Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4)

by D. Rus

  Plus all the doting grandparents who had nothing to lose — and lots to gain. How about immortality and eternal youth complete with perfect health and beauty, living next to your beloved grandchildren? Show me the button for demonic laughter. The devil with all his temptation skills would cry in impotent envy. He couldn't have even thought of offering anyone something like this.

  In the meantime, Widowmaker kept reporting,

  "Budget overspent 150%," he rattled off. "Durin is furious. You have to fight with him for every gold piece. But I'm not going to let him ruin the show. Everything will be top class. Last week I sent a complete perma information package to the shrink that Doc had recommended. It explains in popular terms the nature of the perma mode effect and gives a brief but rather rosy description of AlterWorld which is our spoof of its promotional trailer. Just to give all parents some food for thought. The children's video messages are the bombshell, of course. The little ones got all tearful, begging their moms and dads to come — Mommy dear please come to see me soon!"

  Widowmaker sniffed and averted his gaze. He must have been completely drained emotionally after having to record eighty such videos.

  "In short, we got two hundred and forty confirmations because many visitors intend to bring their entire families along. We had a few nasty incidents, too. We had to bail out three of our mediators from police stations after enraged parents had mistaken them for scammers. We also had two very difficult cases. We've really botched it there by approaching two seriously religious families without checking them first. Apparently, not everybody's happy to hear about their kids' successful digitization. Some believe they would have been much better served in that travesty of a heaven. We're now looking at all the potential problems and the ways of handling them. Our main objective is to cover Doc's ass. He's exposed himself too much as it is. Max, you really need to talk to him. He needs to go perma. If they nail him, the trial's gonna be big. The whole world will shudder."

  I nodded. We didn't need this kind of publicity. But it looked as if that was exactly Doc's intention. He wanted to call the media's attention to the problem. He had found the remedy for death and was willing to bestow it on everybody.

  An incoming PM message beeped impatiently. Only a very small number of confidants and A-listed personalia could get through in the Conference mode. Mainly they were the cluster's administration and top-level elite players, especially those with high Fame rankings.

  I opened the incoming messages and froze in disbelief.

  Fuckyall requests initiation of a voice session.

  But that wasn't what had left me speechless. By now I was quite used to this leading Russian Paladin's habit of bumming smokes from me by the crateful. It was his open status that threw me.

  Fuckyall. Level 261. Dark Paladin. Prince of the Cursed House of Drow.

  Holy Jesus, man.

  Chapter Five

  From Digital Worlds newsfeed:

  Breaking news: Over seven million people found themselves buried inside their FIVR capsules, about to be digitized.

  Today brought an answer to the mystery of the Fields of Heaven. This virtual world's financial model used to render experts speechless, allowing any player to earn and transfer to a real-world bank account at least two thousand dollars a month, regardless of the player's specialization. These earnings however were primarily aimed at financing the monthly installments for the company's very own custom-made FIVR capsule developed by the Red Shield Group.

  Many believed that this apparently overpriced piece of equipment was the main motor of the company's rather simple modus operandi, expecting the game to end once the bulk of the payments had been completed. The truth proved to be a thousand times worse. In only six months of business, the Fields of Heaven succeeded in luring over twenty million people into the game with their offers of easy money and limitless opportunities. Few of those millions were hardcore gamers. Most of them were ordinary people striving to feed their families.

  The game itself isn't particularly unique. Set in a run-of-the mill world of medieval fantasy, it differs from the others by its colorful and almost euphoric outlook that offers freedom from everyday burdens. Interestingly enough, the players were only allowed to choose from among the lower-ranking classes such as peasants, craftsmen or market guards. As for higher positions in the army, Royal guards or the few techno wizards, all of them were blocked for mass users. According to the developers, they were working on a new update that would grant everybody access to the restricted area. But before it could happen, a disaster struck.

  Forty hours ago, in the midst of a gaming event with a triple XP bonus, the logout button disappeared from the players' control menus. Furthermore, a command sent via satellite activated a latent perma mode protocol in each and every one of the company's FIVR capsules. Their lids were blocked and their servomotors burned out. Alarms flashed while the following threatening message appeared on the capsules' outer screens,

  "The device has been blocked for the duration of forty-eight hours. On expiry of this period, a few lucky ones will be able to leave their capsules unassisted.

  "As for everybody else, you can only wish them luck in their new reality where the ancient clan of the Red Shield can finally take its well-deserved place at the top of the world. Enough lurking in the shadows! We are the Kings. You are our servants.

  "Any attempt to breach the capsule's immunity, disconnect it or shut it down will activate an explosive device containing fourteen grams of nitrogelatine located in the capsule operator's headrest."

  Indeed, soon the planet echoed with muffled clapping sounds and the splashing of blood and gore all over the capsules' observation windows. Ironically, few of them were caused by actual attempts to open the capsules. The explosive devices were triggered by unpredictable accidents such as loss of connection, electrical failure or accidental impacts. The motion sensor hidden in the capsule's massive base turned out to have been set to a paranoiacally high value.

  As an example, a major accident at Deli's leading VirtNet provider left one-third of the city incommunicado. Amongst those unfortunates were nine thousand Indians who also had had their skulls shattered as a result.

  The panicking relatives didn't allow bomb technicians and rescue workers near the scene. They were right in a way, considering that the explosive device had been designed to be virtually impossible to defuse. We know of no cases of their successful deactivation. In this situation, Federal hackers excelled by deciphering, in record time, the secret communications channel connecting the capsules to the server. Unfortunately, the self-destruct system proved to be completely autonomous. All attempts to override its controls have failed.

  UPD. Breaking news: The last and the most shocking information of the hour. Finally, the forty-eight hour period has lapsed. The inhabitants of Silicon Valley were the first to know about it, as the Fields of Heaven data centers exploded, severing the new perma players' connection with our world.

  It was followed by the sounds of millions more activated explosive devices as the banking clan of the Red Shield was burying its last mystery: which of the seven million dead are now doomed to forever tend to their peasant fields in the vast expanses of their new world?

  The UN has declared a week of global mourning. The US National Guard troops have taken over all gaming server facilities on their territory.

  * * *

  I raised my hand demanding a moment of silence. "Sorry, guys," I apologized. "I've got an important call."

  I sat back, making myself comfortable, and switched focus to the built-in interface, accepting the insistently beeping message. "Greetings, Fuckyall, Prince of the Cursed House of Drow!" I repeated his new title aloud to let the staff know who it was contacting us, giving them time to look into it and collect some information.

  An amazed hum swept over the room. Even Amara had lost her usual cool, uttering an F-word.

  The next moment it was me raising my eyebrows in surprise.

  "Greeti
ngs, Laith, Prince of the House of Night!"

  He sounded tired, but still I managed to detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I discerned the sounds of battle in the background: the far-off wailing of magic, the clangor of steel and furious war cries. It looked like he'd decided to give me a call right from the battlefield.

  "How did you know?"

  This wasn't an idle question. The only person I'd told about what had happened in Lloth's temple was the Fallen One. And somehow I doubted he'd let slip my secret while sloshed.

  With a barely audible sigh, Fuckyall answered, "Some other time. Actually... how long has it been since you checked your status tab?

  I shrugged. "It's been a while. What am I supposed to do there, drool over my inordinate numbers of Fame points? Or puff out my cheeks at the sight of my Clan Leader badge? I have so many of the wretched titles and things you have to scroll through because they won't fit on the screen!

  "Go ahead, then. Scroll through."

  The Paladin wasn't the talkative type. Never mind. I clicked through until the tab opened before my mind's eye, completely obscuring the view. Habitually I adjusted transparency levels and skimmed my numerous achievements and other commendations.

  The First in Town

  Goliath, Colossus

  Impervious, Immortal, Untouchable

  Slow on the Draw

  Hannibal I

  Invader I

  Executioner, Elite Executioner

  Stoic

  Unmercenary, the Holy Unmercenary

  Wholesaler I

  Soul Healer

  Last Honors

  What a glutton I was! I scrolled the list further down.

  Clan Leader: The Children of Night

  Alliance Leader: Guards of the First Temple

  Prince of the House of Night

  Aha. There it was, the official confirmation of my rights to the throne.

  Hearing the thoughtful noise I'd made, Fuckyall added, "Click on it. Actually, your family status is clickable too. I suggest you do it sometime. You might learn lots of interesting things about yourself."

  "Do they have a button for performing your marital duties? And a dropdown list of sexual preferences?"

  My attempt at a joke was rather nervous. Admittedly I felt uneasy about my Drow Princess wife that life had forced on me.

  Fuckyall didn't approve of my sense of humor. "They do, actually. And you shouldn't forget that you're married to a Drow. Make sure she doesn't press your button first. They may not be your typical Dark Elves, but it's still their women who wear the pants."

  I shuddered, then stared at the incomprehensible mess of the Prince's service interface. "Holy shit."

  "Exactly. It looks as if this menu is not for public use. It has zero usability — it was never meant for the players' eyes to begin with. Now try to find the Upcoming Events tab. There you'll see the information about the next Council of the Thirty-Six. In actual fact, all those millennia of feudal fighting have cut the number of the Great Houses down to twelve. But for the Drow, tradition is everything."

  I scanned the list of the Great Council members. The names of the players among them were highlighted in a familiar blue. But why were there three of us? Fuckyall, the Prince of the Cursed House. Laith, the Prince of the House of Night. And Siam — the Elven word for a stray cat — the Prince of the House of Shadow. Well, well, well. I thought I knew where to find that particular feline.

  I refocused on the world outside, searching for my Analyst. "Dennis? We need to talk."

  Then I turned back to Fuckyall. "I see now. I can imagine the other Princes' faces when the three of us put in an appearance at their Council!"

  Aha. I could hear Amara's earrings jingle anxiously in the distance.

  "The three of us?"

  "Sure. If we find this alley cat, we'll have 25% of the vote. But I still don't understand how you managed to become a prince and even change your class for a previously unknown one. Or should I say, previously non-existent?"

  He faltered. "It's a long story. Some other time. At the moment, I've contacted you as a fellow Prince and the Fallen One's First Priest. I officially offer you my House's friendship and ask for the Fallen One's protection."

  'Offer my House's friendship!' I smiled at the familiar Russian movie catchphrase. Then I listened intently as the rattle of steel in the background grew more intense. "New friends are always welcome. But judging by the soundtrack, it's not only handshakes and curtsies you want. Need some help?"

  He ground his teeth. "I do. A lot of it, too. Preferably now."

  "You should have said so from the start. Why all those stupid references to my priestly duty and princely solidarity? Couldn't you just say, Max, I need your help, dude. Think I'd have said no to you?"

  He paused. "I'm sorry, Max," he sighed. He sounded tired. "Most of my friends have just disappeared. Everybody wants money these days. Nobody ever seems to remember my helping them. And it's my family at stake — my wife, my child, the people in my care — sorry, the Drow in my care — no, the zombies in my... ah, fuck it! My own clan has disowned me. They didn't dare to go against the whole cluster. Or maybe they just didn't want to lose the nursery — it's a great place. Both the OMON and the Sullen Angels have fitted me up with an ultimatum, to get the hell out of the castle and leave it well alone, so they can continue leveling up their young. You understand what that means? They are going to kill my wife and my child, repeatedly, time after time, and disembowel them looking for trophies!"

  "A child? Okay, we'll get back to you on this one. I might have a surprise for you in fact, but we'll talk about it later. Now. When does this ultimatum expire?"

  "Three days ago! I have two friends with me and three hundred mercs so we're still holding our ground. Defending a castle is easier then storming one. But the mercs have already cost me half a million gold. I just can't afford to extend their contracts. I used to think, I'm immortal now, plenty of time to farm some more. As if! Anyway, once the mercs leave, we're finished."

  I did a mental estimation of our call-up potential. "Will you last another half-hour? What kind of forces do the attackers have?"

  "I'll last an hour. But then it's the end. Two clans are storming the castle, that's about six hundred warriors. But I'm not leaving my people and my family behind. I've changed my bind point for the Throne Room. I'm going to respawn there every ten seconds if necessary and rip them all apart with my teeth!"

  "Leave your teeth alone, you might still need them. Give me the portal coordinates and wait. We don't leave friends in the lurch. That's it. Over and out."

  I shook my head, closing all the defunct windows, then turned round to face the alert expectant officers. "Code Orange for the Alliance. Code Red for the clan. Battle mission in thirty minutes. Buffs by Procedure #6. Only old-timers — that is, levels 170-plus. The rest should be ashamed of themselves."

  I paused, thinking, then cracked a predatorial smile. "Time to flex our muscles a bit and show everybody what we're made of. Bring the heavy golems out of the hangars. Contact the dwarves and ask for their yeomen — let them get some xp and combat practice. It's time for the mountain dwellers to prove their allegiance."

  Now. Who else? I concentrated on a mental image of Spark and called her. "Chief, we're about to go on a big hunt. Fancy joining us?"

  Oh wow. This really worked. My head ached slightly, at the same time flooding me with a wave of approval. I could taste warm blood in my mouth and hear the howling excitement of the pack as they got ready to go hunting. Actually, the latter wasn't a mental image anymore — it came from outside through a window that was slightly ajar, scaring the hell out of everyone who didn't yet know about their HQ's new budding campaign.

  Then I well and truly wriggled in agony as Vertebra's unforgettable voice tolled in my head,

  "Take my children into battle!"

  I groaned, clutching my temples. "You want your chicks to go? And what if, the Fallen One forbid, they get killed?"

&nb
sp; She laughed, rattling my panicking brains within my skull. Wretched bag of bones! "Can you please put the sound down? My head will explode in a minute!"

  "Sorry. You shouldn't worry about the chicks. They're too integrated into the world matrix now to be destroyed completely. Yes, it might take the Universe some effort to respawn such powerful entities — days or months even. The important thing is, in order to grow they now need to triumph over some enemy. Mother Nature has already given them everything it could, glory be to this Valley's mithril fields."

  She was dead right there. They weren't Phantom Dragons anymore — more like mithril ones. Weight for weight. The message was clear: it was time for the little 'uns to leave mom's titties alone and start to level up in their own right.

  "Very well," I said. "Tell them to come and wait at the square."

  Widowmaker called over to me, "The dwarves can only make it in a hour and a half. They just can't do it any quicker."

  "Too long. Send them a cabbie, tell him to port them one by one in order of readiness directly to the Cursed Castle."

  Widowmaker nodded. "Good. But we can't drum up so many people in a half-hour, either. Everybody's out on missions. We have commitments to other clans — like, we can't leave the Fly Trap field workers unprotected, and it's three teams of five engaged there. A hundred men is the most you can expect."

  Not much. Oh well, we did have a Plan B for just such an occasion. Time to undo our purse strings.

  I activated the castle control menu and opened the hire tab, looking for the warrior configurations I'd preset earlier. A type of custom-made cutthroat with random character traits. Pausing for a second, I entered the number, 100, then submitted the form. In a quarter of an hour, I was going to be the proud owner of an elite squad of level-200 warriors while my bank account was going to be fifty thousand poorer.