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

We might have finally grown our own Stephen Hawking albeit of a more institutionalized background — especially because Dennis had doubtlessly one advantage over the greatest scholar of our time who was forced to control his computer and speech synthesizer by tensing his cheek muscle. Unlike him, Dennis had all of three fingers moving.

And still teenage hormones often got the better of him, forcing Dennis to abandon the secrets of the Universe and spend hours browsing through nude pictures of the VirtNet. Until one day
she
smiled at him from inside the 3D image. A perfect face, the ultimate in female allure, the mathematical triumph of AI Beauty.

Dennis wasn't even scandalized by the site's triple-X rating and the caption under the screenshot saying,
Virtual sex tourism. 2000 gold an hour. Drow Amara. AlterWorld, the Original City, Red Light District. At Madame Clo's.
If anything, it made him happy. It meant that the girl, however digital, did exist.

Youngsters flooded the comments to the picture, drooling over her Dark Elven body with its promise of domination as they discussed the impossibility of it: a Drow selling herself! They'd even started a fundraising campaign and a lottery to choose a lucky one from among them, on the condition that he filmed the entire process, when the first disappointed reports started coming in from the wealthier customers who'd splurged a hundred bucks on the exotic treat. Despite all their money, the haughty Elfa would cringe at the sight of a new client, her hand mechanically reaching for the double-sided dagger on her belt. Her glare betrayed her desire to bury the sharp rune-covered steel deep into her new suitor's chest, then drive the top thorn-shaped mithril blade into his chin.

The runaway princess of the House of Shadow which had been decimated in a merciless feud, she'd thought she was clever taking refuge in a place where no enemy would ever think of looking for her. But already Amara had begun to regret her decision. The game algorithm kept pushing her into bed with human players while her emerging identity resisted the ugliness of it all. After the noble warriors of the House of Shadow including the pinnacle of manhood, the Prince himself, Amara was disgusted with the arrogant animals offering her a few gold in a sweaty hand for a long wish list of their fantasies.

Dennis buried himself in Google, looking into this totally new area of studies. A few hours later, he'd hit the jack pot.

What the hell was he doing here drooling out of the corner of his paralyzed mouth? Why on earth was he studying black holes in the vain attempt to solve the mystery of space and send himself into the future hoping to cure his disease there?

Right here, within arm's reach, were new worlds that had already offered a new lease on eternal youth to hundreds of thousands of cripples like himself!

As he skimmed dozens of abandoned perma blogs, he could see how quickly their owners had lost all interest in real life. Because life was there — where you could finally feel human and not like a goose force-fed through a tube for the sake of its enormous tender liver served up in expensive foie gras restaurants.

As Dennis studied screenshot galleries, he'd look at some grinning hulk clad in elite gear and shiny armor, complete with curvaceous girlfriend — but all he'd see was a motionless quadriplegic and his disabled mate who'd met each other in occupational therapy. The two had got their lucky break going perma. Now both were professional mercs living life to the full, enjoying a bit of PKing on the side.

For the next two nights he could barely sleep as he waited for the delivery of the FIVR capsule and the return call from a dodgy specialist in "flexible creative settings for your full-immersion device".

In the meantime, Dennis made his way through impossible amounts of information, devouring entire forums, guides, manuals and video tutorials. His well-instructed and sufficiently-motivated nurse was promised an impressive bonus for the whole range of her services, such as replacing glucose IV drips, changing diapers and massaging his atrophied muscles. Actually, none of it differed much from her usual work load. The bulk of the bonus was paid for her silence.

He would never forget the moment when she'd laid his gaunt body into the capsule's warm interior and brushed a sympathetic tear from the corner of her eye. Making the sign of the cross over him, she lowered the plastic lid.
Click,
the magnetic locks snapped shut, cutting him off from reality.

He'd faltered on the way to his dream, choosing his new name. His choice of race was pretty clear, but the name... A series of hurried clicks through the generator brought him one last word from home as the Elven runes formed a rare
Siam
. It meant Stray Cat in Ilitiiri. And that used to be his secret. No one could have possibly known about that huge feral tom that used to visit him every night through the half-open window. For some reason, the cat had chosen Dennis' knees, warm and motionless, as his favorite place. It had scared Dennis at first as he was too weak to swat a mosquito, let alone confront a predatorial feline. But soon he'd got used to the beast's quiet purring and waited for him anxiously every night, unable to sleep until he sensed the familiar weight in his lap.

After an hour of hobbling across the city, smiling happily at the passersby's snide comments about his broken-legged penguin gait, Dennis knocked at Madame Clo's door.

He struggled to produce some semblance of speech, imagining he was asking to see Amara. Madame Clo had seen enough in her lifetime to figure out the mumbling of this strange boy with the nervously twitching face. With a shrug, she rang a gold bell embossed with a fine pattern of blackened silver. About fifty such little bells, made of all sorts of materials from stone to cut glass, crowded the carved mahogany table. At the time, he couldn't have cared less who they were supposed to summon or what kind of creature would answer the call of a bell made of a bat's skull with a large ruby as a clapper. A vampire, maybe? Possible.

Amara had already arrived, summoned by the magical chime of the Call of Shadow. She now stood on the first floor landing, tilting her head to one side as she listened to her heart, feeling something stir within her frozen and — to be totally honest — dark soul of the Drow. This hobbling young man had awakened an inkling of maternal instinct within her, reminding her of a wounded fox cub straggling home believing his Mom Fox had the power to help him. So she couldn't reject him.

Impassive, she gave a haughty nod at the steep stairs, inviting the boy to follow her. This was the first test he had to pass if he wanted to bear the name of man: Test of Spirit.

The painful prickling in his awakening nerve endings made him bite his lip. Dennis leaned against the railings and pulled his trouser leg up, helping his yet irresponsive foot to conquer the first step. The Drow had already retired to her quarters, leaving behind the heady scent of a forest meadow. One more step. And again. He lost his footing and tumbled all the way down, the high steps knocking the wind out of him.

He caught his breath and shook his head at the Orc bouncer's proffered hand. "I can do it."

Amara sat in her boudoir, her hand monotonously stirring Nine Lives, her family's ancestral recipe. The kid could use some rush regeneration. Her delicate fingers reached into the ornate silver box for more precious powders as her keen ears registered everything that happened downstairs in the lobby: the bouncer's wheezing, the stupid servant girl's sniveling. Couldn’t they understand the boy had set himself a goal and was now fighting to achieve it? By helping him, you would prevent part of his character from growing, forever atrophying the future warrior within him.

He made it. She didn't reject him. It didn't mean that his dreams immediately became reality. It took Dennis' body some time to wake up. Amara supported him when he walked, plied him with her potions and regaled him with legends of the House of Shadow. Dennis was intoxicated with all the new sensations while she borrowed generously from the Creator's rejuvenating flow, molding the boy into a proper Drow. His appearance suited the part: Dennis had consciously chosen the Ilitiiri race, knowing whose affection he was going to win.

He didn't at all mind being shaped into a noble Dark Warrior. More importantly, his hands were finally able to touch the beautiful Elfa; his lips could whisper the words of love. Other body parts too seemed to have awoken from their comatose slumber, impatient to join in the action.

Now I understood where my Master Analyst had gotten his noble demeanor and his posh accents. Watching his regal poise made me want to stand up straight, too. If you had been lucky enough to have been granted the gift of walking, then do so — don't shuffle along stooping like some weak-willed dork. Millions of handicapped people would do anything to be able to take even a single step, so you'd better start appreciating what you have. Try to grow a spine already — it'll only do you good, helping you confront circumstances and keep your head up high.

I'd no idea when his feelings had become mutual. It might have coincided with the girl's finally going perma. The few remaining strings had snapped, allowing the puppet — or rather, the Non-Player Character Amara0092 — to ignore program commands and requests.

And I'd be the last one to judge the kid. When I watched my men drool at the sounds of her cooing Elven laughter as they ogled the perfect Drow body revealed by her hugging garments, I realized that soon there'd be more female clan members coming. Our analyst wasn't going to remain a happy exception for much longer.

I only smiled sadly, remembering Princess Ruata. How naïve could they be? In the meantime, my soldiers' gold kept flowing into many delicate but strong female hands. As the all-seeing Lurch reported, even the castle servant girls hadn't been forgotten. The atmosphere of a spring rut filled the ancient walls with vibes of love and desire. If it went on like this, soon we'd hear the sounds of antlers clashing coming from the Arena. As if I didn't have enough problems to contend with.

But as for Dennis, he'd ended up enjoying the full support of the House of Shadow. Already a month after his going perma, he had arrived at the mercs' guild wearing the previously unknown set of quest armor of a House's Officer. His level 140 landed him his initial position of a platoon commander while his unique IQ had soon taken him to the staff cadre of the Copperhead squad. Their successful mission rate had soared, raising the mercs' overall ranking to previously unknown heights. The Guild's administration didn't waste time singling out the key factor in this sudden rise of a historically mediocre squad and offered Dennis a year's contract in the capacity of staff analyst. It was this contract I had now been forced to pay, cancellation fees and all.

Dennis hadn't hesitated to accept the offer of heading my newborn analytics department. It wasn't the kind of information that his mind would struggle to process. I didn't skimp on relocation allowance, offering him a large third-floor apartment in the donjon and five hundred universal points to do it up in style.

Those points, if the truth were known, were the only things I regretted parting with. Five hundred was the equivalent of what the entire castle produced in twenty-four hours, enough to restore ten meters of outer walls. But an expert analyst cost more than even an entire tower fully manned and complete with siege turrets.

The last freebies he'd got from me were the right to bring a family member and a senior officer's share of raid loot: 1% of net profits and priority choice of trophies. At the time I'd known nothing about his wife yet — and understandably I tended not to trust the Drow that much.

I had to admit that Amara's presence had brightened up the castle. She created a new trend in relationships and gradually became an expert in her own right. The clan's numerous departments were desperate for a liaison officer — a position that came naturally to the girl. Immediately in demand, she began allowing herself certain liberties, starting a collection of snide remarks from the numerous movies she watched.

Here I need to finally mention television, a.k.a. the zombie box, the invention of which had shattered AlterWorld just as much as the arrival of tobacco. While regular players couldn't care less about it, television had produced a nostalgia epidemic among the permas, forcing them to stare for hours at poor-quality holograms.

Some could finally catch up with the latest soccer championship, others gorged on the recent Hollywood blockbusters while yet others revisited good old comedy flicks.

I, too, had been forced to install three public-access 3D boxes in the castle's halls. In the evenings, Harlequin and his crew lodged themselves in the Small Hall watching all sorts of cartoons till the early hours. Sometimes their noisy goblin crowd would dissolve into a howling protest which meant that the Hell Hounds were back from their daily hunt and in for their nightly dose of Pluto with whom they identified with all the passion of their infernal hearts.

The fight over the right to watch TV ended predictably every time, with the slapping sounds of powerful paws and the scared patter of tiny goblin feet. Then later in the night when everyone was fast asleep, the zombie box would go on again, filling the castle with the sounds of a scratchy old-fashioned soundtrack,

Winnie the Pooh,

Winnie the Pooh,

Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff;

He's Winnie the Pooh,

Winnie the Pooh,

Willy nilly silly old bear...