I reacted instinctively, my reflexes pushing me sideways into the air, simultaneously activating the gravitech. My main specialization as a pilot had got me accustomed to doing aerobatics in zero gravity. The Kamresh hadn't expected it. He screeched to a halt, his claws striking sparks on the floor — nippers that were known to snap their victim in two, armor and all. He hissed with disappointment, watching me float through the air, trying to work out how come his prey had suddenly soared up to the hangar's ceiling?
I landed on a small ledge just above the massive machines lining the walls. The Kamresh couldn't climb up there. These creatures indigenous to the gas giant's second satellite had evolved in their planetoid's narrow underground tunnels which made their inbred attack and defense skills rather limited. And scaling walls wasn't part of them.
I took a moment to take stock of my opponent.
A Kamresh. Xenomorph. Level 24.
No implants. No sign of any gear. This one had never been captured by Dargians. Just a hungry mob, savage and blood-thirsty. Without another moment's hesitation, I peppered him with short bursts of my pulse gun. In the constant flashing of the impacts, the bullets kept sinking into his thick natural armor without dealing him much damage worth mentioning. I wasted a whole clip on him and he was only 12% Life down. I absolutely had to do some leveling. Not a single crit of the whole lot, that's insulting!
The Kamresh raged below, furious from the pain and refusing to be a nice obedient target. My supplies weren't unlimited, either. Add to that all the power the pulse gun was burning. I switched over to single shots, trying not to waste ammo.
While I was thus busy, the Founders' drones had disappeared into the haze beyond the force field. So much for Friendly Contact! It was a good job I'd scanned them.
The Kamresh lasted another five minutes. Once his hits dropped below 50%, he started ducking out of my view; a couple of times he disappeared completely, holing up in utility tunnels laid under the floor. Still, he would leap out again and again, unable to stay there for long, and attack me.
Finally I smoked him, receiving a pittance to my XP and an unpleasant aftertaste from the prolonged monotonous firefight.
I couldn't help remembering the Crystal Sphere and the gory routine of its farm locations where I'd first learned to use the sword. There, even low-level combos looked awesome, their adrenaline drive taking the boredom out of leveling.
Enough self-pity. I was a pilot, after all. Outer space was my element of choice. I just needed to level light weapons a little more.
The gravitech's cooldown had already expired. Time to climb down and check the Kamresh for any loot. Then off I'd go in search of my errant reactor.
* * *
The force field let me out into an unexpectedly warm and humid atmosphere. The danger level indicators shrank back into the green sectors. Still, I didn't decompress the suit, suspecting yet another catch.
The enormous hall rose several decks high, their floors demolished by the ancient disaster leaving behind only a ragged fringe along the walls which formed multi-level terraces fuming with a dark brown dust-like substance. From under its cover, I could hear noises similar to the sound of gravel pouring out of trucks.
The space behind the force field was crowded with broken machines. A narrow trail threaded itself between them.
Droplets of moisture covered my armor plates. I gave the area a thorough scan. The terraces were blocked off by power shields which could explain why the brown dust hadn't spread over the rest of the hall. Deep behind the nearest heaps of cargonite I noticed several robot guards. The abundance of interference prevented me from identifying them properly. Their markers were gray, anyway: neutral to me.
Congratulations! You've discovered the Oasis!
Strange name. I couldn't see any signs of life around. It looked more like a techno dump.
Something crunched underfoot. I peered down. Decayed bodies. Further on where the trail turned I found pieces of Kamresh armor, peppered with holes as big as my fist. Was that how they greeted unwanted visitors here?
It began to drizzle. To the right of the sloping wall a light came on, throwing deep shadows across the indentations.
My mind expander automatically changed filters, lifting the gloom off the rain. Nearby, two scruffy utility robots were wielding their plasma torches, dismembering the deformed hulk of a larger counterpart. Sparks showered over everything around; smoking chunks of red-hot steel pattered to the floor. Five more robots hovered nearby, waiting for their turn to sink their manipulators into the savaged torso. Straining their mechanical muscle until their servomotors screeched, they smoothed out the crumpled armor and began stripping it of everything salvageable.
Oasis, you say?
More like an ancient technology museum. I had no doubt this was where my reactors had ended up. My overactive imagination proffered scenes of a futuristic scrap yard. Cyber NPCs swarmed around. The target monitor flickered with gray markers. Robots of every description scurried about.
I wouldn't be surprised if all this was Avatroid's doing. One thing I couldn't understand though was why they were neutral to me.
In any case, I wasn't turning back. There had to be someone here I could speak to. Without the reactor block, I could forget leaving the station. Besides, I was quite curious about all this. No one was paying any attention to me apart from the occasional wave of radiation that kept my defense systems alert.
I followed the trail.
* * *
Finally I left the heaps of cargonite junk behind. The drizzling rain had stopped (I never found out what had caused it). Visibility improved considerably, revealing a large area cleared of all debris and marked out for development. The fine rays of micro lasers defined the outlines of the future buildings and roads.
Next to the far-off wall where the broken edges of the ceiling structures sloped like ramps to the floor stood an unfinished domed building. Immediately my sensors detected a multitude of signatures inside and two very interesting power imprints.
I headed over there. The building hadn't yet been covered with sheets of armor: at present, it was little more than a grill with several equipment stands mounted at various levels.
Serves scurried up and down the curved beams. They seemed to ignore me.
I walked into the weak glow of holographic screens. Control panels flickered their colored lights; powerful cables ran the length of the supporting structures.
My reactor block turned up on the second floor. Next to it, a short fat gravitech-assisted man levitated in the air, soldering some unknown devices onto the reactor's casing.
Ingmud. Level 127. A Hybrid.
A Hybrid? That's something novel! I already got the feeling that getting my property back wasn't going to be easy. But leaving without even trying to talk to him would have been stupid.
His nickname rang a bell. I also had the funny feeling I'd seen him before.
'Excuse me!” I said, removing my helmet. I tilted my head up and raised my voice. “May I ask you where you got this power unit from?”
“The serves have dragged it in from somewhere,” he said without as much as a glance in my direction.
“Did you have any idea that it was stolen?”
“Stolen?” he sounded surprised. “Don't make me laugh. The station is long abandoned. Nothing belongs to anyone here,” he resumed his work, believing the matter closed and my claims ungrounded.
“The reactors have been dismantled from my ship.”
“Right, let me just get down,” he grumbled. “We'll see. Just give me a moment to finish something.”
I lowered my tired body into a chair that creaked anxiously under the weight of my armored suit. The damp stale air left a nasty aftertaste in my throat. Clouds of brown dust still hovered over the ragged terraces, preventing me from seeing what was happening there.
“So!” Ingmud floated down, glanced at the control panels and sat in a chair opposite. “What's your problem?”
; I had to admit his appearance left much to be desired. He was flabby and bloated, unkempt like a junk dealer. A strange association flashed through my mind. Of course! This was the scrap cargonite trader who'd tried to rip me and Charon off on the first day of our arrival on Argus.
Incredible. How had he survived, then? When had he managed to settle down here, why had he changed his character class and more importantly, how on earth had he made level 127? Somehow I didn't think he'd done it by vending. During our fleeting first encounter he hadn't struck me as an ambitious player.
“I can see you remember me? I'm happy to see you too,” the hybrid chuckled, contradicting my thoughts. His weak triple chin quivered — but his gaze was surprisingly lucid and curious. “It's not often I see survivors here,” he explained. “Honestly, it's been a while.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “A long while?”
“Half a year, something like that,” Ingmud offered. “There were only five of us at first. Now there're thirty-two of us!” he announced proudly.
“All from Argus?” I was torn by quite understandable doubts. The attack of the Phantom Raiders had only taken place twenty-four hours ago. I knew of course that time was relative in a game — it was a tool in the developers' hands so even different locations could have their different time flows.
An explosion thundered on one of the terraces. A serve appeared on one of the sloping ramps and ran toward us, smoldering and limping.
The ex-vendor didn't look scared. “Some damage you've got,” he grabbed the robot by one of its lugs and activated an ability unknown to me, casting the Immobilization debuff. His gaze grew sharp and focused: he must have been studying the damage, then ran his right hand over the smoking gap in the serve's hull.
A lilac aura enveloped his fingers. Blood vessels showed clearly under the skin, glowing as if he had incandescent plasma running through his veins.
The sight was so familiar it gave me shivers. These were the kinds of visuals accompanying the activation of the Founders' neuronets.
Fine threads of energy emanated from Ingmud's fingers, reaching for the hole in the robot's bodywork. It sparked; its armored edges blurred, softening. The hybrid cast a glance around looking for something to patch it up with but found nothing. He mouthed something silently. Soon a small crab-like serve came running from the direction of the dump.
Ingmud's eyes pointed at the damage. The serve scuttled up to us and stopped. With a quiet whizzing sound it extended its manipulators and used them to secure the fragment of cargonite he'd just delivered, holding it in the required position.
The fine threads of energy entwining his fingers softened the cargonite with ease. It began to melt; then the thin purple streaks dissolved into a cloud of incandescent dust which rushed toward the hole, sealing it with a crimson film.
“Zander, hold him for me, will ya?” Ingmud suddenly asked.
I didn't mind, of course. My muscle enhancers worked fine, but the serve was rather large too. I had my doubts that I could do it. But I could try, I suppose.
“What are you doing?” Ingmud very nearly lost his concentration when he saw me stand up in my seat trying to get a good grip of his patient. “Hold him mentally!”
“I can't!”
The hybrid was lost for words. The serve removed the debuff, forced itself free and ran off. After a couple of dozen feet, it stopped and flooded us with scorching waves of scanning radiation. The fresh patch on its hull still glowed crimson, cooling down.
“Shame. I wanted to add a couple more modules to him,” Ingmud complained. “Never mind.”
“What made you think I could immobilize him?”
He shrugged. “You've got two ancient neuronet modules implanted, right?” he said dryly. His piercing stare made me want to shrink. “And you've got the Mnemotechnics skill. Wait a sec... you don't use them, do you?” the amazement in his voice was sincere.
Pointless denying it. The hybrid could see right through me. “I'm a pilot, not a Technologist. I got them accidentally, both the nets and the skill.”
Ingmud's face darkened. What could have caused such a change in him?
“So what do we do about the reactor?” I wanted to ask him about so many things, of course, but business had to come first. The rest could wait.
“Sorry, Zander,” the hybrid answered reluctantly. “I understand it wasn't very nice. But I had no idea! You won't believe the things serves bring here.”
“Tell him to take it back, then!”
“Impossible. You see, I've already tweaked it a bit. Your reactor unit won't fit your Condor any more. But I'm sure we can sort it out,” he slapped my shoulder and scrambled back to his feet, groaning. “I'll need some time to find you a replacement.”
Oh. Did that mean I was stuck here at the station?
I tried to pull myself together. It wasn't the best of situations but I was sure I wasn't going to stay here for long. As soon as the Haash finished repairing their ships — forty-eight hours max — they were going to start searching for me. In the meantime, there was no point in ruining my relationship with the hybrid. Around me lay heaps and heaps of Founders' devices, unscanned and unstudied. A treasure trove for a novice Technologist. They would keep me busy, that's for sure.
“As far as I remember, you used to trade in cargonite? Where did you get all these abilities from?” I nodded at the serve still hovering around while I was rummaging through my video archives. After the Phantom Raiders' attack on Argus, Charon and I had done a quick check of the depressurized market deck in search of supplies. We'd popped into his shop too — that had been Charon's idea who said that he'd seen a set of gear in Ingmud’s shop suitable for his size.
There! Found it!
The view of a dark hangar consumed by cosmic cold appeared in my mind's eye. Cargonite piled everywhere. The only little spot free from scrap was taken by the vendor's chair. Ingmud slumped in it, his face distorted with a spasm, his tag missing — he was long and decidedly dead. Most likely, his own physical body back in real life hadn't survived the decompression shock. The neuronets they'd implanted us with knew no difference between real and virtual pain.
In which case who was it in front of me?
I remembered Ingmud as a greedy and cunning player. Somehow I had my doubts that he'd had a complete makeover within the last twenty-four hours, changing class and growing 82 levels. The only explanation I could think of was that he'd been made into an NPC. The update must have used his vendor avatar as a base for the new Ingmud. This version answered most of the questions and removed most of the doubts. I was pretty sure if I began asking questions, I'd hear a convincing well-plotted story, the product of the scriptwriters' imagination.
“Did you say cargonite?” Ingmud flipped a few switches on the control panels and nodded. “Yes, that's what I used to do. Ripped off a few, I'm the first to admit it. Greed is addictive, you know. It sucks you in like quicksand. The way I looked at it, you couldn't have too much money. I thought I'd always find what to spend it on.”
I listened to him closely, making up a mental list of questions to ask him. This location had proved not just interesting but also very useful. An independent human settlement on board a Founders' station was an exceptional precedent. Just think of all the new updated plot lines that must have been tied to its inhabitants.
Yes, it was probably worth my while not to lose contact with Ingmud.
“You've changed a lot,” I said matter-of-factly, encouraging him to continue our conversation.
“Have I?” he turned to me, raising a surprised eyebrow. “You and I, we've only met once and even then only fleetingly. Had it not been for your Haash friend and a couple of decent devices among your Dargian gear that you wanted to scrap, I'd have never remembered your face even.”
This set my alarm bells ringing. How could an NPC, no matter how well-plotted his backstory, know such minute details of his human prototype's past?
“But you're dead right,” he went o
n. “You've read my tag, that's what made you say that. Once a vendor, now a hybrid. But I tell you, Zander, it didn't happen overnight!” he lowered his body into the chair.
Ah, that did touch a chord! Would he issue me a quest, maybe?
“Think for yourself, I used to handle tons of cargonite on a daily basis,” the hybrid stooped as if the memory still hurt him. “Mainly useless scrap, fragments of station hull and such, but sometimes I came across various pieces of the Founders' devices. I just didn't have the heart to scoop them all into the furnace. So I started tinkering with the scrap for a bit, removing a part here, an unknown device there. With time I got seriously into it. I became good at dismantling them, I even got myself a special technological scanner. I set up a small workshop in my hangar. I knew, of course, that taking artifacts apart was an unhealthy idea, but temptation got the better of me. I'd find a neurochip among all the junk and I'd be happy as a pig. Why wouldn't I be? It costs an arm and a leg, normally. So I kept all these little gimmicks stashed in a nice little container waiting for their chance to fetch me a nice bit of cash.”
“And?”
“They all melted, didn't they?” Ingmud shrugged. “One day I open the box and all my chips have turned to mercury. Or some such. A liquid metal, cold to touch. I didn't notice it at once though. I reached into the box — I had this habit of scooping them out, as if to feel my wealth, if you know what I mean. That's how it happened. I felt something wet and sticky run between my fingers. I looked at my hand and I nearly had a heart attack! By the time I found a cloth in my workshop to wipe the stuff off my hand, it had all soaked in, all of it, without a trace! Then suddenly I couldn't think straight, and the pain, you can't imagine — like someone was ripping my brain to shreds! I thought that was the end of me. No idea how much time I spent on the floor unconscious. When I finally came round, I was already like this,” he unbuttoned his well-worn jacket and bared his chest for me to see.
The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) Page 5