I shook my head. "I don't think it would work for anyone else. Sorry. If I knew how to commit harakiri without a blade..."

"Shame," Dan said. He didn't sound as if he'd believed me.

Sorry, folks. Admittedly, I had my share of secrets and I chose to keep them to myself. No one had appointed Dan my father confessor. In any case, I was an atheist. Or had been. These days I was supposed to be the Fallen One's overt follower, wasn't I? I still couldn't quite get over it. Meeting a real virtual God. The mind boggles!

The door swung open. Everybody rose to greet the clan leader.

General Frag: once an ex-Afghan campaign major and commander of the 56th Assault Battalion, then a legless stump and ultimately, eighty years' worth of no bullshit. Apparently, Frag was a nickname his next door neighbors had given to the sprightly old boy who was constantly busy scurrying around the block in his wheelchair, his tunic dripping with ribbon bars. His children had turned out well. So had his grandchildren. One day with their grandfather's consent, they lay his weakening but still lucid frame into a FIVR capsule. Having been to hell and back a few times, he probably appreciated his second chance much more than I did. The clan owed its existence to his tireless energy. Now his right to life had once again been challenged. And as I studied the powerful soldier, I started to feel sorry for those who had dared step in his way.

He nodded a greeting and took his place at the head of the table. Unhurriedly, he looked over everyone, his stare pausing on me.

"So here you are, troublemaker. As if your tobacco scam wasn't enough for us to deal with," he glared at the smoking officers who hurried to stub out their cigs. "And five minutes later it's red alert, stand to!"

Dan jumped up, attempting to speak, but the General waved his explanations away. "Sit down. You don't have to defend him. Yes, it's potentially lucrative. Yes, he'd come up with some decent intel. Can't an old man grumble a little? But you, Dan, you seem to be losing your grip. These monsters have been operating right under your nose. So let's recapitulate on what we know about the Cats. Stay seated."

As Dan reported, I began to realize the sheer complexity of it all.

"The clan is rather young. It's limited to the Lands of Light and then only to our cluster—which means they're mainly Russians like ourselves. Three castles, the Forest Castle being their main base. I've managed to lay my hands on a members' list from a month ago. About four hundred members, two thirds of them in perma mode. Permas or not, they're not your average bunch. Everything points at the Olders being their founders."

The room hummed in disbelief. Dan raised his voice above the noise, "I have no intention of demonizing our oligarchs, but that's the impression I get. The clan counts lots of spoilt brats, rich daddies' girls and boys and their entourage. Now that I think about it, I can see that the Cats have always enjoyed the Olders' unspoken support—backing even. It's true that the Olders like staying on the sidelines—they seem to be quite happy with being third in the financial ratings. It's very much like the Forbes list: there you won't see the true movers and shakers. No Rothschilds, no Rockefellers, no Morgans or Warburgs. Same here. But—our business sharks still need a few pairs of strong hands that can solve their business dilemmas for them. Sometimes it's hired guns or private armies, but some cases can be so sensitive that they have to turn to crime rings for help. The Cats are one such ring. To my knowledge, all the missing bankers were in disagreement with the clan's leaders. This is cause for serious concern. I'd risk the assumption that the Olders could be test-driving new brain-kill techniques. In a world inhabited by perma players, this is a knockout argument.

The General's eyes narrowed with the promise of all the things he could do to the overeager researchers. He nodded his agreement.

The door opened a crack, letting in Aunt Sonia. She was a true to God larger-than-life Odessan mama who about two years ago had decided to see what made her granddaughter spend all her waking time in virtual reality. In those days, capsules hadn't had time limits. As Aunt Sonia discovered AlterWorld, she stumbled along a thousand-strong cooking guild and happily indulged in a protracted quest to prepare the Prince's Banquet. As you can imagine, her granddaughter came home in the morning to her granny's comatose body who since then had become General Frag's castle chef and, if rumors were to be believed, also his kindred spirit.

Aunt Sonia shuffled to the conference table. Noiselessly, she began unloading her bottomless bag, producing copious platefuls of pies and cold cuts. Their homemade smells overpowered the stench of stale tobacco. The men cheered up. Even Dan paused, sniffing the air in anticipation.

The General didn't seem to appreciate her concern. He frowned, motioning his chef away as she tried to place a personal plateful of treats in front of him. He turned his heavy stare to Dan, bringing the conversation back on a business track. "What was that about mass newbie slave trade? Any ideas what they might need it for?"

"Most likely, just some Cats overdoing it. With all the power they suddenly enjoyed, they would have been stupid not to use it for their own financial advantage. One more thing. The moment we presented them with a claim and began mobilizing, we got a call from an Olders representative. Who then asked us not to rock the boat and try to solve the problems diplomatically at the table. Offering themselves as mediators."

"Right," the General nodded. "Send them the data on the bankers slaughtered by the Cats and watch their reaction. We will pursue the conflict. There are certain things that can't be tolerated. This is a real threat to everyone's wellbeing. Our reaction should be fast and tough enough, regardless of whatever may transpire. What will we do to them? Any suggestions?"

Dan cringed. The others perked up, buzzing. Dan raised his hand, waiting for the room to calm down, then went on,

"We've already discussed an idea or two. Starting with a real-life mirror response: eye for an eye, rape for a rape. It's harder than just smoking the motherfuckers but still quite doable. Ending with copycat brain-kill sessions. I'm not sure if it's going to work for them, though. A lot of its effect is based on self-hypnosis."

The General shook his head. "If we go this route, we might beat the fear of God into a dozen of those spoilt jerks. And by doing so, we'll get ourselves some truly heartless immortal enemies, unforgiving and unforgetting. So we can't really use half measures here, but we need to tread carefully to make sure we don't put our own families in the line of fire. Dan, you will pin down a couple of real-life Cats who've been seriously involved in our affairs. A couple of the worst cases to make a show trial of. A bullet to the groin, another to the head. Let the rest lie low, hiding in dark corners and behind closed curtains. We have a few trusty guys IRL who see eye to eye with us on this so they'll help us do it. But as for the rest of us, it will take some thinking-"

Feeling like a child in class, I raised my hand.

"Speak up."

"Do we really need to defeat like with like? We won't be that different from those spoilt jerks ourselves then, will we? Me, how can I put it... While I was stuck there chained and tortured, I spent a bit of time thinking of ways to punish them without ourselves becoming torturers. So I have a few thoughts. Four punishment levels. In this case we should really use all four. The first one, we kill them in the arena and keep them for a week, thus stripping them of all their gear and stuff that's not in the bank. Second, deleveling them. We mop up some dungeon or other, then force them to move their bind point to the boss room. They'll have to agree once they see that eternal captivity is the only alternative. Then we wait for the mobs to respawn and watch a long string of xp-loss deaths all the way down to level 10 which, as I understand, is the limit."