My girls turned out to be foresighted and domesticated. In their bottomless backpacks they even had a few sitting rugs, a spotless white tablecloth and a good dozen pots filled with various edibles. We had a hearty lunch and a bit of a siesta as the girls talked between themselves, discussing very ungirly things like the pros and cons of spears as a close-combat weapon. We all seemed to be getting along. They didn't drag their break out until the last, so in less than forty minutes the well-oiled wheels of our conveyor belt were rolling again.

Half an hour before midnight, I dinged for the last time that day. 65!

"Congrats," the tired girls managed.

I nodded. "Thanks, ladies. Great job. I'll be seeing crocs for a week now."

Whizz grinned. "They will, too, after the genocide you committed."

"Not without your help. Freckles, you can port the team back now. Having said that, know of a decent hotel to spend the night?"

"Everything's been taken care of," Zena answered. "There're some nice apartments in the mercs guild. Third floor. They're not cheap, but that's not your problem. Consider it our gift to you. We can appreciate generosity."

I didn't say no. No need to disappoint good girls like those. "I can, too. Okay, tomorrow eight a.m., meet you all in the guild hall. We'll buff ourselves up and off to the Frontier we go. The Dead Lands are waiting. I've got unfinished business there, ladies, that's the whole thing..."

Chapter Nine

S trictly confidential

Foreign Intelligence Service to the President of the Russian Federation .

 

Memorandum (excerpt):

Alternate checks have supported the information received from independent sources about China's latest short-term development trends regarding the recent perma mode effect.

1. Their building of an underground perma mode facility is nearing completion. Intended to hold 200,000 FIVR capsules, this class-A sensitive installation is protected by an efficient anti-aircraft canopy and is capable of withstanding a strike from a 10 kiloton tactical warhead.

2. The production of unlicensed cloned versions of iVirt4 capsules has been launched at a classified assembly line aiming to produce 4,000 capsules every 24 hours.

3. A strictly classified Expansion program aims to establish China's domination and control of the more promising virtual worlds. In the light of the latest confirmed independence trends, we deem it vital to develop a similar program of our own.

4. Their new confidential software, Insanity aims to spread terror in the worlds chosen for research or immigration purposes. Over 150,000 mentally ill patients from all over China have been handpicked and are ready to be dropped into the aforementioned worlds. Several hacker groups will be waiting on standby, ready to take over the worlds' l ogin servers within a few hours if required.

5. They have created a seven-level secret program entitled The Great Cleansing aiming to conduct the step-by-step digitalization of the following population segments: criminal elements, political unreliables, long term convicts, the terminally ill, the handicapped and, finally, all sections of the population unfit to work. The final figure of the individuals chosen for the program exceeds 80 million.

All of the above is the subject of deep concern. The success of the aforementioned programs would enable China to dominate not only the virtual worlds (if we can still call them so) but also the world as we know it.

* * *

The teleport made our ears pop as it ejected our A-team under the Frontier's striking sun. Fortunately, the teleport point was up the hill where the breeze fanned us against the heat and the visibility allowed us to survey the area before hitting the road.

"WTF?" I heard Bomba's voice full of indignation. We swung round, staring at an old road skirting the hill several hundred feet away from us. A column of prisoners dusty beyond all recognition dragged their feet toward the depths of the Frontier.

Behind me I heard the sounds of a spell being cast: Eagle Vision x10, immediately allowing the group to zoom in on the approaching procession.

"Gnolls," Zena concluded.

"Yeah," added Whizz. "Tiny. Not one over level 30."

I peered at the crowd loaded with their meager possessions: messenger gnolls, overseers, warriors, shamans... It reminded me of some WW2 footage: the hot summer of 1941, fugitives fleeing their homes, trying to shake off the creeping front line. Warily I looked up, searching the clear sky for any cross-decorated wings eclipsing the sun, descending deathlike onto the helpless stream of refugees.

"Fancy a bit of genocide?" the Troll patted her club with a shovel-shaped hand.

I startled at the scary accuracy of her suggestion. "No, don't. Let them go. Don't know what kind of exodus that is. Could be some community event. In any case, they're not an army. They're refugees. We're not animal enough to assault them."

Bomba's face blackened. I thought at first she was furious, ready to squash her employer like a bug. But the next moment she slung her club over her back and even wiped her hands on her thick leather pants for some reason. Only then I understood it was the troll's black blood flushing her face. The girl had blushed.

The gnolls noticed us. The column stirred, falling into formation. The more battle-worthy gnolls were lining up, shielding casters, gatherers, messengers and other more rare gnoll specimens with their bodies.

"How naïve can they be," Freckles dropped sarcastically.

A gnoll officer emerged from the crowd, waving a shred of something white in one hand and clutching a handful of arrows in the other. Stooping, he ran uphill toward us. Surprisingly, he was well suited for running uphill, dropping on all fours and leaping, pushing with his front legs. I shuddered. Almost like a werewolf.

Soon he stood before us, panting, his tongue hanging out. Waving his white rag, he barked something, then dropped it at our feet. Demonstratively he broke the arrows on his knee, then threw them to the ground in the same way.

Zena turned to look at me. "Need an interpreter, boss?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Everything's quite clear. They're asking us for peace. They don't want to fight."

As if understanding my words, the gnoll glared at me, barking a long sentence that ended in whimpering followed by a threatening growl.

Zena shook her head. "For a fugitive he's a bit too forward, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "Who can understand their logic? He could be trying to assure us that fighting the weak is not kosher. Then once they level up a bit, we might be looking at a good scrap."

"Oh really?" she raised her eyebrows. "You think that's supposed to make us feel better?"

"Oh well, this is pure conjecture. Right, sheath your weapons, show him your empty hands, then turn your backs on him. It's not exactly our direction, anyway."

We nodded to the watchful gnoll and performed the requested motions. Then we summoned our mounts and trotted down the slope. Just another two hours, and I'd finally see those mystical Dead Lands.

Yeah, right. Dream on.

The first half-hour went rather quietly. Small game scattered in front of us, trying either to flee, bury itself in the sand or otherwise pretend it had never been there. The bigger non-aggressive ones followed us with their puppy eyes while the real predators huddled up between rocks, swallowing their hungry drool—we were way out of their league. As their levels grew with every mile, soon it became our turn to give a wide berth to a pack of coyotes, squeezing our way between a pride of lions and an inviting but birdless oasis circled by giant level-100 vultures perched in nearby trees. As I eyed the welcoming shadow, Zena shook her head. With her experience she knew better, of course.