by D. Rus
"Y-yes, of course."
"Well, you aren't going to connect to VirtNet using your smartphone, are you? So we've delivered the equipment to you. We'll need half an hour to set it up and off you go! It's free of charge, don't you worry. It's this charity, Virtual Children NGO, who pick up the bill."
The visitor quickly checked the few rooms of the tiny flat, making sure its owner was alone. Seeing the vodka bottle, he cast a disapproving glance at him.
"It's just nerves, you know," the widower made a helpless gesture, hanging his head.
In the meantime, the workers got busy scurrying around the lounge and poking electric sockets with their testers. "Wretched couch! Let's put it here anyway," they spoke softly between themselves. "The voltage surges. Stabilizer installed... The net plug, no signal."
"They must have disconnected me," the man mumbled apologetically. "I have nothing on my utility card. I get food packets from the welfare, that's all I have these days..."
The worker's cheek twitched impatiently. He forced a smile. "We'll sort it out, don't worry."
The container's locks snapped open, revealing their precious contents: a tandem medicapsule Twins9Mod.
The man shook his head in surprise. "Why is it like this? They looked different on television!"
"A twin version, you mean," the visitor corrected. "That's because this is your first full-immersion experience. That's in the regulations. Have you ever jumped with a parachute? You do know, don't you, that the first jumps you're obliged to perform with an instructor? Likewise, we can't just send you off to AlterWorld all alone, can we? Where do you think you'll go there?"
"Oh, well, yes, I suppose you're right," the man answered, insecure.
After half an hour of the workers' combined expert effort, the capsule was connected and tested and was now awaiting its patient. Its two transparent open lids made it look like a May bug spreading its rigid wings, about to take off.
"Oleg Yurievich, don't just stand there in the corner. Please take your place."
The man had already removed his clothing and stood awkwardly covering himself with his hands, embarrassed by his grubby underpants. At the signal, he scrambled onto the capsule's illuminated bed. The comfortably warm nano gel enveloped him, lifting his body and creating a zero gravity effect. The massage rollers stirred, forcing his tense muscles to relax.
"That's it, Sir. Sweet dreams!"
With a touch of a sensor, the transparent safety glass slurped greedily, sealing the lid on the base of the capsule.
There was so much sarcasm and spiteful triumph in the visitor's stare that the man struggled, trying to free himself from the bed's grasp. To no avail: the Patient Security mode turned the soft nanogel sticky, giving the customer even less chance to escape than an upended turtle in quicksand.
Gas hissed, filling the capsule with xenon, putting the man into a deep eternal sleep.
The Twins9 model allowed for a wide range of modifications and was easily adaptable to the job at hand which made it the tool of choice for a wide spectrum of criminals, from hackers and virtual robbers to some of the sleazier secret services.
In theory, the capsule was intended for a doctor to work in tandem with a patient, communicating the patient's sensations to the doctor which allowed him to conduct adequate diagnostic or mental correction in the safe environment of a virtual world. Not everyone is capable of telling the doctor exactly what their problem is. This especially concerned little children, old people and the mentally ill. Also, it was much easier to train someone to use their new prosthetic leg by controlling their body, not even to mention teaching a recovered quadriplegic to walk again after surgery.
Still, certain criminal circles had quickly realized that a few simple modifications could make the capsule suitable for identity spoofing, allowing them to enter the virtual world in someone else's guise. The "patient"'s biometric data was fed into the machine, then the "doctor" would enter VirtNet in his stead, gaining access to particular banking or personal areas.
Suddenly the Twins manufacturers had experienced a spike in their profits. The fact that the numbers of capsules sold were ten times that of those installed in medical facilities didn't seem to alarm anyone. This was the right tool at the right time. No one was going to kill the golden goose.
The visitor quickly removed his clothes, folding them neatly. The modest shirt of a middle manager was followed by prohibitively expensive underpants that must have cost the monthly paycheck of an office worker. Bioactive and antibacterial, they were lined with a fine layer of nanomuscles that gently massaged everything they touched preventing circulation problems. The assassin's health was too important for him, which was why he'd consciously risked acting out of character on this particular job.
Unfazed by his nudity, he turned to his assistants who today played the role of company workers. "Wait here."
They didn't need this command which was rather a nod to tradition and an extra reminder of their pecking order. The two assistants had enough means and training to be able to interfere at any stage of their leader's immersion if necessary. The only thing they couldn't do was openly confront a SpetzNaz group, but even then they had their trump cards neatly stacked up their sleeves, administrative as well.
Four hours later, the special-ops agent would complete the job and exit the capsule. An untraceable money transfer of twenty thousand bitcoins would be made to his bank account while his assistants would commence the final stage of the mission, dissolving the "patient"'s body in a bathtub, removing the equipment and pumping a foam solution of caustic soda into the apartment. Not a single hair or speck of dust that might contain the assassins' DNA should fall into detectives' hands — not even to mention the easily identified smellograms that were these days installed in all of the city's key points: all of its stations, airports and public places.
* * *
Our Parents' Day in the Super Nova Castle didn't at all resemble its past prototypes from the Soviet-type children's summer camps. The only thing they had in common was the solemn festivity of the occasion. The armor on the clan members' dress uniforms sent specks of light everywhere; the First Temple sparkled with gems; the clan and alliance colors fluttered in the wind. The emblem of the Children of Night commanded respect: a black panther and a white bone dragon embroidered within a circle of silk.
The competing magicians painted the sky with their fantasies. Soon, the festive atmosphere overtook everyone. Even the hell hounds had been gentrified with bright silk ribbons around their necks. We also had to ask them not to try to smile so hard: the sight was too spooky for the uninitiated to bear.
We expected quite a crowd: about three hundred relatives plus another twenty Vets complete with their families. The fact that we had children in the castle never ceased to amaze them but they had no idea of the true scope of things. They probably thought that it was the First Priest again who'd laid his hands on a couple of unique skills as usual.
In order to spare the visitors' feelings we'd simplified the transfer procedure as much as we could. The portal opened directly into the guest zone where a special sentry group checked the guest's name against a list, smiled and ushered him or her into the First Temple's festive courtyard. Two ever-vigilant hellhounds next to them constantly pricked up their ears, trying to detect any foul play. But today of all days, my self-appointed canine lie detectors were a little less than useless: they were flat out with the seven-hundred strong surge of emotions around them. And what emotions! Not some idle daily daydreaming but a raging tornado of feelings.
The ancient walls echoed with the children's laughter and happy screaming. I swear to you AlterWorld had never seen anything like it. The parents oohed and aahed looking this way and that, watching their rapidly growing kids do stunts on the galloping hell hounds' backs, watching them scratch the dragons behind the ears and proudly demonstrate their budding magic skills.
We'd decided against orchestrated choir numbers or cheerful stage acts. It was all
so stilted. Even if we invited the entire Royal Variety Show, we wouldn't have raised a fraction of the emotions that a mother feels when she sees her son resurrected, cheerful and suntanned, laughing happily and hugging a puppy busy licking his face.
Our clan clerics were working overtime waking the visitors out of their trance, treating shock or even curbing a heart attack. A refreshing touch of a healing spell would reduce the stuttering stupor of an asphyxiating face to a bursting dam of happy tears. Magic worked better than any amount of traditional face-slapping, water-gulping or salt-smelling remedies.
Dan froze next to me, drowsy with shock. His beautiful wife Katia was clenching the hand of her perma husband crying silently, while their two boys were already tearing around with the best of our little kindergarten. Their impressionable little daughter couldn't take her adoring eyes off the young Screwyall.
How I understood Dan's wife. We'd just shown her the other side of AlterWorld — a place where her family had a chance to be together without robbing the kids of their childhood.
Dan — who could see into it much deeper and understood even more — shook his head in amazement. "Some people will bless your name and call you a saint," he said to me. "Others will curse you, hating you wholeheartedly. I can't tell yet which ones will be in the majority."
Dan stared at a five-year-old warrior who was straining to bring a butterfly Familiar to life. He must have been sufficiently impressed. Biting his lip, he latched on to me with his stare. "And this — for this alone they'll never leave you in peace. A hundred unique universal soldiers — that's something more lethal than an A-bomb! Some won't be happy about your clan's — or even the whole Russian cluster's — potential power increase. Others might want to get their hands on your kids while yet others would like to lock you all up in a cellar to study your reproduction methods and determine their potential control and resistance actions."
"So were we supposed to leave them all to die?" I countered his question. "Half of them are already stacked up in the hospice morgue and the other half are awaiting a spare freezer shelf."
Katia shuddered and looked up at him pleadingly. He twitched his cheek with annoyance. "Oh no, you had no choice here, I understand that. I'm just trying to put you in the picture."
I nodded. "I know. They'll find a dozen excuses to butcher us if necessary. That's just the way the cookie crumbles. One more excuse won't change anything. But at least we've saved the kids, we opened a school and a kindergarten and now we're working on new training and personal development techniques. Look at your boys — don't you think they're much happier here than in damp and heartless Moscow? They can never fall sick, they can never die in an accident, whether run over by a rich scumbag under the influence or from a serial killer's hand. And as for all those Forest Cats and such, we'll rid this world of them, don't you worry. I remember what you told me: that you wanted to give your kids time to finish school and make their own choice. Unfortunately, we don't have the time. The celestial umbilical cord will snap any day now. Make sure you don't find yourselves on opposite sides of reality."
Both Dan and his better half looked up at the sky: she in fear, he in helpless frustration. "Max, you're probably right. I read your analytic reports. Both me and my clan really appreciate them. We had some sort of general assembly and came up with a joint recommendation to our real-life members not to delay going perma if they so wished. In the last two weeks, the clan's member list has grown 25% because each member can bring three or four people, five even. The Alliance numbers aren't as impressive but it's still 9% growth, that's nothing to sniff at. Everyone's in a hurry to swap their sick defective human bodies for gaming perfection. They're afraid of missing their chance at eternal youth. To cut it short, my guys are only waiting for my go-ahead. It's a shame we have to sell our apartment for peanuts: recently there's been much more offer than demand on the real estate market. It's such a shame, really: I've spent three years syphoning gold out of AlterWorld and now I'm trying to pump it all back and losing half of it in the process. But that's not the problem. My mother-in-law is," I detected a hint of unreserved hatred in Dan's voice. "She doesn't want to hear about it. She can't leave her country, she says. And Katia won't go anywhere without her."
His wife blinked tears from her long eyelashes. "She's my mom."
Dan didn’t say anything. Oh well. Each family had its own dramas and its own skeletons in their respective closets.
"Dan, I'm serious," I said. "You've got to get your act together. I know about it firsthand."
He glanced at the First Temple flying the Fallen One's colors and ground his teeth. If his family failed to relocate courtesy of his mother-in-law, he'd probably get to the old hag even if he had to hire a necromancer to pull her soul out of hell a thousand years from now.
I focused on my own problems. After my long conversation with Bug, I hadn't slept all night, scribbling out a defense strategy and looking for any out-of-the-box solutions for the "one against a hundred" battle scenario. In all honesty, the results weren't worth a shit. It was all too bulky, far-fetched and overly optimistic. Still, a thin stack of good ideas kept growing; somewhere far ahead, a lightning bug was fluttering its wings pretending it was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
"Dan, I might need your help."
He nodded. "Count us in. The Alliance will arrive at the Temple's walls as one man."
"That goes without saying. But a little bird told me that we underestimate the degree of the enemy's involvement. It's as if we're readying for them to shell the place so we keep digging trenches and proudly jump on top of the dugouts to demonstrate how sturdy they are. The only problem is, instead of artillery fire they're about to nuke us. Know what I mean?"
His stare focused. "Carry on."
Soon, Orcus and Frag joined our quiet but emotionally charged conversation. This wasn't a fully fledged HQ meeting yet but I already picked out a few interesting ideas from the stream of semi-censored f-words.
We must have looked impressive to any onlookers: a group of senior officers holding council. I noticed the children pointing me out as the clan's leader but few visitors dared to disturb us. Only a few approached us, clutching their newfound child and scared of letting go of him or her. They would smile and try to find words of gratitude, then ask a multitude of already-familiar questions.
I kept raising a puzzled eyebrow every time I heard, "Could you please tell us when we can take him back home?" Hadn't they even bothered to check all the brochures and videos we'd so painstakingly put together for them? We'd paid a lot of money for having that done, too. It was much easier of course to corner the clan leader and pick his brains with questions.
I announced for everyone to hear, "In an hour we'll be holding a general meeting in the Main Hall where you'll be able to ask all your questions. Yes, yes, you can spend the night in the castle of course, there's plenty of living space. The question is though, are you familiar with the perma effect? Yes, we appreciate your donations in any shape or form. Where can you sign up to become a clan member? I repeat: have any of you heard about perma mode? You have. In that case, I invite you to see Cryl in that pavilion over there: the guy with the dogs, the one buried under piles of paperwork. The pavilion is marked B9 on your maps. To open the map, you need to click its icon on the service interface. To activate it, you need to try and unfocus, the way you do when you stare at the tip of your nose. No, not that button. I don't need an invitation to join your group. Please, no need to activate the SOS alarm! There's no need for you to touch the macros at all. Grrrr! Lena! Please take these ladies and gents to the classroom. Show them that tutorial we put together for the first-graders. You're welcome. Pleased to meet you too."
A short distance off, another potential trouble seemed to be brewing. A large man with a weather-beaten face was holding tight on to one of our youngest charges, the two-year-old Alyona, the one with a piercing stare who could barely speak. So this was her dad, then.
We had al
l felt sorry for the girl whenever she waddled around the castle, grabbing at the pants of every male clan member in her way, peering into their faces, demanding, "Daddy? Daddy?" She gave them no time to swallow the lump in their throats before answering: tears would well in her eyes, she would sniffle and let go of yet another man who'd failed to answer her expectations. Then off she'd toddle in search for her daddy. You never know, he could be just round that corner.
I'd seen quite a few male groups that would scatter promptly at the approaching sounds of her "Daddy! Daddy, where are you?", all the men hiding their eyes and rushing off to attend to an apparently urgent business.
Now father and daughter clutched at each other. She babbled away, hurrying to tell him everything at once while he stroked her fair hair, all the while applying pressure to Widowmaker. The man did his best not to raise his voice, laboriously swallowing all the accidental cussing, but his nickname Bosun hovering above his head spoke louder than words.
"What the f- is logging out? I'm gonna live here now like a f-ing land lubber! I'll dig a hole under her window if you don't give me a bed. I'm not letting her go! I was at sea, five months off the f-ing shore, while this bitch did a number on me. She wrote that f-ing note right on the hospital bill! Alyona is dead, it's over between us, please don't look for me. I'd rip her heart out! I passed out right there on the spot! Had it not been for the letter you slid under the door, you'd have never seen me resurface from the bottle! We'd have both gone right to the bottom!"
What a picturesque character. Flamboyant, as they call it. But the main thing was, our Alyona had finally found her daddy.
I walked over to them. "How are you, Sir? I'm Max. You could call me the captain of this cruiser, I suppose."
Bosun's stare followed the flight of the baby dragons overhead. He proffered me his hand, then hurried to return it to his daughter's fair head. "A cruiser? More like a f-ing aircraft carrier! Thanks, Max. I owe you. Whenever you need me, just let me know. I'll do whatever it takes to help you out. Even if they cut my legs off, I'll crawl all the way to come to your help. And you don't need to overexplain it all to me. I'm not as dumb as I might look. It's just that I spent the last few years sailing this goddamn dry cargo with a crew to match, you had to treat them with a stick and the worst kind of language. Downgrading me to a circus trainer, sort of."