Countdown_LitRPG Series

by Michael Atamanov

  What could I say? Now I had a good explanation for yesterday's mass expulsion. Apparently, the alarming situation with aggressive neighbors in the game had caused a need for a large number of soldiers with real-world experience to defend our lands. But there were enough of those in our faction now, and the best our country had to offer were already under the Dome. But even if they did take the Construction, Chemistry or Physics skills, natural-born warriors would be about as much use in laboratories as tits on a boar. They didn’t have the base knowledge, nor the mathematical background, nor the high Intelligence. Building such a workforce required a different foundation. So, the leaders of the Dome had decided to recruit students from the upper classes of bachelor’s programs, graduate courses and science institutes.

  I looked at the young specialists around me. All of them were listening attentively, hanging off every word. I could read sincere enthusiasm on their faces. They wanted to dive headfirst into their work. I was getting the impression that practically everyone else was a volunteer, who had signed up without any blackmail or police pressure. That made my small group of expelled gamers look even more surprising. They must have needed us for some reason, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  I got distracted, because the presenter brought up a new image on screen. Some kind of honeycomb pattern with differently colored hexagons. Ivan Lozovsky adjusted the microphone on his collar and continued his speech:

  “So then, we’ve already got a handle on classes and skills. We discussed the motivation and reward for your difficult work. We have studied the history of our faction and had a brief run-down of our neighbors. Now is the time to talk about geography.”

  He zoomed in on the honeycombs and I could see that the hexagons were overlaid on a topographic map of forests, rivers and swamps.

  Ivan Lozovsky narrated:

  “The Geckho told us that our entire planet in the game that bends reality is divided into perfect hexagons with edges of approximately six miles. These six-sided boxes are called different things: hexes, hexagons, cells, although recently the term ‘node’ has been catching on, taken from some computer game. Anyway, these nodes form a kind of mosaic that covers the whole surface of the planet. Any faction in the game controls at least one node by definition. Each node has a surface area of eighty square miles — that is easily enough to build a starting base and begin producing a colony’s essential survival needs.”

  “So, can a faction control several of these nodes?” The nerd was back with another question.

  However, today the diplomat was not so annoyed and answered eagerly:

  “Yes, of course. If they have the forces to capture and hold the territory, why not? All nodes have different climate, landscape and resources. No one territory contains every necessary resource, but most things can be found in a relatively small area. So, a faction must expand to continue to grow. Our Human-3 Faction currently controls five hexagons. We captured the fifth just four days ago, and that was what allowed us to bring more people into the game that bends reality. Those people are all of you.”

  Everyone started chattering and looking around. Then the nerd asked another question:

  “So, is there a strict formula of how many people a faction can have depending on the number of these ‘nodes?’”

  Ivan Lozovsky again reacted fairly positively to the question and answered in great detail:

  “Yes, of course. We only figured it out recently. But the number of nodes is less important than their development level. A level-one node allows eighty-seven players. A level-two node allows two-hundred sixty-one. A level-three, then, gives seven-hundred-eighty-three players. We do not yet have a development-level-four node, although such a well-developed hexagon would allow us to bring a whole two thousand three hundred forty-nine people into the game. Right now, we have just one level-three node — our Capital. When you first enter the game, you’ll appear right at its center, which is approximately half a mile west of our main base. Beyond our highly developed and fortified Capital, we have another three nodes to the south. Two level-two: Yellow Mountains, and Jungles, and one level-one, the farthest away: Antique Beach. Finally, our most recent addition, the Eastern Swamp, which is to the east of our Capital. We just finished conquering it from the forest spirits. We are actively building roads and fortifications there now. And so, the Human-3 Faction can have a total of one thousand four hundred seventy-nine players.”

  Well, well... I didn’t understand what he meant by forest spirits, but no one sitting in the hall was surprised, so he must have talked about them earlier. But my attention caught on something else. I was number 1470, and there were just 1479 people in our faction. That meant we had already used practically our entire limit! And until we captured new territories or built up the nodes we already had, there could be no reinforcements. So that’s what the diplomat meant yesterday when he said we would not be needing a sixteenth Corncob any time soon!

  The lecture continued. From there, though, it covered only narrow and specific topics such as what resources are necessary to construct certain buildings, how many people can work in one laboratory, and what bonuses a good leader can give to science or production teams. It was of little importance to my Prospector and, to be honest, I got a bit bored and barely made it to the end. What was more, I was fearfully hungry. It was scary to think, but I hadn’t eaten for a whole day, since right before the final match of the online tournament!

  * * *

  Over breakfast, our group of six sat at a separate table. And though Anya and Masha were trying to memorize the maze, Denis was trying to get under my skin with jibes about my change in appearance. I refused to give the girls any advice, not wanting to spoil their chances of getting a higher stat-point bonus. The gopnik, though, I just ignored, which got him more and more worked up.

  We had already finished breakfast, when the same First Legion girl we met last night came to our table. For a second, she just looked over all six of us, then confidently stopped her gaze on me:

  “Gnat, you’re already in the game, so you’re on the schedule. You’ll be going with Kisly’s group to Antique Beach at ten o’clock for a standard four-hour shift at border patrol.”

  To say I was surprised would be saying nothing. How could my level-4 Prospector make any kind of border guard, when he couldn’t even deal with a swarm of flying bugs?! As if reading my thoughts, she added:

  “The border is usually patrolled by the First and Second Legions, but we were working all night, so today we will rest. That means other people have to take that duty. Antique Beach is calm, prime territory for a newbie to get his bearings. What’s more, the leader of the group, Kisly, is a level-40 Machine-Gunner, so he can explain stuff and protect you if anything happens.”

  The girl with number 343 on her shirt turned around and left. I got the feeling my relationship with my new acquaintances had changed. I now sensed a certain respect and even some envy. They hadn’t yet seen their virt-pods, but I was already a fully-fledged player. I was on the schedule and the faction was counting on me. Breakfast soon came to an end, I said goodbye and headed for my Corncob.

  “Kirill, tonight, you have to tell us what centaurs are like, alright?” Masha asked. With a confident voice, I promised I would, trying not to reveal my confusion.

  What was this about centaurs? Although the name of the place I was going, Antique Beach, did seem to imply centaurs, minotaurs and various other creatures from Greek mythology. Could they really exist? Was I going to see them today with my own eyes?!

  Chapter Eleven. Getting Ready for Patrol

  THIS TIME, when entering the game, I didn’t fall from up high. I just appeared standing on even ground. The place, though, was the exact same — right next to the Geckho diplomat’s tent. Kosta Dykhsh himself happened to be there again as well, speaking with Ivan Lozovsky. It was somewhat unusual to see him not wearing an austere business suit, but a spotted camouflage smock over heavy armor. The sniper rifle slung over his back jus
t added to it. But he was at level eighty, which inspired respect.

  I walked up closer to the conversing diplomats.

  “Kento duho, Gnat!” the furry humanoid greeted me with a slight bow.

  “Kento duho, Kosta Dykhsh!” I echoed the Geckho diplomat and gave a bow, which inspired a fit of bark-like laughter.

  Astrolinguistics skill increased to level three!

  Ivan Lozovsky spilled out a long sentence in Geckho, turning to our resident suzerain, but I didn’t understand one bit, just my name, which was repeated a few times. Kosta Dykhsh, clearly justifying himself, answered in his own language. Then he pointed to me and repeated in Russian:

  “I didn’t make him do it. Gnat wanted to learn Geckho all on his own. I told him not to, but he insisted.”

  “Why would he need that skill? To study a foreign language, one must speak it with a native. But how can Gnat do that? He’s a Prospector and will spend practically all his time hiking around remote cliffs and swamps!”

  The diplomats returned to the alien language and argued for three minutes. I even thought I caught a few select phrases in Geckho. Then my Astrolinguistics improved again:

  Astrolinguistics skill increased to level four!

  Finally, Ivan Lozovsky finished his argument and turned to me, looking critically at my street clothes and bare feet:

  “Gnat, you should run to base to get decent attire. Actually, wait... It’ll take you more than an hour to get there on foot. I’ll call a driver.”

  He took the radio from his belt and gave an order:

  “Zheltov, get your starship to the furball’s house. I need you to bring someone to base.”

  In reply, a high-pitched squeal came from the radio then two barely distinguishable words: “Three minutes.”

  “Furball?” Kosta Dykhsh asked, baring his teeth. I’d seen that expression before, and it wasn’t a threat, but an imitation of a human smile.

  “Well, I figured your race needs an informal name, and you get offended by Wookie, yeti and abominable snowman!” Ivan Lozovsky chuckled.

  “Yeti and Wookie are entirely different races. What’s more, they are fictional. Humans using such terms for the Geckho shows ignorance,” Dykhsh answered very seriously. Then, he suddenly started barking or coughing through clenched teeth. “Furball is fine. It’s mostly an accurate description, so I cannot be mad.”

  I tried not to be surprised at the casual, and even friendly interaction between the two diplomats. After all, Ivan Lozovsky himself had implored us to treat all Geckho as respectfully as possible. And that was putting it lightly. But Kosta Dykhsh didn’t object, and even seemed to like it, so our diplomat must have known what he was doing.

  Just then, I heard a strange hum and whistle in the distance, and soon an astonishing vehicle flew in from the forest. It consisted of a set of curved metal pipes welded together, attached to four bucket seats and something that was not quite a steering wheel, not quite a helm. The craft was somehow reminiscent of a racing buggy, but instead of wheels on the ground, it had three horizontal metal disks that made it hover. This makeshift transport was piloted by a young redheaded man covered head to toe in fresh mud and wearing an old-fashioned racing helmet and leather overalls.

  Dmitry Zheltov. Human. H3 Faction. Level-28 Starship Pilot

  Starship pilot?! Was this the guy Tyulenev mentioned earlier? I suspected we didn’t have a starship, so now he was working as a pilot of this... what was this by the way? The strange machine didn’t touch the ground and hovered four inches in the air. It didn’t look like an air pillow, or magnets. So, was this an improvised antigrav?

  Ivan Lozovsky pointed the pilot to me:

  “Bring this newbie to base, right to Vasiliadi’s warehouse. Tell him to give Gnat proper equipment, because he’s going on patrol soon. Also, stay on call. There are going to be lots of trips today. We’ve got a big group of newbies. Fifty people.”

  The red-headed boy whistled in surprise, then pointed me to the front passenger seat. I didn’t need to be asked twice and hopped right in. The vehicle sagged a bit to one side. The pilot abruptly turned the helm in one direction, restoring balance and evening out the flying buggy:

  “Wo-o-oah! Careful! Can’t you see? We’re hovering here. This takes a gentle touch. By the way, make sure to buckle up, otherwise you might fly out when we turn. Also, there are helmets in the back. Put one on. We might need it.”

  I took his sage advice, donned a protective helmet, sat back in the chair and buckled the seatbelt. At that, I noticed a gnarled word scratched into the back bumper: “starship.”

  “We’ve got a couple of jokers in the faction...” the pilot said, when he saw me looking. “As soon as I get it repainted, they scratch it back in. But one day, I’ll catch them in the act and then I’ll show them!!!”

  “Is that because of your class?” I clarified, hoping not to seriously offend him.

  “What else could it be...? I was brought in from the Mozhaysky Military-Space Academy. I graduated with honors from a special course to pilot near-space vehicles, successfully passed a harsh selection process and was sent under the Dome. And when I got there, the game offered me just two professions: Starship Pilot, or Heavy Robot Operator. Of course I chose the first... But no one told me how far our faction was from getting actual starships!”

  Dmitry grated his teeth and turned the helm without warning, which made the vehicle sharply start forward, pressing me forcefully into my seat.

  “You in a rush? You care if we go around the forest?” the pilot enquired, not turning his head as he maneuvered between bushes and stones at enormous speed. “It’s just that, it rained yesterday and there are little streams everywhere. I got stuck in one earlier and, with two of us, we’ll probably hit another. My batteries are low. These pancakes don’t have enough power. I’ll have to charge up at base...”

  Cartography skill increased to level four!

  Only then did I notice with surprise how quickly my progress bar was filling. Another minute, or minute and a half at most, and my character would hit level five. I was actively using some skill. Cartography? Seemingly. On the dark unexplored map, a strip was slowly being colored in. So, riding the blisteringly fast buggy, leveled Cartography many times faster than going on foot.

  Cartography skill increased to level five!

  Scanning skill increased to level five!

  You have reached level five!

  You have received three skill points! (total points accumulated: six)

  Whoo, if I rode around like this a couple hours, just think how much I would level! But, unfortunately, we were already there... He gave the vehicle another sharp jerk and we went around a rather sparse grove, then I saw a tall reinforced-concrete wall with watchtowers. Before it, there were rows of barbed wire, trenches and firing points for heavy artillery. The hovercraft slowed down, took a bridge over a river, then stopped next to the open gates.

  Dmitry Zheltov removed his driving helmet and took his hands off the helm. I followed his example and removed my helmet. A guardsman with an automatic walked up and trained a strange camera-like device on us. His partner meticulously studied an image on his tablet. Clearly, we were being checked. We waited patiently until a command came in from the sentry up above:

  “All clear. Come on through!”

  * * *

  The mountain of items on the table before me grew at a frightening speed. A whole camouflage uniform. A helmet strung with mosquito netting. Ballistic goggles. A knife in a case. High boots. A canteen. A belt. Kneepads. A backpack. Tactical gloves... Was I supposed to wear all this???

  “You want light or medium armor?” asked Vasiliadi, the huge hairy stock keeper.

  How should I know? The Prospector class only forbid heavy and power armor. This was the first I was hearing about medium and light. I asked for medium. He plopped down a kevlar jacket with extra inserts.

  “Have you already taken the Medium Armor skill? Otherwise, there’s no reason to pac
k on the extra pounds. It won’t do any good!”

  By the way, the stock keeper was right... I had already taken Mineralogy as my seventh skill, as directed by my boss, and was busting my brains over the last one. That was right! Protection!

  You have taken the skill Medium Armor level 1.

  “Don’t even ask for 12-caliber cartridges. We haven’t had them in stock for a long time. But we’ve got a ton of air rifle bullets!”

  “But what's the use of that...?” I asked in disappointment. But Vasiliadi disagreed:

  “Don’t say that! Before we had a production facility for automatic bullets, even the First Legion used air rifles. Sure, they had a higher caliber and power than your ‘burp gun’ but, just so you know, a 9-mm PCP pneumatic rifle can splatter the brains out of a bear! But a weapon like that needs high skill. At least level-30, and preferably higher.”

  Level thirty? My rifle skill was still just seven, so I had a long way to go... I asked what he had for Rifles thirteen or even ten, which made the hairy stock keeper chuckle:

  “What are you talking about, Gnat?! I’ve got a serious arsenal here, not just playthings. To be more accurate, I have weapons for level-zero beginners, with no skill requirements, but you’ll get a better one. Level the skill to at least twenty, then come back and we’ll take a look. Or ask our mechanics. They can improve your weapons for some coin. All kinds of modifications are available: accuracy, damage, silence. By the way, you asked about Kisly. Here he comes.”

  I turned sharply and saw a sprightly old man with his head shaved bald and a thick black full beard. But I ignored his unusual hair distribution. The first thing that caught my eye was his perfectly square figure. Kisly was not tall, a half a head shorter than me. But at that, his shoulders were those of a real brute. Each arm was the width of my leg, and although his huge fists were not watermelon sized, they were at least as big as a cantaloupe. And Kisly’s voice, as immediately became clear, was about as loud as a foghorn: