The Lag (The Game Master: Book #1) Read online

  "Not crystal," Attila corrected. "Crystalline. That's different."

  "Whatever. It doesn't really mat-"

  "From what I heard, he'd been exposed to the radiation of the Great Portal," Yanna butted in.

  "And I heard that he was captured and tortured by the Silent Brothers who guarded the Citadel," Attila added. "Apparently, Healer didn't die but suffered some kind of brain damage which allowed him to detect mobs and even control them."

  "All right, if you know it all, you'd better tell it yourselves!" Beast said, offended.

  But no one did. Wanderer waved his hand to them from the other side, motioning them to cross.

  The plank bridge rocked underfoot, shedding bits of rotten wood into the water that rippled, fragmenting the Shaard's reflection. Attila had already covered half the way when something made him look down. A pale dead face stared at him from the depths, framed with entwined algae. The skin on its forehead had peeled off and was swaying in the water. A mass of living critters swarmed inside the shattered skull. And further away, an emaciated pale arm rocked underwater, a body, and another face, and again...

  Don't look!

  Staring at the planks underfoot, Attila ran over to the other side toward the awaiting Wanderer. Beast was the next to cross.

  "There're dead people in the water," Attila told him. "Nothing to be scared of, really."

  Beast flung up his hands in dismay, stepping back.

  "Don't be such a chicken," Yanna pushed him aside and stepped onto the bridge. "It's only part of the game design. They're supposed to be spooky, not dangerous. Watch!"

  She walked down the bridge, swaying her hips like a model at a fashion show. The others watched her in silence. Beast kept grunting, shifting from one foot to the other. Did he have some kind of phobia for dead people?

  Yanna reached the middle of the bridge and flashed them a smile. A pale hand reached out of the mud and grabbed her shin. The girl screamed.

  The scream was good: loud and shill with yodel-like trills. Admittedly, had Attila been in her place he might have managed something similar. The ghostly hand must have pulled her foot because the girl collapsed onto the bridge, trying to yank her leg free.

  A fireball wooshed from the other side and landed on the dead hand, exploding in a firework of sparks and flames. The air stank of scorched flesh. The hand disappeared under the hissing water.

  They heard a sound like an enormous bottle of wine popping open. The grass that formed the surrounding archipelago of islets rustled ominously. A water bubble flared up over a large pool of stagnant water by the bridge, rippling the disturbed surface.

  Yanna was already running. Beast's zeal overcame his fear; he bounded across in large leaps, casting a succession of fireballs that pointlessly showered the marsh, leaving behind clouds of hissing steam over the seething, bubbling water.

  Thin algae began to rise to the surface. It immediately became clear that these were no algae but the hair of the corpses rising from the bottom. A dead head bobbed on the surface; then another. The third zombie resurfaced right next to Attila. This ex-soldier of Batur Chan's looked just as bad as the rest of them with his peeling skin, bared temple bones and leeches swarming in his empty eye sockets.

  The deadman stood up, waist deep in the water, and grinned. A chunk of rotten meat fell off his face and hung under his chin.

  Attila bared his sword and took a swing. Fear directed his hand: he overdid the blow so badly that his shoulder hurt. The sword sliced through the zombie's neck, sending his head spinning through the air until it plopped into the mud far away.

  Armed with rusty scimitars, other zombies were already heading toward them across the mud and the grass. Black water streamed down their bodies, their rotting corpses gaping with holes that crawled with maggots and other nasty critters. Yanna's arrow went right through one of them, dropping on the ground behind him, and still he kept going. Another arrow pierced a zombie's face and stayed there stuck in his eye socket without slowing him one bit. Beast's fireballs dealt the most damage but even they had failed to stop a single zombie. The Marshes filled with hissing and bubbling. Stinking gray smoke filled the air.

  "Quickly, we need to get to the hut," Wayfarer said. He turned around and headed away from the bridge.

  A short trail lead to Healer's dilapidated dwelling built on one of the bigger islands. The light was on inside. Zombies slopped behind them, gradually catching up.

  Wayfarer sped up. He was the first to reach the hut, leaving the rest of them far behind. The door opened, revealing a man's silhouette in the brightly lit doorway. Wayfarer stepped aside, giving way to the man. He held an oil lamp and two giant blind wolves on a leash. Healer was taller than Wayfarer and wore a similar cloak. His face was obscured by the hood; his eyes glistened in the lamplight.

  Healer threw his hand in the air. An invisible wave hit Attila. He staggered; Yanna ouched. Beast cussed. The wave seemed to have blown the zombies off the shoreline: collapsing on their backs, they wriggled on the ground, trying to turn around, then crawled back underwater like a bunch of punished dogs.

  Both Yanna and Beast had already reached the hut. Attila heaved a sigh of relief and opened the Book, adjusting the knob. The Eye closed its arms and glided down toward him. Attila caught it in mid-air and prepared to shove it down his bag.

  A sudden sharp pain pierced his side and ran up his ribs toward his armpits, reaching his heart. His legs gave way under him. The Book still in his hands, Attila collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

  Chapter Ten

  The first thing he heard was a voice, rattling and synthetic like a badly tuned radio. That was exactly what he thought at first: that this must have been a radio or a TV, something like that.

  Then he remembered Wayfarer.

  Of course it was him, their reluctant guide. But the person he spoke to had a very normal human voice.

  Still disoriented, Attila opened his eyes. He was lying on a bench in a crude dark room. The oil lamp on the table emitted a weak quivering light that danced on the faces of his friends. Yanna was busy eating, rattling a spoon against a bowlful of something or other. Beast hunched over the table, attacking his own food with gusto. His breastplate lay in the corner. Both kept casting sideways glances at Healer and Wayfarer.

  On the floor by the opposite wall, Attila noticed a closed trapdoor. An amber light shone through the cracks around it. He could make out a muffled machine-like humming sound coming from below.

  No one paid any attention to him. It was probably better not to let them know he'd come round. This way he could do a bit of listening in.

  Healer leaned his elbows on the table. "This place is safe for the time being, but not for very long. The psy interface is playing up and I just can't get to the bottom of it. The main portal doesn't work. You can't use it to exit the game."

  Wayfarer reached under his cloak and produced his own Book, black surging with crimson. "Yes, we can," he said. "The mobs prevented me from changing the console's settings," he lay the Book on the table. "Back in the forest, I tried to connect it to a different portal; I tweaked it a little and got some interesting results. It still needs some work but then I might be able to restart the main portal. On one condition. One of these three will be allowed to quit the game."

  Yanna and Beast exchanged glances. Attila very nearly sat up on his bench but forced himself to stay motionless.

  Healer paused. "But how about you?"

  Now that he'd removed his hood, Attila could see Healer's face well: wrinkled with age, with a thin goatee and a tattooed brow. Attila remembered that in Cryte, tattoos marked one's guild affiliation.

  "I'm not going," Wayfarer replied.

  Healer leaned forward, studying him as if about to ask him, Who do you think you are? Instead, he said, "Do you realize what has happened? To the game, I mean?"

  Wayfarer nodded. "The Game has gained an identity. Which grows stronger with every hour."

  Attila cussed silently. T
here he goes again! He waited for the programmer — aka Healer — to laugh and twist his finger around his temple. But he only said,

  "But do you realize where this identity is located?"

  "In the Citadel."

  "So how do you expect to get in there? And even if you do, how do you plan to... to tackle the problem?"

  "I don't know yet. And you? When did you learn about the engine?"

  "It's called Alpha," Healer said. "It's probably his name now. When did I learn? — about an hour ago. I was looking into the interface trying to compare mobs' behavioral algorithms before and after the Lag. That's the name I gave it, the Lag, meaning that players can't quit the game. Actually, I've almost restored an old chat that they disconnected but haven't removed yet."

  Attila propped himself on his elbows and listened. No one noticed him yet, engrossed in the discussion.

  "Can we use the chat to alert other players?" Wayfarer asked.

  "Yes, but unfortunately only those who didn't opt for automatic upgrades. The game's latest version prevents the use of the chat. They removed this option completely, replacing it with Books as more in keeping with the world's atmosphere."

  "When can you get the old chat working?" Attila asked.

  Healer cast him a quick glance. "If everything goes well, the auto reset will complete in another ten minutes or so," he paused, looking at the closed trapdoor in the floor. "One thing I don't understand," he sounded lost, "why would Alpha need any of this? Why keep the players?"

  "No idea," Wayfarer said. "Then again, he just might-"

  "I think it's time you two start talking to us!" Yanna slammed her spoon on the table and pushed the bowl away.

  Attila stood up. His head span; he clutched at the wall. He was so weak his legs were giving under him. Why hadn't he had a proper breakfast when he had the chance! Auntie used to make sure he ate but in her absence, he tended to skip meals. Now he was paying the price.

  Attila waited for his vision to clear, staggered toward the table and collapsed onto a stool. He pulled a bowlful of meat and potatoes toward himself and began to eat.

  The taste was all right. He knew of course that this was merely a gaming convention. No amount of cartoon food would help if your real-world body was starving. He just hoped that the illusion would temporarily dampen his hunger.

  No one said a word. Attila finished with his food and reached for the loaf of bread. He broke off a piece and swilled it down with some cider. It was good. Attila felt like he was subjected to a hypnosis session, like when the hypnotist would touch your hand with a piece of wood telling you it's a red-hot rod and you developed a burn for real. That's exactly what was happening to him now, his brain creating the tastes of meat, potatoes, bread and cider in his mouth.

  Having deceived his stomach with virtual food, Attila cleared his throat. "She's right," he nodded at Yanna. "I'm fed up with tramping the Canyon knowing nothing. I think you two owe us an explanation. What do you mean by the game gaining an identity?"

  Healer sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. "First things first. Do you know who I am?"

  "You're Robert Artov, Gryad's chief programmer," Beast nodded at Wayfarer. "He told us about you."

  "Exactly. Right now my body is lying on a bed in the RussoVirt head office connected to a computer. When the Lag happened, I decided to enter the game to see for myself. The Central Portal," he motioned at the trapdoor, "was still working for about half an hour after that. Then he got to it, too."

  "He?" Yanna butted in. "Who d'you mean?"

  "He or she, doesn't matter. The game. It's sentient now. Incredible, eh? The game has acquired an identity."

  "The game what?" Attila stared at him, uncomprehending. "Excuse me, but I'm a programmer myself. It's impossible. It's against science... against mathematics! I don't believe you."

  Healer heaved another sigh. He cracked his fingers and started twiddling with his empty mug. Wayfarer wasn't in a hurry to help him out. Craning his head to one side, he sat expressionless as was his habit. Like a frozen computer.

  Healer bit his lip, studying the three. Finally he turned his mug bottom up, knocked it against the table and slapped his hand on top.

  "Alpha Ray, that's what the game engine is called," he said. "One of the most advanced in the world — probably, the most advanced. Andrei Warkhanov, RussoVirt's ex-chief programmer, built it almost single-handedly. He was the one who'd started the company with Bagrov. The guy's a genius. He's a total nutter but a genius nevertheless. Was. He disappeared under some very strange circumstances... doesn't matter, anyway. So we — my office and myself — we kept working on Alpha Ray. It controls all the mobs, the weather, the Storms and the changes they bring, the introduction of new aberrations and artifacts — and absolute hordes of NPCs. As I've just said, we kept working on it. Our office takes a whole floor of the RussoVirt building. Floor 15, to be precise. I have about fifty programmers working for me. I don't think you realize what kind of money the company shifts around; what kind of names invest in our artifacts and mob farms. The military use our locations for special-forces training; speleologists practice in our caves, emergency response organizations use our simulators to educate their workers. So the game has to answer this level of skill. Which is why we equipped Alpha with all sorts of heuristic mechanisms allowing it to self-tune and self-adjust. Alpha is capable of growing itself. Do you understand? Warkhanov endowed it with the ability to reprogram itself.

  "So he basically turned this Alpha into an AI?" Attila asked.

  "He was an AI. An artificial intelligence which saw its purpose in ensuring the game's stability and controlled development. But now — now he's gained an identity. The game has become self-conscious! All this around us," he pointed around him, "this is all sentient. Only it's a very, very unusual kind of consciousness."

  "Does that mean that Alpha rules this world?" Yanna asked. "It's his world now, isn't it?"

  Healer shook his head. "No, it isn't. He still can't break the game's basic rules, and not only them. If we consider the game's landscape and wildlife as his body, then every body has to comply with a set of very strict laws of biology which it can't transcend without destroying itself. We can't will ourselves to grow a third eye, or to be able to see with our ears, or to outrun a racing car. But we can build our muscles through weight training, we can develop some extraordinary abilities by practicing yoga, or improve our memory, whatever."

  "So Alpha locked all the players inside the game," Attila said. "By switching off all the portals and the emergency logout."

  Healer nodded. "Exactly."

  Yanna began chewing on her nails, then cast an embarrassed look around and hid her hands under the table. Beast puffed out his cheeks, fingering his beard. Attila realized that he himself was rocking on the creaky stool.

  "He can't control everything yet," Healer added. "His abilities aren't quite up to it."

  Sounds of rattling and heavy stomping came from outside. Healer's blind wolves howled in pain. He jumped up, nearly knocking over the stool, and motioned Wayfarer to sit back down. "Wait here."

  He picked up his short gnarly staff from the bench. It looked rather like a broken tree branch topped with some green foliage. He walked outside and closed the door behind himself.

  Yanna's stare followed him. She turned to Wayfarer, "You sure you're human? You speak kinda strange. What've you got to do with it?"

  "Whether I'm human or not is irrelevant," Wayfarer said. "What's relevant is that I can help you. And you can help me. All of us."

  Beast slapped his thighs and rose. He began pacing the room, casting glances at the door. "Well, dude, no points for you telling us how you can help us. Just let us the hell out of here. The rest we can manage. You'd better tell us what you need us for. Why did you pick us up back in the Valley?"

  The wolves outside seemed to have calmed down. Attila heard Healer mumble something to them. The door creaked open, letting him in. He walked over to the table and leaned h
is fists on it.

  "We have guests coming," he said. "The wolves can sense them. They're running loose outside but controlling them becomes a problem. Something's changing in them. Their mental interface seems to be playing up."

  "You believe Alpha is trying to control them?" Wayfarer asked.

  "That's what I think."

  "Mental interface?" Attila asked. "Is this how you control the mobs?"

  "At the moment, only those within the Marshes area," Healer replied. "This is a trial version built into the MnemoSensoric helmet, our latest product. Had I not been wearing it, or rather," Healer pointed his thumb at the glowing trapdoor behind his back, "had it not been for my real body wearing it, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  Attila frowned, thinking. This could explain the Pioneers' rumors of Healer's paranormal abilities. He was simply testing this psy interface of his to be able to mentally control NPCs. Attila had seen similar things in commercials, when a man would sit in a chair wearing a special device on his head that read his brain activity, allowing him to control an object on a monitor in front of him, making it bounce and roll obeying the man's will — obeying his mind. This was no science fiction any more. The phenomenon had nothing to do with telepathy and everything with copying the brain's neural signals.

  "But isn't Healer an NPC?" Yanna asked. "His job is to assign quests to players. Does that mean you have to stay in game 24/7?"

  "This avatar is what we call a twin," Healer explained. "Normally, it is an NPC who assigns quests and follows scripts. But whenever I log in, I use it as my own avatar."

  "And what about the Silent Brothers?" Beast asked. "Does Alpha control them as well?"

  Attila's book jingled under his jacket. He nearly jumped. Was it working? He whipped it out.