The Gods of the Second World Read online

  The Old Man disinherited absolutely everyone, and made sure to record as much in his will. He did something no member of his family had ever done before—he absolutely denied having any obligation to his kin whatsoever. Some people must indeed have the gift of foresight. Once he found out the secret, it prevented him from what might have been long and unnecessary litigation.

  But he had already been prepared by that point.

  The secret was endangered quite a few times, but in each case those were run-of-the-mill dangers typical for the world of the super-rich. Some opponents needed to be destroyed; others had to be treated with and let in on the secret. The major players that would find out spared no time or effort to keep the secret known to no one else.

  It was a small and very tight group of initiates. Most of them hated each other's guts, yet had to coexist as guardians of a common secret, nurturing something they would all have to share in the future—something none of the uninitiated could participate in for all the gold in the world.

  And today, the secret was in danger once again. This was no nosy journalist miraculously discovering something no one had any right to know anything about. Nor was it an Asian tycoon whose personal intelligence service had discovered something so intriguing he would commit any crime to become one of those in the know.

  Or, perhaps, the only one.

  Those threats were common, and the methods of handling them had been devised a long time ago, covering every detail.

  This time, the blow came from a completely unexpected direction. There was no precedent and no warning. None whatsoever. The reason was that such secrets could never be found on the World Wide Web. They had no life of their own within silicon boards cut from crystals and never crossed any oceans via optical cables or wires.

  Actually, no such secrets ever existed.

  But there were never any projects to resemble Second World. Both were unique, and the secret was necessarily an integral part of the only true gaming universe to ever exist.

  And there was something rotten in this universe. Someone kept dealing them one blow after another, never leaving the secret alone. Thus, it still remained beyond their reach, which meant there could be no hope of reaping the bounteous benefits of projects launched a long time ago.

  Eric Coleman was the President's Homeland Security Advisor. He was also one of those aware of the secret. He, too, was hoping to get his rightful share—it would be necessary someday, after all. He sat unblinking before the Old Man's ergonomic bed watching him take a leisurely sip from some opaque tube connected to one of the medical appliances occupying nearly half the room—a large one, too.

  The Old Man didn't look good at all. And it wasn't a matter of age. He was way overdue—there was a saying about the likes of him that the Reaper went about searching for them with a flashlight.

  Only it wouldn't be a damn flashlight in this case. The Reaper has been searching for the Old Man with a high-powered floodlight for years.

  His body had withered long ago. The difference between the Old Man and a thousand-year-old mummy would become purely academic very shortly. He was like a wax figure, and it was truly hard to tell how he still managed to retain the spark of life.

  That body was too chilly a place for any spark.

  The Old Man was dying. But that's been his occupation for decades, and, so far, the Reaper had repeatedly failed to find him. But it only took a single look to realize that their rendezvous might take place any moment now.

  No matter how powerful a man, no one could ever keep escaping the inescapable forever.

  However, the Old Man had a few plans in this respect. And Coleman had to admit that this living mummy had been the first one to so much as conceive of anything like that.

  The Old Man set the tube aside and smacked his lips, unnaturally red—they wouldn't look out of place on a dyed-in-the-wool vampire, and asked,

  "There's no chance of a mistake, is there?"

  Coleman shook his head.

  "The people we sent to the hospital make no mistakes, ever."

  "Everybody makes mistakes."

  "Those guys never do. Rostovtsev isn't there."

  "For how long has he been away?"

  "We know nothing for certain so far. His capsule turned out to contain an imitator device providing data to monitoring equipment. The capsule keeps a patient alive automatically, so no medical personnel need to interfere. The medics can only open it in case something extraordinary happens and the automated circuits can no longer handle things. But we have checked, and there were no such cases. This means Rostovtsev's body could have disappeared at any time between their routine checks."

  "Routine checks?"

  "Yeah, they follow a strict schedule for those. You can't leave a body completely unsupervised, after all."

  "Whoever carried out the observation must have noticed there was a suspicious electronic device instead of a body inside the capsule."

  "I agree."

  "The hospital authorities set great store by proper procedure. Trust me on that one. It's pretty damn hard to kidnap a comatose patient."

  "Right now, we cannot even be certain he had been in a coma in the first place. The problem is that a lot of people work at the hospital, and many of them took care of Rostovtsev at one point or another. Thus, we cannot locate a single doctor that would be in charge of him exclusively. The turnover was unnaturally high in his case, which gives one certain suspicions. Surely enough, one of the staff members is perfectly aware of the circumstances of his disappearance from the capsule—or, perhaps, of the fact that he had never entered it in the first place—but we won't be able to trace them that easily or quickly if they fail to advertise themselves in any way."

  "But, eventually, you'll identify them."

  "Of course. We're already taking measures. We're compiling a list of those responsible for Rostovtsev and those who might be under suspicion, checking their recent expenses, and preparing for surveillance."

  The Old Man made a barely noticeable dismissive gesture with his hand.

  "I see it as a waste of resources. One of the hospital staff must have been bribed. Even if you find out absolutely everything they know and turn them inside out, there won't be anything original. People are corrupt and will do anything for money—that's all we're likely to learn. And it won't be any news to any of us. It is Rostovtsev that we need, and not the greedy medic. I'm not sure the culprit can actually help us in any way."

  "I agree. But we have to start somewhere, after all—we have no other leads so far, after all. We have no idea where Rostovtsev might be at the moment. He might be among the antipodes right now—or, perhaps, his body was dissolved in acid, or lies on the bottom of the sea with a lead weight around his neck. There are plenty of places that are deep and quiet enough.

  "I could name a few people resting there, for sure… But does this Rostovtsev participate in the game?"

  "We don't know."

  "Do you know anything at all?"

  "His character disappeared yet again."

  "But made a huge display of himself before he did, right?"

  "He did. As usual."

  "Say one thing for Rostovtsev—say he's real good at it. And you didn't manage to get anything done, anyway. Also as usual."

  "Unfortunately, it's much harder to bypass the laws of the game than actual laws. We had no access to the area where he revealed himself."

  "Oh, I know it all… Forget it… Just an old man being grumpy, and there's nothing I can do about it. This damn ticker of mine…"

  "Anything wrong with it?"

  "Do I look like there's anything right with it?! Everything's wrong with pretty much every part of me, including the heart. What would you expect after the eighth transplant? They don't tell me such things, but I'm sure some black drug addict was the donor. There's something wrong with this heart. I felt as much at once."

  "The President will be concerned. He constantly asks about your physical condition."

>   "Your President can dream on about the day he catches a cold at my funeral, and you can tell him as much. Anyway, he can stick his concern right up the ass of the spade they got my latest heart from! Don't remind me of this slug. He was one of my worst investments ever. Ouch! This spade's heart must have decided to do me in completely! The guy was a reverse racist for sure. He died just in order to get back at me."

  "You should spend more time in the game. You wouldn't have to bother about such issues there."

  "Duh. I spend all my waking hours trying to figure out how to transfer not just my private office there, but the entire corporate headquarters as well. It's a no go so far—too many hidden saboteurs here. What do you say, Eric? Do you reckon we'll hear of Rostovtsev again?"

  Coleman nodded with conviction.

  "So far, he's managed to deliver each and every time. He'll definitely make his presence known."

  "Hell's bells… I'd really like to talk to him… you know, a proper talk. I know a few guys who are virtuosos with pliers and a soldering iron. They're pretty old by now, but they'd be delighted to have another taste of the good old days."

  "We have our own interrogation specialists."

  "Like who? The youngsters? Don't make me laugh. Those pussies would have to take a walk to Mars and back before they'd reach anything like the level of old school specialists. Now, if we crack that nut, we're sure to find plenty of kernels. What do you think?"

  "I agree. Rostovtsev is our only link. He's the only one we managed to identify, anyway."

  "Well, such things don't happen randomly. How about that little wetback?"

  "Are you referring to his acquaintance in the game?"

  "Heaven forbid. I am referring to the lazy gardener who lifts your wife's skirt every Friday. Eric, you ass, why do you even have to ask such questions? I know you are no idiot."

  "We keep an eye on him, both in the game and IRL. So far, he looks like yet another nobody. Rostovtsev hardly contacts him at all, and all they talk about are game-related issues; he doesn't get him involved in anything else. He's like his personal accountant. All they talk about is money. We have monitored all his contacts in the game, and it's the same scenario everywhere."

  "But the Mexican is still afraid of something…"

  "He doesn't know about anything that matters. He doesn't know anything at all. But the hints he gets are enough for him to jump at every shadow."

  "And yet he sticks by Rostovtsev."

  "Rostovtsev is a celebrity. Everyone would be interested. And he's no fool, either, so he should have noticed all the interest. There were a few provocations from our part, so that explains the fear."

  "You cannot eavesdrop on what they say within the game."

  "However, there are no substantial problems with the forum. Our analysts have gone through every single word there. They didn't find anything of substance—just like everywhere else. The Mexican is a red herring they use to divert our attention elsewhere. Rostovtsev is in no need of funds, whereas this guy finances all kinds of market deals, buys and sells items, and controls auction lots. We have to get to the bottom of it all. Given that we cannot spare that much manpower, what this amounts to is us wasting precious time."

  "What about the journalist and his contact?"

  "We have established the contacts identity. They and the journalist will be taken care of very shortly."

  "Any problems?"

  "None that we foresee."

  "I'll tell you one thing, Eric. I have lived a long time, but this is the first time someone's managed to keep unnerving this poor old man for such a long time, being so driven about it, and yet making no demands at all. They make even fewer noises than a cat that's shat in your slippers. They piss in every corner on the sly, yet keep mum. What's the point? I don't get it. And when I fail to get something, it's never a good sign. Now tell me one thing… If you'd found Rostovtsev in that hospital, would he have been dead already?"

  Coleman nodded.

  "Sure, you decisive youngsters are fond of simple solutions above all. How about the fact that the version of Rostovtsev that lives in our servers will hang around? He keeps throwing spanners in the works, and he'll surely be pissed off about the way you treated his precious body."

  "I still find it uncomfortable to discuss the separation of the body from the soul, but it isn't exactly the soul that we're talking about in this case. As a last resort, we can shut down the game servers, and Rostovtsev will disappear forever."

  "Cut off the juice for Second World? You must be off your rocker completely!"

  "Well… I did say it was a last resort."

  "With a last resort like this, you should run home, drink a bottle of whiskey, shit yourself and blow your brains out on your toilet… Damn these wise guys. Tell me one thing. Can you kill Rostovtsev in the game?"

  "No problem at all. As many times as we have to. A hundred, two hundred, a thousand. That won't matter. All the characters are, unfortunately, immortal. He doesn't care about level losses at all—it looks like he still plays as a noob, without doing any serious leveling-up. He doesn't care one whit about dying."

  "In earlier games, admins could interfere in the gaming process. What a time! If anyone tries to play silly buggers, you press a button and ban him forever. No more Mr. Wise Guy."

  "It's a pity Second World offers no such option."

  "Nor should it. Have you ever seen anyone banned from the real world? Neither have I. Second World copies the real world, so there should be nothing of that sort there."

  "Still, it's a pity we have no way of dealing with players left."

  "Yeah… sure… all young idiots think they know best. I wonder what dim youngsters like you would do without old ruins such as yours truly. How can anyone rely on you at all? Back in my time, they wouldn't even let the likes of you work as janitors. Where is this world headed, I wonder?"

  "Do you mean that…"

  "I do mean that, Eric. I mean exactly that."

  "You mean there's a way?"

  "Do you think I wouldn't prepare a special option for cases spinning out of control such as this one? With my foresight? Oh, Eric, you disappoint me…"

  "But that's supposed to be impossible!"

  "Stick by me, Eric, and you'll learn just how much can be possible."

  "So what about this method?"

  "It's pretty cunning. If I really want some player to kick the bucket, they'll do just that. And they won't respawn. They'll disappear forever."

  "Not just within the game?"

  "In real life too, Eric, trust me on that… All we need to do is find him."

  "In real life?"

  "That would do, too. But it would be enough if we could locate him within the game. A body with no mind in it is mere biological waste."

  Chapter 3

  Ros was running away. He was running as fast as he could, with no regard for anything, and without sparing himself, tearing through thorny bushes and tripping dangerously on numerous bumps. He would fall every now and again, but he would jump up immediately, so it hardly affected his speed.

  Had a chance observer happened upon him, they would be surprised by his behavior. No one was following Ros, but he kept running as if chased by all the horrors of the Second World.

  Oddly enough, he was escaping two good-natured lummoxes that didn't pose any threat. But he could take no more of Macho Strongman or Nail-in-the-Head. It wasn't just about their behavior. He never managed to solve the puzzle of how they had turned up or how they may relate to him, but he could have tolerated that much. However, their most recent hints that their extremely odd party would soon gain a new recruit were the final straw.

  Ros decided they could go and get stuffed with those mysterious ways of theirs. He had spent enough time with the couple and managed to study them well, but it didn't add to his understanding of their behavior. Sometimes they seemed like low-importance NPCs rather than actual players. The kind controlled by one of the low-power AIs. Any attempt to find
out anything about their motivation was stonewalled completely, and it wasn't even a matter of them failing to understand. They either had no idea of what he was talking about, or completely ignored everything they deemed to be of little interest.

  Macho Strongman and Nail-in-the-Head were playing a game of their own, and Ros's meaningful hints had no place in it.

  Well, that wasn't the kind of game he'd been willing to play. They could either be transparent and understandable, or play by themselves.

  So they were welcome to have all the fun they could without Ros now.

  The clear plains ended. Ros tore through the bushes and started running through the forest. Night vision was a racial advantage that came in very handy—he dodged every tree and every sharp twig that could have cost him an eye, and jumped over fallen pines.

  Pines. They were pines for sure. According to the map, pine woods marked the territory where the Locked Land hordes had been completely unknown very recently. Now the borderlands have been laid waste, the invading monsters managed to get to the heartland of the province, and they were held back by valiant efforts of all the defenders who had gathered to the rescue.

  Ros kept moving through fields and pine woods of this sort for about two days now. The approximate front line was drawn somewhere around those parts—a group of enthusiasts at the forum kept track of it. There were hordes of monsters fighting a whole bunch of players having the time of their life and the NPC troops of the Imperial Army. It was an epic 24/7 battle with no lunch breaks, and it was fought on a strip of land barely two miles wide.

  Ros already made several attempts to approach the fun zone, and he was forced to retreat each time—often rather hastily. It would be too dangerous even for one of the strongest players. A noob like him would get swatted like a fly.

  He kept approaching the front line trying to find a gap where there would be no fighting and which would not be on the map. The situation on the battlefield changed too quickly, after all, and no one would keep track of such trifles in real time.