Viridian Gate Online: Nomad Soul: A litRPG Adventure (The Illusionist Book 1)

by D. J. Bodden

  “No one else is going to stop him. You must figure out what these ‘scrolls of allegiance’ are, and why so many high-rolling wretches paid out the wazoo for them,” I reminded myself, then inhaled deeply.

  “Plus, you spent your entire overtime bonus check sending Jack that capsule. You’re gonna need something more than just the end of the world to break the ice when you meet up again, and you know how much Jack loves a good dungeon crawl. If that’s what this is. Who knows what billionaire drug dealers pay millions for in a virtual world? It could be full of godmode codes that somehow subvert our anti-cheating protocols.”

  My hand curled to a ball as I retracted my finger, doing the undoable. The screen read, “Committing new code to production. Estimated Completion —> 280 seconds.”

  The building trembled at the sound of a muffled crash, accompanied by terrified shouts, and my gaze shot past the screen to the fading light outside. It had been a while since I took more than a fleeting glance out a window, a few days at least. Most of us had elected to stay indefinitely at Osmark Tech since the global announcement of 213 Astraea weeks ago, as it was just safer here.

  I walked to the massive UV-protected glass framed by columns of wide-leafed plants that hadn’t been watered in weeks and looked down the eight stories to the streets below.

  Chaos. That was the only word to describe it. Someone had driven a truck through the screaming mob, trying to ram down the doors of Osmark Technologies, but they had failed. A fiery, smoking wreck lay at the foot of our building, and civilians scrambled to get out of blast range.

  When Osmark ordered security improvements for the front desk a few months ago, reinforcing the walls and windows of the bottom floors, I thought it was just because of the recent mass shootings, to protect us from something like that. Not something like this. Not trying to protect us from desperate cries for salvation.

  213 Astraea, nine miles of pure destruction, was what they were terrified of. A mass of rock and ice carving a path through space on a collision course with our little speck of paradise: Earth. I was scared too, but less so. I knew I had a chamber waiting in the basement where I would hopefully transition into the game I’d been helping develop for the last four years. A lifeboat for humanity. Viridian Gate Online.

  A lifeboat that had cost me six precious months with my father and being there for his dying breath. It’s critical, Osmark had said, life altering. I wish he’d told us all the truth sooner—it would make resenting him for missing my father’s funeral a little harder. But no. Osmark was a deplorable man and a terrifying boss. He’d known about Astraea for months and refused to tell us until he realized DevOps wouldn’t complete until it was too late. He told us a few weeks before the global announcement, some kind of incentive to work harder.

  Still, I chose to trade the last minutes of my father’s life for work. Osmark had needed me, but if I had left, even for one day to see my father into the ground, he would’ve made sure no one needed me. I would’ve been blacklisted to the tech industry, my career and sole source of income destroyed.

  If I’d known then there wouldn’t be any other sources of income today, I would’ve gone to see him, at least one last time. To hell with Osmark, he would’ve taken me back. We had been desperate for Senior Systems Architects for months since the last three abandoned the game at the news of Astraea. The excuses didn’t make me feel much better, but now that we all had somewhere safe at the end of the world, I was less upset about my choice.

  Plus, I had another choice now and a new purpose. I was going to discover Osmark’s plan with these in-game “scrolls_of_allegiance” and end his reign here, before it could transfer into the game. He would never control anyone like he did at Osmark Tech, never again.

  I took one last glance below and mourned the loss of so much life. They wouldn’t get in, not until I and the other employees transitioned into the game, and even then, there were only four hundred capsules they could use. In a day or two, a security team would run a raffle and bring in one thousand two hundred people from the screaming mob. With the transition taking up to seventy-two hours, a little under twelve days left until Astraea hit, and a one in six chance of dying instead of transitioning, we could only save about twelve hundred lives by reusing our capsules. A few less, if we counted the technicians who had the gut-churning job of removing the corpses from the capsules and cleaning them for another occupant.

  My watch buzzed, and I turned the face toward me. “Deploy Complete” read the email title. I jogged past the desks full of half-drank coffee cups, plates with pizza crusts, and empty packets of Skittles. My computer screen came to life at my touch, and I checked the full deploy log. “Warning: error in (NullObjectReference-CaCoCa_Scroll) - Line 241.”

  The pounding in my chest dropped to the pit of my stomach.

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  I pulled up the console, fingers dancing across the keyboard like a drunkard’s ballet; violent and clumsy. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not now! I checked my watch again: 5:28. I had approximately thirty minutes to get to the Integration Room: our mass grave. I needed to watch this push through to completion. There was no way I would go into V.G.O. not knowing if the code was actually delivered.

  Line 241... the line referencing the in-game object [Aleixo_Carrera-Scroll_of_Allegiance.OBJ]. How is that possible? The object doesn’t exist yet? I traced the lines of code backwards through mentions and discovered the culprit.

  Tricky son of a bitch. Osmark had the game data committed, but the .OBJ for the actual scroll wasn’t in there. He was going to run a patch in approximately eleven hours that would remove the flag and deploy the scroll .OBJs automatically.

  I could just create my own scroll .OBJ from any random asset lying around and copy the data... but that might not work. There could be something else at play here and—

  “Attention, all employees,” the PA system rang out, and I jumped, my train of thought derailed. “The Integration Room will be locked for your safety in approximately thirty minutes. If you have elected to participate in Osmark Technology’s V.G.O. integration, please wrap up your personal affairs and proceed to sub-level three to claim your capsule. Thank you.”

  The synthetic voice was more than enough to raise hairs. Osmark and his core team were at the pinnacle of AI creation, making things so close to real, they’d pass a Turing Test some humans couldn’t. So, why they had gone with a cold and jagged, easily distinguished AI voice for the office PA, I guess I’d never know.

  I turned my attention back to the problem at hand, pushing and prodding at Osmark’s security systems, praying not to set off any alarms. Blocked, rigged, protected... damn it. There was simply not enough time to do this hack. I’d have to get creative, quick. I pulled the desk into standing mode, and my back straightened as my fingers gained their last purpose.

  Selentium was from the days of old, it was automation script for the web, but I knew how to make it sing for any task. I cranked away, script after script, lacing together a fragile plan. Coroutines within subroutines emerged until finally I had it. My automated script would open the console and run command line to deploy my filesync to prod exactly five minutes after Osmark’s. Meaning I would be delivered a copy of that Scroll of Allegiance five minutes after he was and know exactly what he was up to with that secret area. Or that was my hope.

  I’d have to pick my username carefully, as that was the only thing binding this code to my in-game persona. A few keystrokes, a username, that’s all that stood between Osmark and the likely tyranny of what remained of the human race.

  The overhead PA system sprang to life again. “All employees, please be aware the Integration Room will be locked for your safety in fifteen minutes.”

  Just enough time for a test run. I set the timer on the automated script to the current time and drummed my fingers, rat-a-tap, rat-a-tap, as it executed. Command prompts opened, filled with lines of code, and closed. I sighed as the deployment s
creen read, “Committing new code to production. Estimated Completion —> 280 seconds.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, watching the seconds tick down and not allowing other thoughts, self-defeating thoughts, to enter my mind. The server came back with the same error on line 241. Perfect. I changed the time back, set the computer to stay awake, and unplugged the monitor, just in case someone wandered through and felt like turning it off to save a few watts of power at the end of the world.

  “All employees, please be aware the Integration Room will be locked for your safety in ten minutes.”

  “I know!” I roared at the ceiling.

  My heart thumped again as I imagined missing the deadline. I grabbed my backpack and jacket... then stopped. I wouldn’t need them where I was going. The straps slipped from my shoulders, and I reached for the picture of my mom and dad on my desk.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll make you proud, I promise.”

  I returned the picture to its place on the desk and jogged from the empty room. The typically bustling halls were devoid of life. Everyone had either gone home to accept their fate or run to the Integration Room for their final transition. I pressed the button for the elevator and imagined what it would be like to live life out in a video game. Not even live it out, but live forever.

  I loved RPGs just as much as the next nerd, but to never grow old, never raise a family—unless Osmark had another team working on a secret fertility project—it would be life without progress. Well, not so true. We would have our character levels, stats, the talent tree, gear, and plenty of dungeons to raid as long as the ever-present, godlike Overminds did their jobs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Ping! My eyes shot forward as the elevator doors opened, and a familiar face stared back at me. “Hi, Leon,” I said without much gusto. Leon was a technical artist. He had spent his last few days making sure noses could scale appropriately to face dimensions.

  “Hey, Abby. Headed to the Integration Room?” He placed his hand against the door for me.

  I nodded. “Yeah. Just wrapped up the last call with my mom,” I lied. I called my mom three days ago and begged her, for the very last time, to accept Osmark’s offer for family of the V.G.O. team to transition into the game for free. She refused. I miss him. I want to see him soon. She believed in an afterlife. Believed that my father was waiting for her in heaven. I hoped she would find peace at the end, no matter what happened after death.

  “Yeah, it’s nice to have some family to confide in at the end of the world.” He shrugged his shoulders, gaze dropping to his shoes. Poor guy, he probably didn’t have anyone.

  The elevator doors tried to close again, and I hurried in next to him.

  “So, have it all planned out?” he asked with a plastic grin as I pressed B3.

  “Have what planned?” My voice peaked a little too high, my heart pounding as I thought of the code waiting to deploy on my machine.

  He elbowed me casually. “I assumed Abby the Architect would know exactly what race you were going with, what city you’d make your home, what class you’d pick.” He laughed. “You’re such a planner, I figured you would have everything worked out by now.”

  I gave him a curt smile. I had some of it planned, sure, but it’s not like I couldn’t roll with the punches. That was the point of Viridian Gate Online: as soon as you felt you had your bearings, Sophia or Enyo would throw a curveball.

  The Overminds, computer AI game-masters, were always ready to increase the difficulty or create a new challenge. Strife was the point of Enyo’s existence, and Sophia sought balance, though it was a vague term. It sought to ensure the player had just enough difficulty to remain entertained, but not so much they wanted to ragequit.

  Three months ago, ragequit would’ve meant a loss of revenue for Osmark Tech, but now, ragequit meant something entirely different. How would someone quit the game? Suicide, was it even possible? Could you end your simulation voluntarily? The questions turned my gut.

  “Anyway, I hope you make it.” He gave me a nudge as the doors to B3 opened, and he walked away.

  “You too,” I called after him, my short legs unable to keep up with his please get me out of this situation pace.

  I did hope Leon made it. I wanted to make it, too.

  The white concrete walls amplified the sound of Leon’s hasty retreat from me, and I felt more alone than ever. I was going to die. Perhaps my consciousness would be copied into the game simulation, but perhaps not. There was a near 17% chance that I would die for real and never make it into the game permanently.

  The unending thump of my heart faltered as I thought of my whole life. Was it a life I was proud to lead? Maybe. My thoughts fell on my father, my mother, how I wasn’t there. Sure, I would call, and I would video chat, but it wasn’t the same as being there. Was I a good person?

  “Attention, employees, the Integration Room is now closing.”

  My breath caught in my throat and I ran. The doors were sliding shut, but I slipped through with a sigh.

  I took in the tomb: short ceiling, maybe eight feet, fresh concrete everywhere, organized, methodical, and sterile. Osmark had bought and renovated this space months ago for a “storage center.” What could we possibly store as a tech company, other than servers?

  Coffins. Or their equivalent. We would die in the capsules. Either by transitioning from our bodies into the game or by being incompatible with the code and wasting away into cardiac arrest after three days. Then our bodies would be removed, and the capsules reused for some of the dying mob outside the gates of salvation.

  My eyes roved over the claustrophobia-inducing landscape, and the memory of the first death, the first disappearance into the game, replayed in my mind. I recalled Osmark and his right hand, Sandra, standing on the stage in front of employees and investors, describing the incident.

  They’d downplayed the death like it was just another failed prototype, wrote off the loss of human life like a dysfunctional server. What they didn’t explain was how they’d lost the human consciousness into the code. It was processed and digitized, then vanished into the trillions of functions executing every second.

  “Abigail Hollander!”

  UGH! Abigail is not my name! I wanted to say, but I turned to Tristen, my manager-who-wished-he-wasn’t-my-manager, with a terse smile.

  “What’s up, Tristen?” I hoped he wasn’t going to go on about, “Now that I’m not your manager anymore, could we like, go out for pizza some time?” Or would it be roasted chicken now? I didn’t think pizza made it into V.G.O.

  He eyed me with teeth clenched. “You were cutting it close. What were you doing?”

  My stomach fluttered at the thought of what I was actually doing for the last hour. Hacking into Osmark’s private code, inspecting his future commits, writing automated code to copy them, and more.

  “I had to call my mom. She didn’t want to transition, so I had to say goodbye for good.” I entwined my fingers, not wanting them to wiggle and look suspicious.

  “Oh.” Tristen looked down, then placed an awkward hand on my shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s fine. We said what we had to say, and I’m ready.” I filled my chest with air in an attempt to shake his hand from my body, but he held tighter.

  “That’s good. We need people like you in the new world.”

  The New World, Osmark’s world. My resolve returned. I wouldn’t let him dominate the people who put their faith in him, in Osmark Tech. Sure, they may “survive,” but would they be saved? No. They were entering into a dictatorship they couldn’t have imagined. Not on my watch.

  “Yeah, totally. I hope it’s just as awesome as we coded it.” I smiled again, trying to get out from under his grasp, but his grip was strong as he pulled me into an embrace.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  I gritted my teeth and pulled away. “Yeah, it’s going to be fine.” I offered him a punch to the shoulder, and his cheeks flushed red.

&nbs
p; “What’s your username? Maybe we could meet up?”

  I bit my lip. “I haven’t picked mine yet. I haven’t had a chance to play at all.” I shrugged to mask the lie about not picking my name, and he laughed.

  “Yeah, cool. Great. Well, maybe I’ll just see you around.”

  My lips pursed. “Yeah, definitely.”

  He shuffled his feet, and as I turned away, he grabbed my hand.

  “Abby...” His voice was soft.

  “What’s up, Tristen?” I didn’t want to hear it again. I wanted to get into the game. I wanted to start leveling. I needed to get a head start on Osmark, because his people definitely had a head start on me.

  “I just wanted to say... you’re awesome.”

  I stopped short. It wasn’t the same old rhetoric of why aren’t we dating. He was just being nice.

  “You’re awesome too, Tristen.” I smiled.

  He nodded. “It was nice being your manager. I hope these last eight months weren’t absolute torture.”

  It was perhaps my last human interaction ever. I had to make it count. I had to try my best.

  “Yeah, you did a great job. I hope you make it.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up, classic Tristen. “I’ll see you in there. My tag is Triskiller.”

  I groaned under my breath. What a terrible name to be stuck with for the rest of your life. But whatever.

  I walked the rows, looking for “H.” So many D’s, what the heck? Ah, “H.” I walked in a few capsules to find pod 8. It was open and ready to receive me.

  Unlike in Star Trek, the pod next to me didn’t have a glass cover. I couldn’t see the person inside, couldn’t watch them decay as their body died in the transition.

  “Ms. Hollander. Please remove your clothing down to your underwear,” the pod said in the same artificial PA voice.

  “Why?” I asked, though when I looked down, the clothes of those near to me littered the floor.