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Alterworld (litrpg play.., p.1
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       AlterWorld (LitRPG: Play to Live. Book #1), p.1

           D. Rus
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AlterWorld (LitRPG: Play to Live. Book #1)

  Play to Live

  by D. Rus

  Book 1


  Copyright © 2014 D.Rus

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Art © Kadziro

  Translators © 2014 Irene Woodhead, Neil P. Mayhew

  Ebook formatting by

  Also by D. Rus:

  The Clan

  (Play to Live: Book #2)

  The Duty

  (Play to Live: Book #3)

  Table of Contents


  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MMORPG Glossary

  Sensitive information

  Eyes only

  Destroy after reading

  From a memorandum to President of the Russian Federation:

  At year’s end 203X, we have lost 82,000 of the population to the 'perma mode effect' which is 3.2 times more than in the previous year. However, it should be noted that overall, the disappearance of the above nationals improves the country’s gene pool and eases the burden on our economy. Over 89% of those who chose to become perma-stuck in virtual reality on their own free will were elderly, handicapped or terminally ill, plus a considerable group of society dropouts including immature individuals and other misfits. In terms of economy, they’re dead wood.

  After introducing the 16th amendment to the Internet and Virtual Reality Act which limited FIVR (Full Immersion Virtual Reality) exposure to four hours a day, the number of individuals permanently stuck in MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games) has fallen to 2.600 a year. Even though the USA and Western Europe toe the line at three hours of FIVR exposure a day, we don’t deem it necessary to follow their example, especially in apprehension of the Silicon Lobby’s reaction. But we do suggest taking some preventative measures that would diminish the flow of nationals seeking to 'go perma mode' willingly, with the eventual possibility of reducing it to zero. These are the measures we propose:

  1. To introduce legal limits to authenticity levels of FIVR worlds.

  2. To define permissible configuration types and top options available for FIVR capsules.

  3. To arrange for regular instances of signal deterioration including pseudo accidental cutouts, every X hours.

  4. To limit or ban FIVR connections to the worlds with over 40% authenticity for certain categories of nationals, such as: government functionaries, members of the military, key scientific workers and those in possession of secret clearance.

  Chapter One

  "A month. One month of relatively active life. I’m afraid, this is all you’ve got left," the doctor removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

  I knew of course that his profession would make anyone a cynic. And still he didn’t seem to be delivering the news lightly.

  The doctor shook his head, his hair gray before his time. "Yes, a month," he pursed his lips, hesitating, then blurted,

  "It’ll be the question of what runs out first: your health reserves, your will to live in ever-growing agony—or your ability to finance therapy and medications. I hope you’ll excuse me for being so blatant. I’m very sorry. Normally, we don’t inform our patients in case of a Class A diagnosis. We contact their relatives, but you don’t seem to have listed any. What a shame. I don’t think that spending the next month in and out of surgeries will be worth your while. We just can’t do anything for you. An inoperable brain tumor is indeed the end of the line. Today’s medical science just isn’t good enough. I’d rather suggest you put your affairs in order. Pay off your debts. Go on holiday with your friends or someone you love."

  He continued talking but his voice didn’t register any more. I stared at his hands fiddling with some paperwork. I wasn't going to die, surely! What cancer was he talking about? My life had only just started to work out!

  The phrase echoed in my mind. Today’s medical science just isn’t good enough. What about the science of the future, then? Will it be good enough?

  The thought struck me, giving me new hope. I sprung to my feet. The chair creaked, having heard yet another death sentence. It must have witnessed more of those than Old Sparky. I mumbled my goodbyes and headed for the door. Ignoring the elevator, I flew down the steps three at a time, ran across the crowded parking lot and slumped into my Hyundai’s seat.

  I pulled the cell out of its case and started the browser. What was it that I’d heard on the radio on my way to work? The first in Moscow…We sell immortality… a chance to live forever… to see the future with your own eyes… Implanted by some marketroid team, the buzz words sat firmly in my brain, and still I couldn’t remember the name of the thing - a center or something.

  My head smarted with the effort, sending colored circles dancing before my eyes. I winced and sat still, waiting for the spasm to go, then felt for the painkillers in my pocket. When had I last taken them? Was it with my breakfast at ten o’clock? If it was, I’d better make the pills last another couple of hours. The doctor had already taken me to task saying that all that constant OD-ing was ruining my liver. Had he been trying to be funny?

  What was their name, dammit! Was it Chrome? Chronyl? Or… Chronos? Exactly. Chronos. I Googled their office number.

  "Chronos life extension, how can I help you?" chimed a young female voice, soft and eager.

  "I, er," I faltered. "I mean, hi. It’s about your cryonics program. Can I make an appointment or something?"

  "Absolutely. I’m feeding you our location."

  Forty minutes later, I parked up by a state-of-the-art business center. Their high-speed elevator gave me a bout of childish delight replaced by a new spasm of agony. I gave up and swallowed another pill with best wishes to my liver. It shouldn’t get any ideas about being transplanted, once I croaked, into some lucky alcoholic billionaire.

  The client manager was too young and too pretty. A strategically undone button on her business blouse added to her cleavage and hindered my concentration. But despite her tender age, she spoke in a competent voice and her eyes filled with compassion and purpose as we talked.

  "We’ve been in business since 1960s in the US alone. Now we’re offering a large spectrum of cryonics services in dozens of our centers all over the world. It’s our fifth year worldwide, so you’ve come at the right moment to enjoy our anniversary discounts."

  "Excuse me," I butted into her pitch. "Could you please tell me about the procedure? And, er, about your price range."

  "Absolutely. Once the contract is signed and the payment clears our bank, we fit you with a sensor which feeds your data to our ER team. If your condition becomes critical, the team will remain on standby twenty-four-seven. Once you’re pronounced legally deceased, they begin the cryonics procedure in order to-"

  "Wait a sec," I faltered. "What do you mean, legally deceased? Are you going to wait till I die?"

  The manager gave me an understanding nod. She’d obviously heard the question hundreds of times. "We can’t freeze you alive, can we? Legally, it would be murder. So first we need to obtain a proper death certificate. Following that, our team of experts will perfuse a client’s tissues with our cryoprotective solution and begin freezing his body before transporting it to our cooldown facility where it is stored under liquid hydrogen in an individual cryostat container. The body remains there for the duration of the contract - usually, until the arrival of a resuscitation technology."

  She beamed, delivering the good news, as if they’d already brought me back to life. I wasn’t so impressed, though. The prospects of me waiting for myself to die didn’t sound like a promise of immortality.

  "So how much would it be in total?"

  The girl produced the price list. Zeroes flickered before my eyes.

  "Our anniversary campaign," she raised her finger, "allows us to drop the bottom line twenty percent. The complete package will cost you seventy thousand dollars."

  She saw my raised eyebrows and hurried to add, "There is an option to only have your head stored for as little as twenty-five thousand. And for just six thousand we can preserve your DNA sample which will allow the science of the future to grow your clone. Our analysts believe that it might preserve part of your personality."

  I stared at her. What was she saying? All they seemed to be doing was milking terminal patients for their last buck. Having said that, wasn’t official medicine doing the same? Their job was making more money, not helping us recover.

  "I… I’ll think about it."

  I stood up, ending her rosy pitch of incredible generosity. For a brief moment, the girl lost her sales drive and looked straight at me as she offered me her hand. "I have a funny feeling you’ll be all right… Max. Just don’t give up. I’ll see what I can do and I’ll give you a call. I might bring the bottom line down a bit."

  "Thanks," I said, looking for her name tag. "Thank you… Olga. I’ll be all right."

  I gave her another smile as I let her soft palm linger in my hand. Wistfully I released my fingers, turned round and strode out of reception. Interesting girl. A dark horse. Yesterday I’d have probably tried to get to know her better. You never know, it might have worked. But today… damn this cancer!

  In any case, I had to look into it further. At least this cryonics stuff gave you half a chance. I couldn’t afford to dismiss any ray of hope, however ephemeral. The alternatives were too bleak to even start to contemplate. Had I had enough money, I’d have risked it: you couldn’t take your wallet with you, anyway. But I’d never been lucky enough to see so much dough, let alone possess it.

  For the last two years, I’d finally gotten my act together. I’d prized my ass off the computer chair and began looking around, learning to mix and fit in while keeping my eyes on the ball. Funnily enough, my hobby had become my career—who was it that said, Find a job you love and you'll never have to work again? Basically, I’d started a hardware repair shop. I didn’t underprice myself, but I enjoyed doing quality work and always fixed a few extra bits the customer hadn’t paid me to do. Word-of-mouth marketing had me as a new and upcoming expert and the money flow grew deeper and wider. Not that my savings account had grown any healthier: I had too much to catch up on after all the years of vegetation. I got myself a new wardrobe and a two-year-old Hyundai. I could finally afford to take a girl out or help Mom financially. All that allowed me to feel human again, but I hadn’t arrived at the savings stage yet. My little business had grown to the point where I started thinking about hiring an assistant when trouble came from the least expected place.

  Anyway. Back to the drawing board. I needed money. My immediate goal was to leave Mom with as much as I could. After Dad had died in that wretched car accident, she’d been in a bad way, what with her heart and leg problems. She was a brick, was Mom - she’d even moved into Granddad’s old country house not far from Moscow. If you believed her, the country air did her good. But her miserable disability pension came nowhere near my recent assistance. Without my help, Mom would soon be living hand to mouth: clutching a few pennies by the grocer’s doors, counting them over and over as she calculated whether she had enough for some bread and a carton of milk or whether she’d have to wait and leave milk till Sunday?

  My ultimate goal, however, was to find enough money for this cryonics thing. I needed a chance. I could always lie down and die if it came to that. Now where would I get hold of a hundred thousand dollar bills? Could I maybe rip off a get-rich-quick scammer or corrupt functionary? I had no qualms whatsoever about doing so, but even then you had to agree that moneybags weren’t that easy to approach these days. Without proper training, you couldn’t really penetrate their guarded residences. I was likely to get busted before I even started and spend the last weeks of my life behind bars - if their bodyguards didn’t put me to rest in a local graveyard before that.

  Next. Could I win some money in a lottery? Or in a game? Chances were minimal but you can’t win if you don’t try. I made a mental note to set aside a few hundred for a casino. Let’s see if Lady Luck had the hots for me.

  Now. What else? Where could you find lots of money in one place? A bank sounded about right. So should I maybe go around shoving scribbled notes to unsuspecting tellers, Put all the money in a bag—I have a gun? Wonder if they're trained to deal with that sort of emergency? Bullshit. So they’ll offer you a few handfuls of whatever they happen to have in the till, big deal. Even if you manage to escape unscathed, you’ll have to rinse and repeat the whole procedure a couple dozen times.

  Besides, Mom would end up taking the money back to them. Which was where they’d fleece her for every penny she’d ever had. Having said that, why raid a bank when you can nicely apply for a loan? I was an old respected customer, successfully self-employed. All I needed to do was to bring along lots of paperwork confirming my healthy income. So that’s what I’d do, then: straight back home to pick up the papers. And the business plan I’d drafted the other day would come in handy, too.

  The teller sent me directly to the manager. He was the one dealing with large loans and he turned out to be a lively gray-haired gentleman with a definite Jewish air about him. He listened to me rather skeptically and began leafing through my paperwork, pouting his lips. He must have come to a decision as he nodded.

  "Very well, young man. We seem to have finally left the credit crisis behind us. The President is all for supporting small businesses and we’d be stupid not to listen to him. In your case, I believe I can see some potential. If you keep applying your head as you’ve been applying your hands, you might get something out of it in the end. A hundred thousand is a bit too tall, don’t you think? You just won’t need it so we’re not giving it to you. But twenty… say, thirty thousand - I think we could manage that. So let’s see what we can expect back from it."

  The manager moved the keyboard closer and tapped away. Every now and then he’d stop and move his lips, peering at the text on the screen. Then he frowned and leaned closer to the monitor. I tensed, sensing things weren’t going as planned. The manager looked up at me. Shook his head. Then he pushed the keyboard away and sat back.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I have to admit I thought better of you, young man. I’m sorry about your situation, I really am. So here you are asking me for help and I’m quite prepared to give you some money like you were my own son. And all you’re doing you’re setting Jacob Finkelstein up for an unrecoverable loan? Feh! Didn’t you know that your ID card had access to your medical records? In case of interest, all one needs to do is apply for them. And our interest in you is quite understandable, don’t you think?"

  The man looked quite upset. I wished the earth could swallow me whole, like when I’d wetted my pants back at the nursery school. Being caught in flagrante, red-handed… As far as crooks went, I was pretty lousy - I lacked the nerve. My cheeks burned as I rose from the creaking chair.

  "I just meant to leave some mon
ey to my mother. She’s sick, you know… I’m sorry," I mumbled, avoiding his stare.

  I stepped toward the exit when the manager barked, "I’m not finished with you yet!"

  He waited for me to turn back to him and went on, "I can’t say I don’t sympathize with your situation. But it doesn’t mean I can allow you to defraud me. You’re blushing - that’s a good sign. So allow me to give you some advice. Every bank has access to your data and that includes gray-market dealers too. So I suggest you give them a miss. All they’ll do they’ll make sure you don’t live as long as you had hoped. Even a retailer won’t offer you a consumer credit over ten thousand rubles without checking his computer first. You know what I mean? Under ten thousand, in major retail stores. You understand?"

  He looked me straight in the eye as he enunciated the last words.

  Had I understood him? You bet.

  "Yes," I said softly. "Under ten thousand, in major retail stores."

  The man lowered his eyelids, pushed the forgotten paperwork pile across the desk toward me and nodded at the door. "You can go now. God help you, young man."
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