Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4) (26 page)

I gulped, realizing I'd just very nearly parted with my immortal life which I'd already considered part of me. Oh no, sorry guys. We'd have to push this train uphill together. I alone wouldn't manage. Fourteen NPC girls had already gone perma courtesy of my testosterone-driven warriors. Well, they'd have to keep it up then, dreaming about them, dating them and shielding them from enemy swords.

In the meantime, I deserved a break. Even the Fallen One had said that Lena had integrated into AlterWorld's matrix much better than I. Excellent. Let her rename the First Temple's guards to begin with. I was getting a bit fed up paying their wages in gold day in day out.

I leaned against Snowie's helpful arm and scrambled back to my feet, groaning like an old man. "Warriors!" I addressed the crowd. "Thanks a lot for your support! This is another glorious victory for our triumphant record. Thanks to you, we've got xp, we've got loot, we’ve got new allies and farm locations — and these are but a few results of your fearless courage! The raid is officially over! We will now line up and move all together back to our plane. Please stay put and don't disband!"

The crowd nodded their understanding. If the more impatient ones started porting on their own, breaking rank, then the enemy could have had a field day descending on the disintegrating raid. That could have hurt a lot.

"One last thing! Our Drow girls will have to stay behind protecting our new ally Asmodeus from his greedy neighbors. I promised to also dispatch a hundred volunteers to keep the ladies company. Who would like to join them? The Vets, that concerns you as well. Frag doesn't mind."

Wham, wham
— three hundred warriors stepped out of the ranks. Jesus. How was I supposed to choose? Having said that... "Attention, everyone! We're opening a lightning auction or the right to spend several unforgettable nights under Inferno's setting sun in the company of our Ear Cutter girls! The starting bid is five raid points."

Three hundred hands flew into the air.

"Ten raid points!"

Likewise.

"Twenty!"

Some of the hands came down.

"Thirty raid points!"

"You cheek," Dan crept upon me and whispered into my ear.

Me, I just smiled.

Chapter Thirteen

S
trictly Confidential

Urgent

The Chief Intelligence Directorate of the Russian Federation

The Advanced Research Division

An independent memo on the current situation in AlterWorld

...As you already know, the bulk of Russia's scientific and expansionist interests has been focused on high tech futuristic worlds, primarily the overpopulated Eve4. These are the factors that influenced our decision:

- the high tech worlds' tendency to rational thinking as opposed to the esoteric philosophy of the worlds of magic and sorcery;

- the recent impressive Kremlin presentation which included the unveiling of certain technogenic artifacts which might be available for potential reproduction. Mental programming, rejuvenation, warp drives, antimatter; weapons of mind-boggling power; the army, airforce and space fleet of the future — the leaders of our country couldn't ignore such an opportunity. At that moment, Russia placed its bet on technical progress.

- another important factor was the existence of an Eve4 Admin Center on Russian territory which allowed us to immediately integrate into the game, creating an official Russian enclave and allowing us to nationalize four planet systems, building a fleet of 12 Titan starships and introducing a prearranged number of top players into the game.

Alternatively, our presence in the aforementioned AlterWorld is limited to a group of formal observers and a number of informers among our ex-staff who for one reason or the other chose to go perma.

End of memo

From an independent analytics group report attached to the memo,

...It wasn't until the latest developments, code names Kremlin and Karelia, forced us away from gauss guns that we had to focus on rapid developments in our own world.

We are now working on creating our presence in AlterWorld, raising funds and seeking available staff, repeatedly checking our lists of war veterans, orphaned children and handicapped persons as the most suitable candidates for long-term planting. We intend to submit our preliminary report in the near future. However, there is one particular issue that made us write this memo on our own initiative.

Among the paperwork received from our agent "Geek" operating at the Arizona6 facility we discovered preliminary drafts of a project aiming to launch a massive attack on the First Temple of the Dark Pantheon and to capture the Temple's notorious First Priest and part of his equally notorious entourage.

Both our analysts and AI's forecasts agree that in the case of the mission's success, the Russian cluster would be brought to its knees, forbidding us to create an enclave of any significance. At the moment, this young man seems to have all the trump cards. His exceptional ability to connect with AlterWorld has allowed him to get to the top in no time. We have no other potential leaders of equal charisma, reputation and skills capable of uniting the six hundred clans of the Russian cluster.

The removal of this one figure might collapse the new foundations of national identity and order, with the potential to throw the cluster into chaos, splitting it into small feuds and inviting a potential invasion. The probability of this scenario is estimated at 81%.

We consider sabotaging the Peace project as our agents' priority. With the absence of any material, technical, or military resources in AlterWorld we advise lending at least informational support to the First Priest, revealing his enemy's game to him.

* * *

I lounged in my luxurious bed in my Super Nova castle's master suite, busy distributing the available characteristic and talent points.

The constant race against time didn't allow me to sit my ass down for one moment — to take a proper break after the raid simply to enjoy some down time with my men around the campfire, sinking our teeth into a sizzling steak and smiling at their artless jokes. Just as I was thinking of this, the breeze brought a whiff of roasted meat through the open window, the strumming of guitars, the laughter of girls and the cackling of the men. Whoever had said being a general was easy?

I gnashed my teeth. The ever-vigilant Mona Lisa jerked her head off my shoulder. Seeing no danger, she gave me a comforting peck on the cheek, draped her arm around my body, threw her leg over my belly and stuck her nose into my collar bone, snuffling softly. A kitten, a sheer kitten.

As if her refusal to stay behind in Inferno wasn't enough, she'd also picked four more of her reckless friends — all with beauty pageant faces, the bodies of gym instructors and the cold stares of professional assassins. So when I was about to port back to the First Temple, these girls had stepped toward me, taking the places of my bodyguards behind my back. Funnily enough, Snowie didn't seem to mind. He'd snapped a quick command, stepping back and adjusting his human shield of trolls. He only welcomed any security reinforcements, especially because Lizzie didn't claim a leader's role.

Apparently, the girl had decided that the close-range bodyguards weren't enough for me and that I also needed some really close-range ones. Or, as I'd already heard some of the raiders explicitly put it, the bed-range ones. They said it good-naturedly, with a hint of envious respect — pride even. As in,
look at our leader who can sleep with five Royal Drow chicks a night, and what about yours? Didn't you know that this sign on her cheek is a seal of the Forest King? What do you mean, the Drow don't have Kings? Just grab your wine and listen to me!

These kinds of conversations kept mushrooming all over the palace. It's not that I was curious, but Lurch followed my earlier orders diligently, reporting the garrison's morale as well as the most popular gossip and rumors. Then the head of intelligence arrived with a similar report. Comparing their messages allowed me to glean some important information about the degree of my entourage's loyalty. If the truth were known, I needed a third source to triple-check the other two. A leader couldn't afford to allow anyone to become his only — and distorted — source of information.

This was something I learned from old Joe, a.k.a. Comrade Stalin, as I read his contemporaries' memoirs. Oh yes, these days I didn't just mindlessly watch the zombie box. I spent some quality time devouring the memoirs of great leaders of the past, all those kings, presidents and generals. Some information somehow went down better when you read an actual book instead of spending hours staring at an interface. Which was why I'd rather spend ten gold on the visual recreation of a hard copy and then lounge on the couch with a proper tome.

My Mom got the shock of her life when she found me studying a small volume entitled
J.V.
Stalin. A History of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks): Short Course
. I was reading it pencil in hand, actually making notes in the margins.

But I digress.

Back to the Drow. Those sun-kissed bodylicious beauties rammed into my suite all at once and took up strategic positions, following their own professional logic: the gunslits, the main entrance, the back door, the headboard.

Lizzie went straight for the bed, pulling off all her warrior gear, her body filling the place with the fragrance of wild flowers as if she hadn't just fought an extended battle awash with blood and sweat. Catching my quizzical glance at the remaining four, she gave me one of her mysterious smiles. Oh no, that wasn't the deal. I was a red-blooded male like any other but even though I had nothing against a bit of experimentation, I'd rather it happened with my consent — not as a gift from a bunch of uninhibited babes.

I snapped my fingers to attract their attention, then pointed at the door. "This is your post. On the other side. I don't need bodyguards in my private suite. Off you go, girls."

Lizzie pouted her lips, but the moment I frowned an indignant eyebrow she switched over to good girl mode. I'd already seen her shed this mask at a certain point in her arousal. This wasn't sex, this was combat. And I wasn't sure I needed this kind of hand-to-hand day in, day out, both on the battlefield and back home. Oh, Taali...

I forced myself to focus and returned to my brain-racking exercise in math. I had no right to get my new character configuration wrong. The consequence would be much worse than just a life gone down the drain. What was fifty years' worth of human existence back on Earth compared to an eternity stuck in a crooked underdeveloped body?

My whole interface was covered with overlapping pages of various guides and manuals, insider forums, real-life search results and countless character calculator results.

The characteristics themselves were more or less clear. I wasn't going to introduce any drastic changes to my strategy. Whoever had seen the inside of the Cats' cellar or Lloth's dungeons — or Asmodeus' jail for that matter — would make survival skills a priority. I could always get myself some killer cannons or use vials — or my own status as Lloth's Junior Priest — in order to use some clever abilities. But when it came to leveling your mortal frame's hits — the only way to do it was through Constitution.

I forced the air out of my lungs as if preparing to enter a frozen lake. With an unshaken hand I added 405 points to the chosen characteristic. +4000 Life! The bed creaked, accommodating my suddenly heavy body. Lizzie's hand fumbled over my chest, my shoulders considerably broader. AlterWorld was mirroring my internal changes onto my avatar. Apparently, this way it was easier to explain my sudden hike in survivability to the laws of magic.

Actually, I'd already noticed that you could always tell perma players in a crowd. They seemed to be growing stronger and taller, their muscles more defined, each level adding inches to their shoulders. Take Fuckyall: he already looked like some brutal ancient Viking. And I had a funny feeling that the free ride wasn't going to last forever. Just pressing the little "plus" sign next to the characteristic of your choice might not be enough soon.

So we had to step up on all the leveling while it still could affect our bodies. When the umbilical cord that still connected AlterWorld to Earth finally broke, those who'd failed to reach their top combat shape would have to pump iron in all seriousness, busting their guts to increase the volume of their magic skills. Don't ask me how they'd do it. I just don't know.

Oh well. I paused thinking, then drafted a quick memo while I still remembered it, describing the situation and appealing to other clan members not to delay the body building. Signed: High Priest. Forward to: all Alliance members. It would end up in the papers of course, but I didn't mind that. I could use some praise as a soothsayer.

The next morning, a fresh news digest would start doing its rounds of the Russian cluster with a detailed report of our Inferno raid. Once again our names would be known, hundreds of thousands of greedy eyes searching the screenshots, lips moving silently as they read the lists of trophies, regretting their bad luck: why weren't they Alliance members too? Why was this First Priest and his merry men so damn lucky?

That's right, guys. You need to give it some good thought and decide whether you support the right side.

In the meantime, I might pour some oil on the flames. I searched through the screenshots for the Centaurus' pics and a close-up of the dragon's head. I sent them to my hand-fed story-hungry paparazzo, asking him to accredit them as
exclusive images courtesy of the First Priest of the Dark Pantheon
. He knew my bank account number. Publicity was all well and good but it didn't pay the bills.

Now that I'd done my civic duty, I returned to my own work. I had 86 talent points and several choices of the person I was going to become in a few minutes' time.

I had three routes I could follow.

The first one, distributing the points in a classic Death Knight configuration: a raid damage dealer, a raid debuffer, a solo tank, a PK or an anti PK. Basically, a standard layout that had never interested me in the slightest.

The second route was repeating the trick I'd already done once with Hummungus' help, only on a much larger scale. A big fat armored Necro with a terrifyingly strong pet.

This particular version was already gaining popularity under the flattering moniker of The Priest's Configuration. Some clever bastards had already calculated perfect layouts for all subtypes of Necro and Death Knight. My discovery had become mundane, like an entertainment-hungry cruise boat following in Columbus' wake on its way to Las Vegas.

Finally, the third route. It started with a question: why would I need to follow in other people's tracks if I was in possession of the unique Splitting skill? Was it for nothing I had gagged my inner greedy pig and hadn't listened to his pleas to sell the vial? And now I had this chance to make my char truly unique. So I'd spent the last three hours violating the calculator weighing up all the pros and cons.

This was the skill:

Cast Time: 0

Mana Expenditure: 0

By using this skill, you can split your summoned pet into a certain number of controlled creatures (the number corresponding to the Skill's current level). Their levels will equal that of the initial creature divided by the number of new pets. The split creature's maximum level cannot exceed that of the caster.