Idea (Starting Point Book #1): LitRPG Series Read online

  Starting Point

  by Vasily Mahanenko

  Book 1: Idea

  Published by Magic Dome Books

  Starting Point

  Book 1: Idea

  Copyright © V. Mahanenko 2021

  Cover Art © Ksenia Nikelson 2021

  Cover Design © V. Manyukhin 2021

  English translation copyright © Jared Firth 2021

  Published by Magic Dome Books, 2021

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-80-7619-398-7

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental..

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  Table of Contents:

  Starting Point

  Book 1: Idea

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  ARTYOM STARED DOWN at his phone, putting the call off as long as he could. All too well, he knew tapping that green button was going to mark the point of no return. And while his common sense told him he was making the right move, something inside still held back, refusing to let him make the damn call. His head filled with everything else he needed to do. But that just surprised him with his own weakness — where was it coming from? That wasn’t how people began a new life. After berating himself for his cowardice, he pressed the button to make the call, and a scratchy, older voice came through the line after a few dozen rings.

  “Are you kidding me? It’s four in the morning! If you’re not calling to give me a Nobel Prize, you’re going to regret this.”

  Artyom cursed once more, only that time to himself. He hadn’t thought about the time difference. Still, it was too late to turn back.

  “Hi there, Doctor Slate! This is Artyom Kuchayev, Moscow State University[1] in Russia. We chatted a few months ago at the Stanford conference where I was presenting my system for dynamic levitation. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Doctor Kuchayev!” The voice on the other end of the line suddenly changed. The annoyance gone; excitement took its place. “I can always find time for someone who turned solid state physics on its head! What’s going on? Need tips on your Nobel acceptance speech? In that case, you’ve got the right guy — I have a few ideas in the chamber. But really, Artyom, I’m very glad you called. Are you aware that you beat the great Lawrence Bragg by two months? He was twenty-five, the same as you.”

  “Not this time. I need a job, actually. You said Caltech had something for me.”

  “A job? That’s unexpected.... Really, very unexpected. I’ll be honest, I’m taken aback. If I understand correctly, we’ve been trying to lure you over for the last six months, only you weren’t having any of it. You wouldn’t even listen to us. But now, you’re calling at this hour to ask about joining. I’m confused. Did something happen?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” Artyom said in a tone that made it clear how little he wanted to take the conversation in that direction. “I asked a very specific question. Is your offer still on the table?”

  “Wait a second, Artyom. The university isn’t going back on what we said, but I need to understand what’s going on. If there’s a legal problem... You know how important our reputation is even despite the Nobel Prize.”

  “No legal problems!” Artyom realized the inquisitive American wasn’t going to relax until he got what he was looking for. “The problem is the prize itself... I mean, how I’m not going to get it. I was removed from the list of authors — the finished copy went out today, and my name is nowhere to be seen. There are plenty of deadbeats, though.”

  “That’s ridiculous! The entire scientific community knows it’s your invention. My professors are already preparing for the debates to prove that... No, that’s absurd... What are they hoping for? They’ll get torn apart in the first cross examination!” said Christian Slate, PhD, professor, and dean of the physics, mathematics, and astronomy department at the California Institute of Technology.

  “Yes, it’s my invention, and I’m not giving up on it. I already submitted a police report, I wrote a letter to the ministry and the Nobel Committee, and I have a TV interview tomorrow. But while I’m going to fight for my baby, I have no desire to stay here with those people.”

  Artyom eyed the abrasion on his fist. The shot to the jaw had been a beauty — the puny dean had flown back a full meter, slammed into the wall, and crumpled to the ground in a pile of tears and spittle. And Artyom didn’t regret a thing. After what he’d been told, neither the possible consequences nor the hit itself made a difference. He would no longer have been able to respect himself if he’d tucked his tail between his legs and headed back to his office.

  They don’t give Nobel Prizes to idiots like you.

  Biting the hand that feeds you?

  Shut up and get back to work...

  He’d had enough.

  “I quit today, so I’m free to make my own decisions. If it doesn’t work out with Caltech, I’ll head to Harvard. They sent me an invitation, too.”

  “Easy, Dr. Kuchayev!” Christian said hurriedly. “We’ll make this work. Like I told you, you’ll have your own department, I’ll give you an entire wing in the main building, and the provost said you’ll have unlimited resources. I’m writing a letter to immigration right now to get you a work visa. Since I already have your information, you can stop by the embassy tomorrow to pick it up. Buy your tickets — you’re coming to Caltech! Forget Harvard. They can’t offer you what we’re offering you!”

  After some small talk, Artyom hung up and sighed heavily. Making the decision to leave the country hadn’t been easy. With a soldier as a father, he’d been taught to love his homeland, a nebulous concept he couldn’t describe or explain that was where you felt like you belonged. And that was why Artyom had turned down the world’s best universities to stay at his alma mater. That was where he’d predicted the atypical interactions within the crystalline lattices of solid bodies, where he’d found them, where he’d outlined them, where he’d been able to use them, and, for the grand finale, where he’d been able to prove the possibility of non-magnetic levitation using minimal energy. The ten-ton stone boulder had hung in the air powered only by one AA battery. And while many called it magic, it was nothing more than simple science for Artyom. A beautiful, elegant invention. But after the trick
his university had pulled... No, sometimes you don’t have a choice. His homeland would understand.

  The visit to the American embassy was surprisingly easy. Dr. Slate’s connections turned out to be wide-reaching, to the point that the ambassador himself came out to see Artyom. Most of the thirty minutes it took to print out the visa, in fact, was spent drinking tea in a comfortable chair. It was a pleasure to be wanted and to have that demonstrated so thoroughly. As far as packing went, that didn’t take long, either — the scientist was used to a Spartan lifestyle and just needed one suitcase. He didn’t even take his laptop with him, afraid that might spook especially virulent patriots into thinking he was handing over government secrets. Artyom kept all his levitation work in the most secure place he could think of: his own head. Real scientists didn’t need all those devices.

  The taxi to the airport showed up exactly when it was supposed to. After checking to make sure his utilities were all turned off, Artyom closed his apartment door and knocked on the next one over. It opened immediately. A bulky, broad-chested man wearing worn pants and a gray undershirt barely covering his beer belly appeared. To even their own surprise, the simple worker had built a friendship with the intellectual living next door, though they did have more in common than might have been thought at first glance. Both were bachelors with neither children nor pets. All they needed from each other was a heart-to-heart every week where they downed a glass or two of beer and talked about problems, politics, and women. Nothing else mattered.

  “Are you sure?” his neighbor asked as he glanced down at the key being held out to him like some poisonous snake. He’d spent the previous evening unsuccessfully trying to dissuade his friend from taking the reckless step. “You don’t want to try another university, just one that’s here? That way, you wouldn’t have to leave.”

  “No way, Pyotr. None of ours would go against Moscow State — they care about their own skin more than that. But you said your piece yesterday, and I haven’t changed my mind, so let’s skip this. Here you go.”

  Artyom didn’t have any relatives left. His father had died two years before; his mother had died a few years before that. With no siblings, his neighbor was the only person who could keep an eye on his apartment until he could sell it. The situation was perfect for beginning a new life in a new country.

  “The airport?” the driver asked, dropping the suitcase into the trunk after getting the nod of affirmation. Artyom settled into the back seat and grinned. The trip was getting off to a great start — the taxi company had sent a beautiful business-class car for him instead of the usual budget model. It was as though they knew he was starting his life anew.

  Things took a turn for the strange ten minutes later. Lost in his thoughts, Artyom didn’t immediately notice that the taxi wasn’t taking the usual road. He waited a while for the driver to correct his mistake, only they kept going in the same direction. They were headed away from the airport.

  “Is something wrong?” Artyom finally asked. “I have a plane to catch, so I can’t be late.”

  “Traffic. The GPS says this way is faster,” the driver said before pressing a button. The back doors locked, and a transparent glass barrier slid into place between the driver and his passenger.

  “What traffic? Stop the car!” the physicist said worriedly, only that time he didn’t get a response. Frustrated, he took a swing at the barrier and frowned — his fist hadn’t gotten as far as its target. Just a few centimeters away from the glass, a force field shimmered as it absorbed the blow. Artyom couldn’t believe his eyes and tried again. The field was still there. It bounced back, as if it didn’t want to cause damage, though it did its job perfectly. The scientist was stunned. He knew all too well how much energy it took to create a protective shield that thick, and the fact that the strange taxi was still driving meant the source had to be inside it. But that was impossible. If anyone knew that, it was Artyom, as he’d practically gotten a Nobel Prize in Physics. What was going on? Was the dean getting back at him for the shot to the jaw he’d taken? But if so, where had he come up with the resources? And how had nobody written about the invention in scientific journals?

  The taxi ignored traffic lights as it rushed out of the city. A few times, it looked like an accident was inevitable, though the driver was able to duck past the cars driving out into intersections. Artyom hoped the reckless driving wouldn’t go unnoticed, and his prayers were answered — two police cars pulled out around the taxi just as they were leaving the city. One was in front; the other took up a position behind them. Both had sirens screaming and lights on. Having only ever seen police chases in the movies, he braced for the police cars to begin pushing the taxi around, but nothing happened. In fact, his kidnapper only picked up speed as the police car in front cleared the road. And that was certainly odd. Suddenly, it occurred to him that whatever was going on had nothing to do with Moscow State. Even the provost himself didn’t have it in him.

  But then, what was happening? Who needed to kidnap an ordinary scientist?

  The race went on for more than an hour. Artyom was stunned by the scale of the operation, police cars stationed at every intersection to create a clear corridor for the taxi. At some point, the glass began to lose its transparency, leaving Kuchayev riding along in complete isolation. The energy field kept sound out as well as light. Only the sensations of the road told the scientist that the taxi was still hurtling forward, periodically wobbling from side to side. Or was it time to stop calling it a taxi?

  The doors opened suddenly. Artyom hadn’t even noticed the car coming to a stop. But one way or another, the first thing he did notice was a red brick wall that boded nothing good. He recoiled instinctively from the open door.

  “Get out!” called an unpleasant male voice. Artyom wasn’t about to follow his instructions, only the strange energy field stepped in to begin pushing him out of the car. Before he knew what was going on, he was tumbling across the grass. Somebody grabbed him and yanked him to his feet, shaking him like a kitten. He saw stars — that kind of treatment was nothing like what he was used to.

  “Handcuffs,” said the same voice, and a weight found its way onto Artyom’s wrists. That was the last thing he needed. The world stopped spinning, he was able to look around, and that was enough for him to freeze in mute shock. The place the strange taxi had brought him to looked like it had been pulled straight out of a fairy tale. And it was a standard fairy tale, too, the kind that happened in a palace. Because that was where they were. It had columns, towers, sculptures, and bas reliefs, all of it blending beautifully despite the pretentiousness. But the palace wasn’t all that looked like a fairy tale. There were also shrubs, flowers, well-groomed trees, paved white paths, and trimmed lawns, all of it showing the work of a dozen landscape designers and hundreds of gardeners.

  “Artyom Kuchayev?” asked the owner of the unpleasant voice, forcing the physicist to turn his focus on the people standing by the car. First of all, there was the butler. Artyom had never seen one before, though he had no doubt that was how they looked: sleek, trained, and dripping with a sense of their own splendor. The haughty look the elderly man trained on the physicist spoke volumes — it was like the latter wasn’t even there. Next to that snob, there was the driver. It was only then that Artyom realized he looked a bit muscular for a taxi driver, the man a veritable wardrobe that had somehow squeezed himself into a suit. Enormous sausage fingers had a tough time clutching a strange device that looked something like a joystick for a remote-controlled car.

  “Sergey,” the butler said, and the “wardrobe” pressed a button. Artyom’s body seized up, the handcuffs he hadn’t yet taken a look at sending a horrific pain shooting through his body. As his mind switched off first, he crashed to the ground in a fit of convulsions. It was as if he were being tased, in fact, only the needles were coming from inside his body. His heart stopped, his lungs seized, his sensory organs switched off, and he was left with nothing but pain. And while it seemed like it lasted a
n eternity, it stopped as soon as it had begun. The end was even so sudden that the pain left nothing but a memory. The driver took a step forward and hoisted his prisoner to his feet.

  “That was your first warning.” Every word spilling from the butler’s mouth dripped with poison. “Next time, your punishment will last another minute. Let me repeat myself: are you Artyom Kuchayev?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” the physicist replied as he listened to what his body was telling him. Only there was nothing there. It was like he hadn’t just been rolling on the ground in agonizing pain. His heart beat regularly; his breathing was even. Glancing down at his handcuffs, he instantly forgot everything else. The scientist’s inquisitive brain couldn’t believe the image his eyes were registering — the handcuffs were made out of lightning. It was twisted into perfect circles that ringed his wrists, the two circles joined with a barely detectable smoke. Jerking his arms, all Artyom found was that the smoke might as well have been steel. The cuffs, coupled with the energy field in the taxi, were so otherworldly that he was scared. What if his kidnappers weren’t human? Were they aliens? Were they there for his technology?

  “Follow me,” the butler said before setting off toward the mansion. There was no way Artyom wanted to give the terrifying handcuffs another test run. He obeyed. The driver followed, though he maintained his distance, presumably to make sure his prisoner couldn’t whirl around and grab for the remote control for the cuffs. Although, that hadn’t even occurred to Artyom. He’d never been one of those heroes who could kill with as little as a glance. His build wasn’t suited for it, either — he was lean, tall, and thin-boned. Just one look at him was enough to tell that exercise came somewhere far on the other side of a mountain of textbooks on molecular physics.