by Andrew Novak
The Necklace turned up among the stones, lying where it had been tossed earlier. And Weaver was going to be back here soon. Not right away, but he'd be here, sure as death. He would gather a bigger squad and... well, that meant Jack had nothing more to do here. What a shame the quest was broken! Now he had to think, how was he going to read that book?
Jack went through the hole in the wall and stomped off towards Dargoth. If there was a road here, then it would surely lead to a large castle, even if it was just a demolished one.
Not far from the main complex of ruins, he came across a goblin. Jack decided to test now whether its kind revered him, so he didn't turn aside and went to meet the goblin. It turned out that the loss of the book of Bacchus hadn't lost him one bit of authority with the goblins. The little monster stood still, waiting for Jack, then bowed and squealed:
"Forgive us, Dark Servant! My brothers could not help you! We tried, we tried, tried so hard!"
The ring diligently translated its rambling into a running line of text.
"Calm down!" Jack stopped the goblin's wailing. "Your brothers did a great job. Are you ready to serve our dark cause?"
He tried as best he could to speak in a commanding tone. He even managed not to laugh.
"Anything I can, Dark Servant! Lead us!" for the goblin, this was all extremely serious.
"Oh, I will. Can you take this object to the very bottom of the caves of Dargoth?" Jack handed the goblin the Necklace of Veneration.
It was too bad, but what else could he do for such a nice guy, like Weaver Lund? If the goblin could pull this off, then the Gravediggers would get the quest they were hunting for.
"To the very bottom, Dark Servant! Of the blackest pit!" the goblin squeaked with enthusiasm, taking the Necklace with another bow.
"One more question. How do I find the road? Preferably to Maxitown, the kingdom's capital?"
The goblin pointed the way and hurried off, uttering hideous, screeching exclamations. Jack still hadn't stepped out onto the road when several squeaky voices sounded out in answer to his emissary. Excellent. Weaver Lund, you're about to get the quest of your life!
On the way, Jack found a temple, an exit point... That was enough adventure for today.
He left the game and logged into the Shell to check his mail. He had messages from two dealers that Jack had consulted earlier, before everything, before this whole mess started. Both wrote that they didn't have any cartridges, but they could look around... yes, it would be expensive... because in times like these... Pretty much what Jack had expected. Shifty Peter was the best, after all.
Jack pulled off the virt-headset and sat for a few minutes looking at the dingy walls of his trailer, dirty clothes piled in the corner, and a heap of junk on the table. There were bundles of cables, pieces of rusty iron, dead batteries, some circuit boards that he couldn't even remember which gadgets he'd pulled them from. In short, here was real life. It took time to come back to his senses and get used to how inferior reality was to Alterra.
An orange stream of light ran from the window across the table covered in junk. Er, the sun was already low! It was almost night time! And Shifty Peter was calling to chat. Heh, he wanted to give Jack a quest with rewards. Maybe, in fact, it would be better to step back from things for a little while, take his mind off the irritation of losing the Corrupted Book of... who was it? Bacchus? Yes, and let Weaver Lund collect his Necklace of Veneration and calm down. If he was able, that was. It looked like the goblins took serving the dark very seriously.
Jack got ready, threw his cloak over his shoulders, shoved the revolver into his pocket, and stepped out of the trailer. Ha! He hadn't left his shack for two days because of Alterra. There had been rain, but now the mud was already almost dried, and there were only a few puddles here and there. There was no mud in Alterra. At least, not in the cities. Only when the programmers inserted it into certain quests to create the desired mood. Just like dirt, cobwebs, and lichen on the walls... All in all, it was nice sometimes, for variety.
Jack splashed in the puddles as he went to the Middle Village, where Shifty Peter set up his hideout. Along the way, he tried to focus on the coming conversation, but couldn't shake thoughts of the unfinished quest from his head. The large necromancer seemed too dangerous an opponent to snatch the book from. Moreover, this adversary took refuge behind his undead within Nightmare, where black magic and the forbidden arts ruled.
Despite the fact that the goblins acknowledged him as the dark servant, he was sure that wouldn't go over well for him in Nightmare. No, that was a dead end. Maybe he could still try to negotiate? What if he could manage to somehow talk them into making a deal? Why did the necromancers need the Corrupted Book? Although Egghead did say things were stirring in Nightmare. What if they started to issue the old quests at Necta's temples? No, there would be no negotiations, especially since Jack had no idea how to access Nightmare. Their forums on the Shell were inaccessible to strangers, and even a wily guy like Egghead said that he didn't do business with them or know anyone there.
His last hope was Eloise. The bizarre girl, who somehow learned about Jack and wanted to meet with him. Yes, there was nothing better available. Nothing better than the pale, skinny, deadly doll of a necromancer.
Did this mean that he would have to wait until she found Jack as she promised? What else was there?
The streets on which Jack was walking had nothing in common with Alterra. One would think that the slum dwellers also wouldn't bear any resemblance to the fops walking the streets of Svetlograd and Maxitor. However, they were the very same people. They were this riff-raff, who were eyeing Jack with suspicion. These dangerous types and these women, cursing in their hoarse, obnoxious voices. These were the most noble knights and languorous ladies.
Although, of course, not everyone in Alterra led a beautiful life. Farmhand laborers, miners, and mercenaries gave their virtual lives time and again for their masters. They were also here and significantly outnumbered the knights and posh ladies. For many, a handful of gold received in virt for tedious work was their primary income. But it happened that some lucky person from the ghetto would prosper in Alterra, buy a home in the capital, and keep a golden carriage harnessed to flying mounts. But in the ghetto, that person would still look like riff-raff. And there were bandits, dope dealers, and pimps. They, too, sometimes converted their dishonestly acquired panbucks into game gold and bought luxurious lives in Alterra.
Jack didn't want to think about in which place exactly they were more genuine, here or there in virt. He looked the same himself, both in Alterra and in this sad world. It would be nice to have the black sword that cut steel like butter here. But if Shifty had managed to rustle up revolver cartridges as promised, then Jack would somehow come to terms with the lack of magical weapons.
Shifty Peter loved to brag that he lived at peace with everybody. The local gang leaders didn't give him a hard time although he didn't have many people. He just made sure he did business so that everybody needed him, happy to have such a kind and helpful person who was able to get anything no matter how rare. Goods came to him from all sides – the Walkers, like Jack, brought their finds in from the Blighted Wasteland, and thieves weren't averse to selling their loot to him. And even the occasional patron from behind the Barrier came to Shifty. He was known as Peter Mason in New Atrium, an omega-affiliate in several charitable foundations.
Peter's hideout was situated in the ruins of a Catholic school in the name of Saint Margaret. There wasn't anything remarkable about the remnants of the building, but before the Gendemic, a large park had been located nearby. Now everything had been cut down and cleared, so defender airships could land. The chief demand of any benefactor to his partners in the ghetto was a safe place to land. Peter's people maintained the open space in the former park by cutting down saplings and chasing off inquisitive individuals.
Usually, the defenders simply dumped the containers with relief consignments in flight, but some of the more
eccentric alpha-citizens wanted to know that their donations were actually helping the poor and unfortunate. They liked to see with their own eyes how their handouts were distributed to the omegas. Not really with their own eyes, of course, but through a video recording.
In order for them to entertain their sense of compassion, they created philanthropic foundations on that side of the Barrier, and on this side, they searched for foundation partners. Shifty was one of these partners, and Jack suspected that charity was one of the primary methods used in smuggling.
Judging by the pyramid of containers next to the building, Peter had recently received another shipment. The containers were perfectly clean and he immediately knew that they had just come from behind the Barrier. They were being guarded by Shifty's men, and the pair were just opening another container.
They knew Jack here. One of the guys promptly ran off to the owner. Peter – a bald, stocky, sturdy fellow of about fifty – even went out to meet Jack.
He was surprisingly charming, in spite of the black eyepatch hiding his eye. His smile was open and friendly. And Peter's voice was extremely pleasant, warm, and enveloping. It invited you to believe this person.
"Very good, old boy, very good," Shifty murmured affectionately, trying to hug his guest by the shoulders. It was a tough thing to do, as Peter was two heads shorter than Jack. "I need you, Jack. I've got a little job for you. We'll discuss it. Want to eat?"
Jack realized only then that he hadn't eaten anything all day. The game took hold of him so thoroughly, that he forgot to eat. Peter led him to his office in the basement, where a table had already been laid. In the center stood a bottle of moonshine.
"Do you know," said Peter, filling the glasses, "what used to be here, before the Gendemic? In this very building?"
"A school," Jack grumbled. "This is the hundredth time you've asked me that."
"A school," Peter echoed joyfully, "a source of knowledge! And now, a source of nourishment. Is that not progress?"
"That depends."
"Right now, we're going over and sorting the cargo from New Atrium. Tomorrow is distribution day. The entire Cluster will gather – all the crippled, miserable, lame, blind, ragged, and dirty. They will receive nourishment from behind the Barrier. And it will all be filmed in a video and transmitted to New Atruim, so that the nice, pious alpha-citizens will watch and be moved to tears by their own generosity. And at that time, you will be on your way."
"That took an unexpected turn," Jack said, opening a jar. "How quickly you changed the subject. All right, spit it out."
They drank and, while he dug into a can of preserves from the cargo, Peter told him about the job.
"Yesterday, an airship took off from New Atrium to the Wasteland."
"Mmm-hmm. I think I saw it. Just as I was leaving the game," Jack mumbled with his mouth full. "It was pouring rain, but the airship was flying into the Wasteland."
"That airship didn't come back!" Shifty announced solemnly. "Either it was hit by lightning or something else befell it. Whatever it was, it was forced to land. Communication with the crew has been lost. They're all dead, do you understand?"
"I understand only what you've told me. The airship, lightning, dead crew. What's my job in this?"
"Jack, drop the act!" Peter snapped with reproach. "You're a smart guy, I know! You already know what I'm talking about. I need you to lead my people to the fallen airship. I'll give you the coordinates. Just a day's journey there, a day back. Well, and a day or two while my technicians strip whatever they can carry from the airship. Navigation instruments, onboard electronics, other stuff... Well, do you understand? Anything that might come in handy."
"The crew's weapons," Jack picked up.
"Quiet!" Peter cut him off. "No banned weapons! Only what might be useful. Look, you won't have to do anything. Just take the guys to the location, then bring them back. And afterward, keep your mouth shut. I'll pay you two hundred panbucks. You can take anything from the haul that my people don't want. So? Terms don't come sweeter than that. Then, you'll owe me a favor. Egghead was able to help you out, right? But you need to go now. Well, I mean, at dawn. I know no one goes out into the Wasteland at night. However, you set off at dawn. Oh, and here are your cartridges, as promised. Two dozen! Tell me, where else would you have been able to find them? Only I can get them, simply because my people show up in the right place at the right time. Like right now, with this airship."
Peter knew how to maintain his image of the good-natured, accommodating partner. He pulled out the cartridges and reminded Jack about Egghead at the exact moment when it would be most felicitous.
"You know, Peter... I would be glad to help, but I'm pretty busy right now. And no, don't think I'm trying to talk up the price, there really is an urgent matter."
"I understand," Shifty looked shrewdly at Jack, straight in the eye, "if you need cartridges, then it must be important. But it can be put off for a couple of days, yeah? What is our world, well, what's left of it, built on? On good people helping one another. And two hundred panbucks is always two hundred panbucks. So?"
"It is good money," Jack admitted. "But..."
But the dark service! That Corrupted Book, the one he didn't know how to get back, and the mage Sartorius, who Egghead recommended and he still hadn't met yet, and all the other stuff. It was the first time in his life that Jack had stumbled on such a quest. The very first time! Experience informed him that fate wouldn't present him with such a gift twice.
"Jack, I really need your help," Peter insisted. "Not because you're the best, that's a given. I need a Walker I can trust. Right now, today. Tomorrow will be too late! You know I didn't offer it to anyone else, only you."
Jack thought: why not? All hell had broken loose rather quickly in Alterra. He needed to take a break, wait it out. The situation needed to develop calmly, and later, he would see where things had led and jump in at the right minute. And Peter was a useful individual. It wasn't worth it to refuse him. However, for form's sake, it was best to bargain a bit.
"And what if the crew isn't dead?" he asked.
There was a knock at the door and Peter didn't have time to answer. One of his men who had been sorting cargo, poked his head in and gave Peter a package bundled tightly in a heat-insulating, silver-colored wrapper.
"Here. Deliver it, as usual?"
"Yes, take it to that brat in Queens. Go right now, this is an urgent delivery. Take someone with you for protection and try not to ruin our relations with the local gang. If they have a go at you, brush it off and avoid conflict, got it?"
The man left.
"What was that?" Jack asked.
"Medicine, ampoules for injection. I'm not a doctor, I don't know exactly what it's for, but it's insanely expensive. It doesn't come in your average relief shipment. A very important person sends it. And, surprisingly, he sends it to a snot-nosed ragamuffin in Queens and demands that it be placed directly into her hands. I can't figure out how she snagged such a sponsor! And I, with my kind, old heart, can't refuse because medicine is a sacred thing. That's just what I'm talking about – people should help each other. Alright now, the crew is not responding to communication attempts, although, after the accident yesterday, it was reported that the transmitter was in order. They're dead, I'm telling you! I don't know what killed them, but there are always a variety of ways to die in the Wasteland. Yeah, you know."
"I know. But if the pilots are dead, then the animals have already descended. In the Wasteland, any carrion will attract dangerous critters."
"You have a revolver."
"That's right. Twenty rounds may not be enough. And if it is enough, so what? Am I supposed to use them all doing your job?"
Peter burst out laughing.
"I knew you'd agree! Stay the night here with me. At dawn they'll take you and the technicians into the Wasteland, as far as possible. From there, you'll lead the men on foot. Two hundred panbucks and another twenty rounds, when you bring my technicians back
. Agreed?"
He should have bargained for more, but Jack had his own ideas about fair play. Peter had done him a lot of favors. It wouldn't be right to ask for more. He just nodded:
"Alright. Who's going with me?"
"Vince and Carl. I'll call them in now, and you can discuss the details. What to take, how to gear up, and whatever you feel is necessary. You are the Walker here."
But it then it turned out that the meeting had to be postponed – the guy who left for Queens with the package had taken Carl with him. Nothing left but to wait until they came back. When they finally gathered together, Jack respected the courier's decision. Carl was a huge, muscular guy. With a guy like that, you could walk around the dangerous Cluster with no problems. Jack used to consider himself large, but Carl was much taller and more formidable. His role in this team would be the beast of burden. Carl would lug the salvage back, and the technician was Vince. Vince looked like Carl's polar opposite – short, smiling, and lively, very much like Peter. They were relatives, albeit distant. Jack understood this, too. Weapons, especially modern ones, were forbidden.
If the defenders believed that someone had taken possession of an emitter, they killed the troublemakers and anyone who happened to be in the area. After the Insurrection-22, they were indiscriminate and didn't stand on ceremony. They just killed everyone who seemed suspicious. Quickly, effectively, and very publicly, so as to squelch any desire to resist in those who saw it. So, it made sense that Peter was going to entrust his secret to a relative.
Jack quickly explained the basic principles: listen to him, obey him without question, touch nothing without his permission, and not to go further than two paces from his side.
"Of course," promised Vince, "The Blighted Wasteland doesn't play around, everyone knows this."
"It's actually worse than that," Jack replied. "It does play around, just its sense of humor is very specific. You won't like it."