Текст книги "The Clan"

Автор книги: D. Rus

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Fourteen

I spent the following three hours networking non-stop, sifting through the messages that were pouring into the anonymous box. While the bulk of the letters were from the doubting and the curious and didn't merit immediate attention, those from serious buyers I had to answer on the spot as I tried to come up with the logistics of the impending operation. It looked as if it was going to be something truly extraordinary. Already I had over a hundred fifty people on the dedication list and more kept coming every minute. When two messages were dropped almost simultaneously into my inbox—two leading clans wanting to know the details—I finally realized I was losing my grip on the situation.

I closed the virtual keyboard and, forgetting, tried to lean back, losing my balance on the wobbly stool. Damn their cabinet makers!

AI's soft voice resounded in my head. Master, I've taken the liberty of saving 29 American dollars. May I offer you something to replace this sorry excuse for a chair with an ergonomic six-setting adjustable recliner bed?

What was it he'd blabbered about his emotions having been removed? His voice was rife with sleek sarcasm. I should have taught him a lesson of course, by refusing his offer and leaving myself to suffer in silence. But my heart was craving some comfort.

"Deal, you smooth operator. Where's your chair now?"

Name the desired color, please.

"Fucking purple!"

What kind of upholstery would you prefer?

"Whatever! Suede!" My annoyance started to affect my struggle with the stool's four uneven legs. Why would anyone make something like that?

The closest local analog would be the skin of a sand lizard. Unfortunately, it will increase the price of the desir-

"Chair—now!" I snapped. I didn't care anymore.

The air parted, materializing this marvel of modern design and medieval technology. With a yelp, I plonked myself onto its suede cushions and groaned with delight.

"Well done! As a reward please accept your new name: Lurch! I hereby allow you to use one percent of all the units generated for your own needs, on the condition that your activity doesn't hurt me or the castle's functions. Use it as you see fit. You could get yourself a gold weathercock or some fancy railing, you get the idea.

AI paused. Finally he spoke, his voice shaking with emotion. Thank you, Master. You've no idea how much this means to me. Thank you.

"You're welcome, Lurch. How about a bit of celebration? Some lemon tea, how about that? No chance of any cookies, I suppose? What's the situation on the kitchen front?"

AI's voice was filled with drama and regret. "The kitchen unit is status orange making it impossible to prepare dishes of over 80 difficulty. But that's not the problem. We're completely devoid of kitchen staff. Unfortunately, I don't have access to the kitchen interface. I would recommend hiring eleven sentient beings as castle staff in order to secure a bare minimum of habitability."

Bummer. More expenses. Still, he had a point. He might be a bit greedy but a castle needed some staff. I fiddled with the settings, and after five minutes the room filled with voices. First thing I hired three human chambermaids with cute faces and random-generated characters. It was more fun that way. I didn't quite get why a pretty face cost five hundred a month while the same character with the same functions but looking like an old hag was two hundred. I just hoped Taali didn't find out that I'd had choice, or she'd demand I replace all supermodel types with helpful old ladies.

Next I created a corpulent cook with +500 Culinary skill. She cost me more than all the chambermaid chicks put together, but once I'd studied the list of her skills, I gulped in expectation and pressed Confirm double quick. The portly lady's bloodline counted at least five different races endowing her with all the secrets of the numerous Elven, Dwarven, and human cuisines as well as some special meat recipes à la Orc. She also had direct access to the ingredients auction and her own bank balance which was the first thing I filled when I'd created her. Now that I had the food department out of the way, I told her to get some tea ready and went back to my work.

The incoming messages had been flashing at me for ages. I opened my inbox and hiccupped with astonishment. The auto broker balance had already exceeded three million, the number of those willing to surrender themselves into Macaria's gentle hands had reached two hundred eighty. But what made my day was the letter from the Vets where General Frag personally was asking the anonymous priest about the terms of having a seven hundred-strong clan dedicated. The General put it plainly that seven million was a bit thick and that two million would do the job nicely plus the dubious addition of their gratitude. The Vets didn't change, did they? They were still not averse to trading their friendship and pressurizing everyone with their authority. Two more similar letters from other clan leaders were still awaiting my answer.

That wasn't all. There was also a flagged letter from the auction admins informing me they had temporarily blocked the assets in my account until I fulfilled all commitments to my customers. They had assigned me a personal manager as a controller who'd just sent me another letter, introducing himself and asking about the time and place of the upcoming ritual. I clutched at my head, groaning. I needed more staff! I wasn't made of steel. Having one head had also proved pretty inadequate. But I had to make do with whatever I had at hand.

I concentrated, trying to remember my bind point. It had to be the Vet's portal hall. I sent a message to my mini-clan (Cryl and Lena, that was the extent of it) telling them to meet me in my apartment. Then I wrote to Frag asking him for an urgent meeting of paramount importance to the Vets, ideally in the East Castle. Two minutes later, the General replied saying he was expecting me in his office and that I had better be quick as 'it's like Israel and the end times here; the arrival of the Fallen One has changed the lay of the land and the clan is delirious with excitement'.

Clear enough. I looked around, checking if everything was under control, and wistfully canceled the tea break. I was about to teleport when something in my newly-acquired environment caught my eye. I gave the room another scanning glance. The unhappy cook, purse-lipped, was placing her pretty china teapots and cookie plates back onto their tray; one of the chambermaids fussed about arching her back and darting her vibrant eyes as she polished the newly-materialized table with a pristine white cloth brushing away the non-existent crumbs. Crumbs. Fragments. That was it! Yes! I needed to hire a hundred cleaners to sweep the entire space inside the inner wall, collect all the scrap mithril and pile it into neat little piles.

In my mind's eye, I reached for the charm on my neck, activating the castle control menu. I scanned through the unfolding submenus until I got to recruiting. Non-combat staff, cleaning services. Chimneysweeps, plumbers, various moppers and sweepers. The latter were exactly what we needed, including their foreman. His wages were three times those of his workers but he allowed me to delegate the task of running his brush brotherhood. In total, they cost mere peanuts even though they admittedly took up a lot of staff positions.

A troop of little goblins filled the room, armed with brooms, dustpans, buckets and some totally arcane cleaning tools. Immediately I realized quite a few of the mistakes I'd made. Firstly, I didn't really need to hire this cartload of chimpanzees for a month. I should have paid ten percent more and just kept them for five to seven days. My second mistake was ticking the 'character: random' box. Already those green monsters were making a sparrow-like racket, pushing and shoving each other, a few of them rolling on the floor in disagreement.

"Out, everyone! Out into the court! Line up!" I yelled, confirming my command with an almighty kick that sent flying the two goblins who were fighting over some especially good broom.

I hurriedly summoned their foreman, ran through his options and increased his strength, aggression, diligence and desire to please his patron. That was another fifty gold a month gone, but I had to be sure he was able to run his menagerie with an iron hand.

The ash gray goblin was middle-aged and covered in old scars. His stance commanded respect. He studied the surroundings and stroked the bamboo stick he carried as weapon.

"What can I do for you, Master?" he lowered his head.

I glanced at his stick. "You'll be Harlequin," I said remembering the Italian commedia dell'arte character whose job was meting out blows to the ever-sad clown Pierrot.

The goblin stood up straight. His eyes glistened, his back bending lower in a bow. "Thank you, Master."

They all seemed to have funny reactions to the name-giving procedure. Could it have something to do with the divine spark the Fallen One had mentioned? When we singled someone out, raising them over the homogenous faceless crowd by giving them a name, were we not breathing life into them? I really had to find out my Hell Hound's moniker or present her with one.

"I've got here fifty cleaners to put under your authority," I said. "Your task will be to clean up the castle. All the non-standard debris has to be collected and stored in the inner court, sorted out where possible: metal and ores into one heap, artifacts into another, unidentified miscellany into a third one. What else... yes, no dismantling any compound objects. You'll see two statues of trolls, please don't touch them but try to transport them into court if you can."

"What's the surface area?" Harlequin asked, all businesslike.

"Everything up to the outer walls. In case of any danger, address the head of castle guards. Let me know when you're finished. I'll need you to arrange a work party to the fort. That's it. Get on with it!"

As he dashed off, eager to apply himself, I had one belated idea. "Wait! One more thing. On one of the north towers," I gestured in their approximate direction, "there's a Bone Dragon's batch of eggs. You need to find it."

He scratched his head. "What does it look like?"

I very nearly did a facepalm, amazed at his stupidity, when it dawned on me: did I have any idea myself how the eggs—whether bone or phantom ones—looked like? Not good.

"Eh, a nest and, you know, two eggs, yes, sort of round ones," I made an OK sign with my finger and thumb. "I think. Just play it by ear, dude. I don't think the place is packed with dragon eggs."

He shrugged, as if saying, the boss is always right. Obeying my nod, he finally dashed out of the room. Right he was, too. I could bet my bottom gold piece his subordinates were already at each other's throats, busy ripping each other's overalls.

I suppressed a smile and activated the portal spell. Bang.

I greeted the Portal Hall guards, one of them a very bored Eric who roared like a happy bear as he descended on me with an equally bear hug. Immediately he began telling me about some really cool piece of bear gear he'd seen, if only-

There he was interrupted by a messenger—the sergeant who'd been shifting his feet by the door as he waited to take me to the General's office. I shook Eric's enormous paw and hurried down the stairs after him.

The NPC guards saluted me indifferently, showing no reaction to my hatred relationship status. By then, I already knew how easy it was to change the guards' friend/foe settings from the castle interface. The Vets' clan didn't differentiate by race or faction, they had plenty of players of both Light and the Dark. You couldn't surprise anyone here with a Blood Orc whose face otherwise graced all the quest boards elsewhere in the Lands of Light.

Finally I reached the carved oak doors of the General's office. The sergeant knocked and opened one side of the door, letting me in.

Inside, Dan and Frag were choking on their coffees. You can't really enjoy the poison of your choice twenty cups in a row. Dan squinted at me, tired but cheerful. The General's poker face didn't change; he nodded and beckoned me to approach.

"Come sit down. Take the weight off your feet."

I obeyed. Both stared at me expectantly. Pointless beating about the bush with two seasoned sharks like those. So I moved straight to the point.

"General, as far as I know, you were considering the possibility of dedicating the clan's entire contingent to Macaria, offering two million for the rite. Is that correct?"

Frag raised an eyebrow, soundlessly enquiring about my information sources but neither confirming nor refuting my words. Dan gave me an encouraging smile.

I took in a lungful of air and said with a TV-soap actor's lilt, "The Dark Priest you wrote to is me."

I wasn't prepared for their reaction. Dan guffawed, clapping his hands. Frag shook his head, unbelieving.

"You didn't believe me, did you?" Dan turned to him. "So you owe me one more staff member for my seventh department. Sorry, Sir, a bet is a bet. I want Brown's Lieut, please."

"You want too much. Find someone from your kindergarten group and train them up yourself," Frag turned to me and lay his heavy fists onto the fragile tabletop. "Report," he ordered, boring me with his glare.

I scowled. "General," indignation was welling inside me, "I have come here as a clan leader, First Priest and your friend. But not as your subordinate."

"First Priest, I knew it..." Dan muttered, ignoring my escapade.

Me and my big mouth. These sharks had me just where they wanted. I was fed up with their rotten tricks. "Please. I know very well you have guys like myself for breakfast every morning. But I'm afraid, I'm the only First Priest you have, at least for quite a while. I may be a bit simple but there's no need to rub it in. Let's just work with what we have."

Dan grew serious. He raised his hands in a peace-making gesture. "Stop grumbling, Max. We're all friends here. We're only laughing because we want to make you see it's time to tie your simplicity up in a few knots. You're flying way too high these days, and still you're trying to remain Laith the simple guy playing a new and funny game. They'll scoff you up before you can say Ding!"

Poor Fallen One. How I understood him right now. This wasn't life: this was some stupid downward escalator, its steps sweeping you right down into a sea of lava, its top riding high in the thunder clouds, and you keep running up the stairs simply to avoid being swept into the fire.

I took a deep mental breath and looked Dan in the eye. "I've heard you. I really appreciate your advice, thank you. But my life has long ceased being a leisurely walk in the park. It has since taken me up and down all sorts of funny little trails. Just give me some time. I might end up such a smartass bastard you'll regret ever saying this to me. You'd better knock on wood it doesn't happen soon."

Dan chuckled and tapped a bony knuckle on the wooden tabletop.

"So, First Priest," Frag cut us short, "what can we do for you and what can you offer us in return?"

Taking the bull by the horns, very well. I concentrated, lining up the items I was going to discuss with them. "The First Temple will need protection. Its restoration will also demand a considerable injection of funds. Although the official version of the Temple's devastation is not exactly correct, its outcome is the same: the place is in ruins. I don't think you're going to question the importance of having the Temple properly defended. The advantages of Macaria's gifts are too obvious."

Dan's eyes had glazed over the moment I'd mentioned financial problems. Now he sat up, offended, "Not everything is as rosy, I'm afraid. Our clan's siding with the Fallen One might bring us some serious pain in the butt."

"So what?" I said. "We'll still have our XP bonuses plus the Goddess' skills..."

Dan and Frag exchanged glances. "How many deities are there in the Pantheon of Light?" Dan asked softly. "Your guess?"

I frowned. "Dunno. I was sort of too busy to find out. My life has been a bit hectic in the last few weeks. I thought you knew that."

Dan shook his head, refusing to accept my excuses. "Six—six gods, each with his or her own specialization. It's true that they don't have the High God or the First Temple: they've got some democracy there, or anarchy, whatever. But they're quite generous with their skills, not to mention their fourteen temples and their respective XP bonuses to all the worshippers of Light."

I slumped in my chair. How could I ever have missed it? True, I'd given their temples a wide berth, unwilling to worship one particular god: my chosen class cast plenty of shadow as it was. But how come no one had told me that? I desperately needed an analytics department of my own.

"So I hope you don't think," Dan went on, "that all the players will now march to join the Fallen One's ranks? True, the smarter among us—those who are either capable of independent thinking, have the necessary information or possess good self-preservation skills—will ignore the Light Ones' toys and will be more than happy to dedicate themselves to Macaria. Over time, we might look at a figure of several tens of thousands. Add to that those who'll follow him out of conviction or racial solidarity—there're bound to be a few. But those of the players who choose their religion by dumbly comparing the available bonuses will all remain on the other side of the barricades. And what do you suggest we do when, after a few tentative attempts, the Admins call for an event and a hundred thousand-strong crowd will arrive at the First Temple's walls? Who's going to face them—you and I and ten thousand die-hard permas? Because that'll be all the force we'll have."

He kept speaking, probably trying to bring me back down to earth by making me see the sheer vastness of the task at hand. And I—yes, I guess you could say I was a different person already because the problem's scope didn't scare me any more. To each of his arguments, my mind came up with a possible solution and a potential counter measure. Too many temples of Light?—we could always thin them out. Not enough manpower to defend ours?—Well, humans weren't the only AlterWorld's inhabitants. Gnolls and Hell Hounds were prime examples of the opposite. Our Pantheon too modest, the XP bonus too small?—It only meant we had to summon more gods and build new temples.

Had I bitten off more than I could chew? But that was the only way to do it. You had to have ambitious goals. Saving enough for a new couch would hardly motivate one to move his backside. But if his objective were to buy a Porsche Cayenne in three years' time, that might motivate him to move it and be proactive, seek so he could find.

I nodded to Dan, "I appreciate the sheer scope of the problem. But we'll make it. What solution do you suggest, personally? I'm not going to charge my allies seven million; I'm not even going to accept the two the General has already offered. I need friends and allies more than I do trade partners. I intend to make one of the Vets a priest so he can dedicate the entire clan to Macaria. I also invite you to sign up for my alliance, The Guards of the First Temple, in order to join our defense forces. I don't seek a commanding post. There are some people here who deserve it more than I do."

Again they exchanged glances. Oh yes, I was full of surprises: first my new confidence that seemed to defy the complexity of the situation, then my rejection of a very lump sum, and now the news of the alliance I'd created. They froze, apparently discussing their decision through some closed private channel.

I had told them the truth. I needed allies more than anything. Money, too, but judging by the auctions' trends, I had staked a gold mine with plenty of potential to pay off my castle mortgage. And one more thing. By refusing their money, I hoped to reset my clan obligations to zero. Because if one day they had asked me for a service in return, I'd have had to drop everything and comply. This way, I was debt-free with them.

Clink, a money transfer dropped into my inbox.

You've received a money transfer: 100,000 gold.

Sender: The official Veterans clan account

I raised a quizzical eye to Frag.

"We appreciate your proposal," he said. "We're more than happy to accept it. We also give our preliminary approval to joining your alliance, but this will need more discussion and working through all the agreement details. As a gesture of allied good will, we return to you the sum you paid us for helping to solve Taali's little problem. We'll pay our men from our own resources. Moreover, we'll monitor her problem closely: I can already tell you that we're going to replace her gun. The civilian Tiger is good enough but a Vintorez will suit her purpose better. I'll also make sure some of my men will cover her at the most difficult stage: a retreat."

At that point I couldn't keep my emotions in check any longer. Taali's problem was something I couldn't help her with which worried me quite a lot. These old dogs knew my weak spot, cleverly manipulating my nicest points. But I still had something up my sleeve to rub into their poker faces.

"I can't thank you enough for this," I said. "But as you've mentioned the guns, I think I've got something for you."

I reached into my bag, pulled out the steel invaders' heavy shooter and slammed it on the table. Nothing was going to happen to it. Mithril could take much more than that. One-nil, guys. I would claw through the Valley of Fear for another technogenic artifact just to see their expression again.

The General jumped from his seat and grabbed the gun. He studied it in disbelief. He unlatched the clip, pulled back and cocked the hammer a couple of times, then ran his sensitive fingers along the embossed frame. Still unbelieving, he exchanged glances with Dan and pressed the gun to his chest like a father who'd found his long-lost son. Was it my imagination or his eyes glistened moistly?

"Where-" his voice gave. He cleared his throat. "Where did you get this?"

"Just an echo of war," I answered in my best indifferent voice, enjoying the pun.

"Fuck the echo of war!" Dan exploded.

Frag gestured him to shut up. "Wait. Max, I hope you understand what it is you have here. Firearms can radically change the balance of power in the game."

"Actually," I said, cutting their greed down, "the game's definition of a gun is a lump of mithril ore ready for recasting. Secondly, ammo is a bit of a problem, especially as I doubt that gunpowder or whatever it uses to generate the gases has retained its properties after eight hundred years. And thirdly and mainly, where do you see this imbalance? Are you sure that bullets can be a stronger argument than a regular level 1 self-guided firebolt? I don't even mention the Meteor Shower Spell or Armageddon which is easily comparable with a volley from a multiple rocket launcher."

Dan shook his head. "I don't intend to start a flame war on whether firearms are cooler than magic. Wait till you get a fifty-gram slug up your ass from a sniper about a mile away. Or when your castle takes a direct hit from the aforementioned rocket launcher—then you can compare them to level-1 firebolts all you like. Magic and firearms are two unique tools at opposite ends of the same branch of evolution. If someone manages to merge them, the Universe will shudder. Then everyone who doubted our peaceful intentions will drown in the resulting bloodbath."

That got me thinking. He could be right. He had to be. I definitely wasn't going to look into all of the consequences of, say, all of our players going back to the real world while preserving their characters' abilities. What had Frag called it, 'Israel and the end times'? It could well be. Actually, the former risked being the first to disappear from the world map. No amount of security walls or breakthrough technologies could save you from a stealthed nighttime 'well-wisher' smothering the sleeping streets and houses with clouds of Choky Death. I shuddered. God forbid.

"Imagine that?" Dan asked, watching the sequence of emotions run across my face.

"Yeah. A different scenario, actually, but it doesn't change the facts."

"So it looks as if you got it. How much of this stuff do you have?" he nodded at the gun in Frag's hands. The General had already ejected the contents of the magazine and lined it all up on the table in front of himself. "Have you unearthed the Ancient Ones' storeroom or just broken into some gaming millionaire's armory packed with made-to-order artifacts?"

So! I paused, trying to take in his random suggestions. This guy had some sick fantasies.

"Apparently not," a faked disappointment in his voice, Dan kept watching my face. "I will never believe that you've given us the only gun you had."

I'd have given everything for a shot of botox to paralyze my facial muscles. His soul-searching stare was getting to me. I wasn't a TV, after all.

I shook my head. "You don't need to believe it if you don't want to. This shooter is a real echo of war. With compliments from those technogenic dudes who tore the Temple apart eight hundred years ago. Oh, I got this thing, too."

I rummaged through my logs for the two screenshots of the dead trolls with a tank barrel as a club and forwarded them to the two.

"Holy shit," Dan whispered. "That's impressive. That's them just standing there? You think you could sell them? These are proper warriors, you understand, and they have this... firearm. This way the soldiers will have something to worship."

I shook my head. "They can worship Macaria if they want. Sorry but I have my own ideas about them. You can take the screenshot and have a painting of it made in the City of Light. If it inspires you that much."

Dan nodded, deadly serious. "I will. I need a copy of this for myself."

"Two!" the General broke his silence.

This was how it happened that the two unknown heroes had shed the dust of time, their act of desperate bravery acquiring a new lease of life before my very eyes. In another five hundred years, some Drow boy scouts would stand, open-mouthed, before the painting in some local art museum as the Troll guide would shed an involuntary tear, narrating the ancient legend.