!"

  I remembered the Fallen One posing as a miserly Scrooge as he'd pinched tiny bits of adamant off the coin-sized plate while fashioning my artifact. "Are you sure?"

  Gimmick took offence. "I am Master Golem Builder! Substance identification is one of the first things a crafter learns!"

  "Okay, okay, I believe you..." I turned to Serpent who looked pleased with the effect. "Why don't you use it yourselves? Is there a problem?"

  He faltered, then answered, "The item is indeed indestructible, as it says. You can't melt or crack it, you can't even break a piece off it."

  "And why would we need a faulty item like that?" I tried to talk down the price without actually letting go of the treasure.

  He squinted in a foxy grin, "Judging by your interest, you know how you can use it."

  The motherfucker was too observant for his own good. Sure, all you needed was a special tool. Like the hands of a High God. "Okay. It's a deal. Bring us your Russians and feel free to collect the prisoners."

  I placed the mirror back into the box and shoved it down my inventory, much to the treasurer's open-mouthed indignation. Then I looked them over. "So what's the problem? You have fifteen minutes! Come on, guys, let's get this show on the road!"

  Fifteen minutes later the inner court was chock full of portal arcs. The remaining slaves were leaving for the Russian cluster. The long line of overloaded dwarves had long disappeared down the cold-breathing caves, leaving a couple of guards to stand watch over our impromptu aircon. The blindfolded Shui Fong prisoners had been covered by a mirror-surfaced stationary dome shield that prevented them from seeing out or scanning the locality with radar.

  Mao's Legacy soldiers kept streaming out of the third portal arc, their powerful flow dissipating into various hiding holes in the court sheds, castle buildings and gate towers. They obviously went out of their way to prepare their surprise for Shui Fong.

  And here was the final touch. A thin line composed of the thirty promised Russian slaves appeared from a portal. I nodded to Widowmaker. "Run a quick check on them, will ya?"

  While he was busy sorting out the newcomers, I took the chance to skim through my Inbox. One of the messages made me swear out loud. Shit! This was my gangster agent begging me not to sell him to the Maoists. Understandably, he was seriously concerned about any potential health problems such a shift in his position might incur, arguing that his access to any valuable intel would be seriously limited in captivity.

  But how was I supposed to pull him out now without exposing my interests or burning his cover? Luckily, the unwitting Widowmaker arrived with a solution.

  "Not good, Sir. Those from the Russian cluster are twenty-four. That's counting the Ukrainians and Belorussians, too. The remaining six are all from other clusters: one Lithuanian guy, a Bulgarian, a Pole and three Muslim highlanders from the Caucasus. They seem to have an attitude problem, too. I'm not surprised he's trying to bargain them off."

  That was it!

  I put on my mask of indignation and turned to Serpent. He became pale, apparently sensing his own wrong.

  "Damaged goods!" I announced. "Because of that, I'm keeping three of the prisoners: this one, that one, and the one over there who looks a bit like a rat. And I'm not interested in those six non-Russians. You can have them back if you want."

  I turned away, pleased with my own quick thinking, when the Bulgarian dropped to his knees and began begging and pleading in a mixture of two languages, apparently forgetting to reactivate the built-in translator switched off at Widowmaker's request.

  I felt sorry for him. "We'll take this one too in compensation for your cheating. Any objections? None? Excellent."

  Serpent swallowed my complaints in silence, as well as the Bulgarian penalty. He motioned the guards to let the slaves go. With insecure smiles, the thin line of people hurried toward us. That was me done here. Time to make ourselves scarce. The breakaway group had already moved thirty-five miles away from the castle, having set up five potential portal points.

  Wait up! What was that? None of the released slaves had any personal stuff on them, all of them naked apart from snow-white undies: diapers or—in the case of the girls—G-strings. But one of the female slaves that tried to hide in the thick on the crowd sported a two-piece with a familiar camo pattern.

  A Camo? What a sight for sore eyes!

  Chapter Thirteen

  The English-speaking cluster. Castle City

  "You shitty little brat!"

  Slap! Tavor's face jerked to one side from the hefty whack his infuriated father dealt him.

  A level 230 warrior—burly if not overly tall who'd chosen his character as a compromise between retaining his human appearance and achieving maximum survivability—somehow managed to tower over his almost seven-foot High Elf son. Like a bull terrier disciplined by the leash, Tavor bared his teeth in a spiteful grin but dared not speak back or look into his father's eyes.

  His father breathed fury, power and all-consuming self-confidence. How could he not? Officially a millionaire, he
was a secret billionaire: a multi-faceted industrialist in the past, and now the Olders' third deputy in the process of preparing his own successful and painless departure from the clan.

  He had laid his hands on over three hundred unique patents. Four ranger parties were exploring Frontier Lands in his interest. Three silver mines constantly refilled his purse; two top merc squads had been created and leveled at his sole expense; he owned seventeen objects of real estate at the time of this encounter.

  Tavor Sr. knew what he was doing; he had tons of patience and loved nothing more than long-term—preferably, decade-long—planning.

  Now he looked at his son trying to understand exactly when had this cute and cuddly puppy turned into a young wolf, vicious and deranged? Every road had been open to him: the best teachers, unlimited resources, help from all quarters!

  But whatever Tavor Jr. had received by birthright, free of effort or obligation, he didn't appreciate. The boy had started pushing the envelope, testing the limits of the acceptable and gradually prizing them loose, widening them. Drugs and club orgies, the usual albeit hardly innocent fun of spoilt rich brats in the suburbs of Moscow: girls raped, onlookers and homeless tramps clubbed to death just for the kicks. Tavor Sr. didn't know their exact numbers but judging by the bodyguards' and his own head of security's reports, there must have been quite a few.

  His son might have eventually grown out of it. The perma oligarch wasn't exactly a saint himself. Quite a few of his competitors were still rotting in nearby woods after being forced to dig their own graves with a teaspoon. Unfortunately, one of his ill-wishers had decided to play big, tipping off a scandalous blogger by introducing him to a certain pedophile ring. Soon all the details of the young Tavor's nightly exploits filled the pages of the virtual press, quickly spreading from social sites to the real-world media. While his father was busy tracking down the culprit, the informational war was gaining momentum and paying for itself, until finally his son swallowed the bait and was caught on camera—on ten hidden cameras, to be precise—as he went on a slaughtering binge in the blogger's house. Tavor Sr. could have handled another corpse, but what was the point of chopping down every member of the blogger's quite numerous household? Had the boy thought he was some axe-wielding Raskolnikov or something?

  Ultimately he'd had to send his son away, hiding him in AlterWorld. His own political position hadn't survived the blow. The doctors' cynical verdict had forced him to start thinking of his own mortality. He'd gone perma successfully, investing a lot of effort, time and money into a better understanding of the local processes, converting his wealth into virtual assets and developing necessary connections.

  And now, lo and behold, this brat had set him up for a fall again. The moment was highly inopportune: he had one hell of a lot of unfinished business to close in real life, including the bulk of his savings still awaiting gradual digitization.

  By offering his son a semblance of free reign, Tavor Sr. continued to covertly control all of his actions. All of the boy's information traffic was monitored; his bodyguard was on his father's payroll, sending in daily optimistic reports commending his son's behavior. Having said that, the day before the man had failed to reply to a request to initiate a live chat session. Today he hadn't been available, either. To all his questions, the young wolf of a son had just shrugged. "I'm not my bodyguard's keeper. He must be lying around drunk somewhere..." The oligarch's anxiety had kept growing; the conversation had left him with a feeling that he had to address the problem immediately.

  He looked at Tavor who was trying hard to hide his eyes glistening with hatred, and sensed the familiar chill running down his spine—a sure omen of danger that had never failed the oligarch in the dangerous old days. So the young wolf had grown! He would challenge his father any day now for the right to be the leader of the pack. The boy was becoming dangerous. Just posting him off to another cluster wasn't enough. He had to tighten his control over the boy, loading him up with enough problems to leave him no time to entertain any undesirable ideas.

  Remembering the reason for his visit, he gritted his teeth again. "Jesus Christ almighty! Are you raving mad? Don't you understand that your actions put our entire business and financial interests in jeopardy? What was that delusional assignment you sent to the expert I'd recommended? "Kidnap three women, turn them into drug whores and force them into prostitution"—this at least I can understand! But what's this? "A vivisector surgeon, a film director of deformed porn, a neuroprogramming expert and a double terrorist act in the Red Square: an act of self-immolation followed by a suicide bomb exploding in the thick of the onlookers!" Are you completely off your trolley? A high profile case like that is sure to attract the Feds' attention! And they will dig until they get to those who hired him!"

  His son grinned dreamily, baring his teeth like a wild animal as he savored the details. It had probably not been such a good idea getting him out of the clan's La Bastille installation, the oligarch realized. The best he could do now was take his deluded son back, hoping that time and peace would heal his predatorial mind. Having thus arrived to an instinctively correct decision, he breathed a sigh of relief, finally feeling at ease.

  "In short, son... I've canceled your show. Sit down! Sit, I tell you!"

  The ungrateful son seethed, his father's steel will barely enough to restrain him. His nostrils flared, his eyes glistening with indignation and menace.

  "Yes, I've canceled that circus of yours. All the targets will be eliminated by good old trusted methods, without attracting any media attention. And one more thing. Tavor, just please don't get me wrong. I want to send you back to La Bastille. Not the general regime wing, absolutely not! I'll have you installed in the private sector with any scenario of your choice. We could hire a hundred of the hottest girls, possibly even real live models and not those game characters. We could change the interiors, make it into some sort of Oriental paradise complete with the virginal houris, how would you like that? You could finally get a load off your mind. And while you recuperate, I'll think of something for you to do in the family business."

  The young man sat up, glaring at his father. Then he regained his self-control and lowered his eyes with an obedient sigh. "Very well... Dad. I'm sorry I've caused you so much hassle. You're probably right... it might do me some good. Dad... I just wanted to say—I love you."

  The young man sniffled, reaching out for his emotional father who opened his arms to welcome him. Pressing his son to his chest, he stroked his hair while whispering words of comfort.

  Clink. A Magic Negator snapped shut on the father's neck. Dumbfounded, Tavor Sr. barely kept his balance after the powerful shove in the chest. He didn't even think of resisting when tapestries collapsed to the floor revealing five top-level mercs who came straight for him, grabbing his hair and twisting his arms behind his back till they snapped. He kept staring at his son in disbelief, searching his eyes for the answer to the question that pulsated in his head: How had he missed the exact moment when the young wolf had turned into a mature predator?

  "Son... all this theater, is it really necessary? The Negator—and the blocking of the building's outgoing messages, too, I suppose. What can you do? I can die whenever I wish, praise be to Macaria, heading directly for my bind point."

  Tavor gave him an encouraging smile. "Be my guest. This way you can save these fine guys the trouble. And don't you worry about your reincarnation point. If you think that no one knows about your secret Frontier bunker, you've got another thing coming. While we're at it, don't you know that weak passwords are the evil of this world? Whatever else you do, you shouldn't have the same combination for your TV remote and your Control Room. Wake up, Dad! I worked it out when I was twelve! Come on, don't drag it out. Press that button or whatever you have."

  Panic glinted in his father's eyes. He struggled like a bear that tries to shake off a pack of hunting dogs. But all he achieved was a series of painful combos, paralyzing him and breaking his bones.

  Tav
or crouched, looking into his father's eyes with compassion. "You don't need to hurry so, Dad. Plenty of time to get your share of punches. You'd better begin to appreciate these rare moments without pain, the seventy paces from your respawn point back to the torture chamber. The seconds of quiet bliss. Finally the family will reunite. Shame about that bitch of my mother though. And the millions she got by that divorce claim. Never mind, I might try and find her too. You'd better get yourself prepared, Dad. We have an eternity to share—lots of things you need to tell me, a lot of information I need from you. Besides, we do need someone to practice our new virtual interrogation methods on, don't we? That blockhead you gave me for a bodyguard didn't live up to my expectations. Just yesterday he began drooling all over himself and reverted back to a cabbage. How unfortunate. My friend Ivan the Terrible had so much fun with him."

  The oligarch must have known the name as he struggled in the mercs' hands. Then his body slackened. Raising his head, he emitted a howl that made the leader of the mercs' hair stand on end with terror.

  Tavor spat on the floor in disgust. "Cut him up."

  * * *

  For over twenty-four hours, our group had been zigzagging like mad, cutting deep into the Frontier Lands. At first everything had seemed to go smoothly. I bid a ceremonious farewell to the Maoists, rejecting Serpent's suggestion to leave some of my raiders on the walls as a bait, and even managed to sell him a charged accumulating crystal for two hundred grand. Overall, we parted ways if not as friends then at least as partners. I wouldn't trust him to see my girl home but could potentially conduct some financial activities with them, with due discretion and adequate interest protection.