by Vic Connor
Istoria Online: Square One
A LitRPG Adventure
Vic Connor
Helvetic House
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright © 2019 by Vic Connor
All rights reserved www.austinbriggs.com
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Also by Vic Connor:
Diary of Anna the Girl Witch
Isla Hermosa
Contents
1. Off the vat
2. Power Suit
3. Hardcore
4. Tengu
5. Bugs
6. Tough Bargain
7. Alpha
8. Consent
9. Mist of Memories
10. Tutorial: Pay the Priestess
11. Tutorial: Weapon of Choice
12. Sum of All Parts
13. Theorycrafting
14. Glimpses of the Past
15. The Road to Villarica
16. Crossroads
17. Downtime
18. Duurstad
19. A Bit of Haggling
20. Boodschap
21. Painkiller
22. The Cost of Doing Nothing
23. Killing Time
24. Break a Leg
25. Bloodline
26. Ol’ Abe’s veins
27. Common Enemy
28. Belch Choir
29. X-less
30. London Fog
31. Chop Chop
32. Ancient Foes
33. Unflinching Calm
34. The Collector of Favors
35. Left Behind
36. The Deep Divide
37. A Scar of Blue Light
Also by Vic Connor
IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK…
1
Off the vat
Off the vat
Could I have found a different way to raise $657,800 to pay for my dad’s experimental cancer treatment? Yeah, I guess I could have.
Maybe.
If I didn’t need a wheelchair myself. If his US health insurance had covered medical care in the Russian clinic that had pioneered the treatment Dad needed. If I could borrow more than the 35 grand I’d gotten from Akula—and if I could ever hope to pay him back.
If only.
Back in the US, doctors had given Dad four to six months to live. That’s as far as chemotherapy would take him, they said. But these Russians from NozHealth were into something new—“revolutionary science,” said some, “miracle-working,” according to others. They had already cured several patients deemed terminal by conventional medicine; I wanted Dad to be their next success.
This is why I flew to Moscow and signed up for the biggest video game competition of all time: Istoria. A game as large and complex as life itself, where history came alive—or alternative history, as the case may be.
And a game in which NozHealth was a major stakeholder. They supplied the innovative sensory vats and brain-scanning tech that enabled the next generation, lifelike immersion Istoria claimed to deliver—risky, bleeding edge technology still undergoing the approval process everywhere outside Russia.
And that’s where I fit in. The game had already gone through three Alpha rounds and two closed Beta rounds, with excellent results as far as the developers had revealed. This third Beta round would provide NozHealth with the clinical data to push for approvals around the world.
It would also allow NozGames to release worldwide the most hyped game in history.
Both to entice potential guinea pigs and to drive that hype even higher, the competition offered a prize fund of five million dollars before taxes, with a million bucks just for the winner. Peanuts for them, really; only a portion of the advertising budget that would pay off many times over in sales and subscriptions. About forty thousand players would compete in this third Beta round, and who knew how many millions would watch—it would be the first time for Istoria to stream live to the public.
I wheeled my chair across a massive hangar filled with tall glass capsules, until I found my station in the middle of the floor. The sight was a little surreal, like a massive human incubator in a science fiction flick. Thick pipes ran to each vat—fresh air and nourishment from above, waste elimination from below.
Most capsules stood occupied, shaded so no one could peek inside. Their top and bottom sections shimmered with a calm, white glow. A few vats were still empty, waiting for stragglers like me. I’d arrived a day late because of visa problems for us Americans—our government kept slapping sanctions on theirs over a seemingly endless list of minor complaints, and they reciprocated. But there were about a half-dozen other latecomers: a tall blond guy who stood bouncing on his toes nearby, a slim young woman a few capsules to my left, and a group of five Japanese men and women stood far ahead, whispering among themselves.
A giant string of text flashed above our heads, telling us to wait a few minutes for the induction to begin. No company personnel had appeared yet. Soft jazz played around the hangar; not my cup of tea—I’m more into K-met—but it created a chilled mood.
Not that there was anything chill about idly waiting around, while those already logged in were getting further and further ahead of us.
Large white letters glowed softly across the ceiling, gliding from side to side as they shifted between ISTORIA in Latin letters and ИСТОРИЯ in Cyrillic. Depending on the context, I’d learned, “istoria” could be translated to English as either “history” or “story.”
The guy on my right was tall, tanned, and blond. He had the air of a surfer, accentuated by the body-hugging black suit we were all wearing—complete with a bunch of tubes sticking out from our limbs and pants, ready to be hooked to the machinery inside our vats. Surfer dude looked eighteen, just like me. Nineteen, tops.
“Hey. Ready for some action, man?” I asked him.
Surfer dude turned to face me and flashed a bright, white-toothed smile. “Oh, hello. Damn right, I am.”
His accent sounded unfamiliar and a little clipped—he had pronounced his “hello” more like “helloy.” Like he was trying to hold his words in. “Can’t place your accent,” I said. “Are you European or American?”
His smile grew a little. “Yeah, nah… Let’s see, though—what’s the third option?”
It took me a moment to react. “Ah. Must be Australia, then.”
“Wellington. That’s in New Zealand, cuz. You?”
“Los Angeles, California.” I extended my hand; he was so tall he had to lean down to shake it. “Jake Russel,” I said.
“Tom Hopps. Nice meeting you.” He gestured toward my wheelchair. “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“What do you think? I fell from real high.”
“Sorry to hear, cuz.”
I studied him for a second, wondering if, once we got into the game, he’d become an enemy or a friend. He’d sounded genuine, no hint of being condescending or patronizing. “It’s okay,” I said. “Can’t complain. I get to live on welfare; lots of time for lots of games.” Yeah, right, I thought—but there was no way I was going to open up to him this early on in the competition. “You?”
“Can’t say I’m that lucky!” He laughed, still sounding good-natured. “Wish I could play lots of games, but I only have time for Die with Honor.”
“Whoa, that’s hardcore! I suck at MOBAs, I’ll admit. But this year’s finals were amazing.”
; “Let me guess,” he said. “Eternauts fan?”
I smiled. “Nah… Ajax for life!”
His lips curled into a crooked grin. “Really, cuz? What sort of moron roots for the losing team?”
“Where I come from,” I responded, mirroring his grin, “we call that loyalty, buddy. We don’t jump boat just because ours is getting its ass kicked.”
He laughed again. “Whaddaya know, we call it loyalty, too.” I thought I saw a trace of sadness in his smile. “But those Eternauts kicked our ass, you have to give them that.”
“Ah. So you’re a fellow Ajax fan?”
“Nah,” he said. “Not just a fan.”
Something clicked at the back of my mind, and I realized why Tom the surfer dude seemed vaguely familiar. “Holy crap,” I said. “Holy crap—” I grabbed the armrests of my wheelchair to avoid going all fanboy. “Are you…”
“…ColdWind2024,” he finished. “And yeah, I know. Had I chosen to pilot a Sigdur rather than a Hammelian after they took our first bastion, we’d be World Champions now.” His smile had definitely become sad. “Don’t think I haven’t had half the world yell it at me afterward, but feel free to remind me. I know, I’m an idiot.”
“I … well…” I stammered.
“It’s okay, cuz. Well, some of the death threats I got from fans turned angry trolls, those were not okay. But, end of the day, it’s true.” He shrugged. “I screwed up, I misplayed, and it cost us the championship. My bad.”
I pretended to examine the vats around us, giving him time to compose himself.
“Anyway,” he said. “That’s my story. I needed a break from my screw-up, so NozGames’ invitation to this Beta was right up my alley.” With a smile, he glanced at one of the nearby capsules. “One month away from the angry world is just what this loser needs! So, what’s your story, cuz? With so much time for games, my money is on you being a big-time streamer. Am I right?”
I shook my head.
“No?” He raised an eyebrow, and his eyes dropped back down to my chair. “You don’t look like a whale…”
“If I was Jake Whale,” I pointed out, “I wouldn’t be on welfare, so you’ve got that right. I’m more a Jake Sully, I guess: a special case NozHealth wants to do research on.”
“Oh. You mean your legs?”
“And my genes. I have Chediak-Higashi syndrome—”
“Dude,” he interrupted with a sympathetic look, “good luck doesn’t knock on your door often, does it?”
“Actually, it did this time,” I said. “In about 87% of the cases, CHS manifests from birth and you die before your first decade. But for 13%—” I pointed at my chest “—it doesn’t, and for us, the chances it will never trigger are about 73%. So I’m lucky to still be alive. And lucky NozHealth is interested in why I’m still alive. I guess it’s fair to say my non-triggered CHS got me a spot here.”
“Also got you good with numbers.” He smiled. “Which may come in handy, Istoria being an RPG and all. I can’t do math to save my life, cuz, so you could say you have the leg up.” He grinned. “In a manner of speaking.”
I laughed. “Yeah, that’s why I’m into RPGs: I like optimizing my chances. That’s my story in a nutshell; I’m a good guinea pig, or at least NozHealth thinks so.”
“Well… Aren’t we all? Guinea pigs, I mean.” He lowered his voice. “Maybe that’s what’s really going on here?”
I lowered my voice, too, and cast a furtive glance around us to make sure no one was listening. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the aliens, mate,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “Maybe they want NozHealth to study us?”
“The … what!?”
He leaned closer. “Haven’t you heard the rumors? These Russians made Contact.”
I blinked, trying to come up with a response that didn’t sound stupid.
“Contact. With a capital C.” He pointed a finger at the ceiling. “With the way things are going, the trade war and sanctions and all, they should’ve gone back to the Stone Age, don’t you think? And instead, the wankers come up with all this frigging cutting-edge tech?”
Ugh. Politics. I looked away.
“Not just this frigging game, cuz,” he insisted. “All those miracle meds to cure Ebola, cancer, HIV, that NozHealth has been putting out to market lately… You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. I glanced over at him and noticed an excited twinkle in his eyes. He seemed to be getting on a roll. Looking around the hangar, I tried to change the subject. “Speaking of volunteering for medical research, when do you think they’ll let us into the vats?” I asked. “Can’t wait to start my guinea-pig shift.”
As if on cue, the jazz music faded into silence. The two large words above our heads changed color, from white to yellow to orange, as a giant screen slid out of the ceiling. A faraway door opened and long-legged young women marched out, looking like they were on a fashion show catwalk. They spread out around the hangar, with one stopping near each participant.
The woman who approached me placed a cool hand on my shoulder. “I’ve put my money on you, Jake.” Although her accent sounded slightly Russian, she had a swarthy, almost Native American look.
“Uh,” I mumbled, a little bothered by her invasion into my space. After my accident, I’d lost contact with anyone I could even vaguely consider a girlfriend, and this woman was too close and suggestive to leave me unaffected.
She gave my shoulders a light rub. “Relax, Jake. I’m your assistant. I’ll help you begin your Story.” Her voice sounded mildly sarcastic.
“Thanks,” I said. A little defensive, maybe. Uncomfortably excited. I froze in my wheelchair to avoid fidgeting. “So, you know my name. What’s yours?”
She leaned down to whisper right next to my ear. “Svetlana. But you can call me Sveta.”
I leaned forward, taking a careful glance around her toward Tom. The surfer dude was hugging his assistant around the shoulders—she was just as blond and almost as tall as he was—and chattering away in a soft voice, looking completely at ease. The girl giggled and planted a kiss on his cheek. Why couldn’t I relax like that?
The giant screen came to life, welcoming us into the world of Istoria. After a fast succession of sweeping forest, lake, and mountain landscapes, a few cavemen appeared, whacking away at each other with crude wooden clubs and yelling incoherently. They morphed into Samurai warriors, then European knights, then British redcoats—all the while fighting, cursing, and attacking. Then, the scene shifted into a deafening artillery duel from World War I, followed by a raging tank battle from World War II, and a huge spaceship that blasted a far-away orbital station.
With a whoosh, the screen cut into darkness.
“Welcome to Istoria, Jake,” a deep, male voice said in impeccable English, with a slight British accent. It seemed to come from the nearest capsule, and it surrounded me from all sides.
A few paces away, Tom stood with a puzzled expression, his arm still around his assistant’s shoulders. The Japanese people in the distance seemed absorbed in conversations with their own vats: the system must have been addressing each of us individually, in our native languages.
“Why are you here, Jake?” asked the male voice.
“To win the jackpot,” I replied.
“Only?” Sveta asked from behind me. “Not everyone comes here for the money, you know. How about exploring? Domination? Learning the hidden sides of your character?”
“All cool,” I said. “Still, I’m here to win the jackpot.”
The male voice hummed, “I accept your choice: you wish to win one million dollars—minus taxes, which would be 13% in this country. What do you know about the rules, Jake?”
It felt bizarre, talking with a disembodied voice while Sveta stood behind me, massaging my shoulders. “I need to gather the most victory points by midnight, Moscow time, May 31,” I said. “That’s thirty days from now. The victory points come from any successful action inside the game. Like winni
ng battles or building things.”
“Or conquering countries,” the voice said. “Inventing flight, electricity, mastering quantum magic or time travel.”
Sveta’s breath tickled my ear again. “Creating friendships,” she added in a low voice. “Influencing other people. Building clans and alliances.”
“I understand,” I confirmed.
“Be careful what you use your experience for,” the voice admonished. “There are no save points. You cannot undo your actions. And if you run out of health and die, you will wake up here and go home.”
“Got it,” I said. The commercial version of Istoria that NozGames hoped to release after this Beta would not be so harsh—dying in-game would be just a minor inconvenience because, really, who the heck would play permadeath games for fun—but for the Tournament, things were simple: one strike and you’re out.
Just like real life.
“Do you have questions, Jake?” the voice said.
“What will be my starting condition?” I asked. “Will I get some kind of experience boost, given I’m late to the game?”
Both the disembodied voice and Sveta laughed. Her hand was gently stroking my cheek. “No bonuses for being late, Jake. Everyone begins as an underdog.”
“Clear,” I grumbled.
“Ready now?” She gave my wheelchair a nudge toward the capsule.
I took a deep breath. “Sure,” I said. “The sooner the better.”