“I know I am. Just do it. No, wait. One more thing. My friends will be looking for me.”
“You mean the Haash?”
“He too. His name is Charon. I know he'll come and he won't be alone. Tell him I'm gone to complete your quest and that I'll be back in a few days.”
“Will do,” Ingmud nodded. “But I'm not going to tell him anything about Darg.”
“Deal. Now you can do it.”
“Sit down,” he removed his jacket, exposing his mangled torso. “And close your eyes,” he added with a sinister glint.
“I'm not easily scared.”
“As you wish.”
I sat in the chair and clenched my teeth. The next moment, pain flooded over me. I tried to resist it and remain lucid — in vain.
The last thing I remembered was a message on Ingmud's holographic monitor,
Hyperspace transporter activated. The object will be teleported when ready. The target within the station's transmitters' range. Warning! The receiving equipment is not compatible with the transmitter. Would you like to proceed anyway?
My tortured awareness crumbled under the pressure. Darkness swallowed me, merciful.
* * *
I was breathing.
The air was clear but so cold it brought me out of my stupor. My gear was gone. All I was wearing was a light onboard suit.
My head swam; my vision blurred. I was weak and completely disoriented. I forced my head up and bumped my forehead on a translucent barrier.
Where was I? What had happened to Ingmud?
I heard the sharp hissing of hydraulics. My eyes closed weakly. Messages flashed against the backdrop of my shut eyelids,
You have lost one of your neuronet implants.
You have a new cyber module installed. Type: Connector.
You have one unread message. Would you like to open it?
I forced my eyes to click Yes.
Hi Zander,
You've been out for quite a while which is why I decided to act at my own discretion. While removing the implant, I came across some very interesting information. I'll keep it as my security in the meantime. If ever you decide to abandon the quest, I'll forward the frigate's coordinates to the Outlaws.
You will receive help as promised. May nothing surprise you. More importantly, don't resist anything. Once you're on Darg, you'll have to play it by ear.
Ingmud
He was something else, really! In some cases being a vendor was a diagnosis rather than a trade!
I forced my eyes open, trying to work out where I was after all.
I could make out the outline of a translucent lid sporting the logo of the Colonial Fleet and the following inscription,
Reserve cryogenic chamber 34672
The hydraulics hissed again. The sealer made a smacking sound. The chamber filled with vibration and the humming of engines.
Attention all personnel, a voice said. A cryogenic platform approaching Dock Five.
A soft jolt.
Attention all new arrivals. Heavy equipment is working in the personnel collectors of the Eurasia station airlock area. Please be careful.
Chapter Three
Eurasia Station
“What's that now?” a muted voice asked. “This capsule is marked as Reserve. What's this player doing in there?”
“Do you care? They said, everyone get in line. So that's what we'll do!”
“His tag is funny. A level 20 Pilot? Did he complete training twice?”
“What difference does it make to you? We've got too much on as it is. How are his vitals?”
“Look okay. He'll come round any minute.”
“Let's move it, then. The captain's already here! He'll be on our cases in a moment.”
The voices died in the distance. I opened my eyes again. It was cold. My teeth were chattering. The translucent lid over my head was gone. I lay exposed.
Is this one of Eurasia's cryogenic platforms? the thought throbbed in my temples. They will seize me! I tried to suppress panic.
“D'you need a special invitation, you?”
An NPC stopped by my capsule. Gaunt cheeks covered in ginger stubble, a “helmet special” crew cut, an unknown uniform. His stare was cold but not unfriendly. “Get the hell outta there! Grab your gear and fall in!”
The alternative plot line had changed my affiliation to “Alt Outlaw” but it looked like Ingmud had somehow managed to delete it from my settings.
Hadn't he said to me, May nothing surprise you?
I grabbed at the capsule's sides and forced myself out. Here, I couldn't surprise anyone with my emaciated body (from the time when my metabolic implant had been in overdrive, burning my own body's resources in its fight against the toxic environment).
Attention all personnel. A cryogenic platform approaching Dock Seven.
A jolt, followed by more vibrations.
So! This hybrid was a genius! Was this the surprise he'd spoken about? If it went like this, they would deliver me to Darg protected by the full force of the Colonial Fleet! And I had been wondering how to jump their orbital defenses!
Two corporate types and an android walked along the wide passage between the two rows of sarcophagus-like capsules. I turned my back to them and grabbed the first piece of gear I could see, clueless about how to put it on.
They stopped next to me. One of them slapped my shoulder condescendingly, “You need to put the uniform on first! You are a newb, aren't you?”
“He can't think straight, Sir. They're all like that after suspended animation.”
I mumbled an unintelligible reply.
The room was packed with people. All gaunt and too confused to follow orders. I cast a few inconspicuous glances at their name tags. Players, levels 7 to 10. Mainly Soldiers, a few Pilots and Mechanics. I couldn't see any other specializations.
I hurried to pull on the uniform and began to kit up. It would be safer to blend in with the crowd. But Ingmud! I'd heard, of course, of the Founders' transmitters capable of sending cargos and passengers from one station to the next. But to beam me up right into a cryogenic chamber on board a platform which wasn't part of the Founders' technosphere... that had been risky indeed — not for him but for me.
A smile touched my lips. Enough racking my brains trying to second-guess Ingmud's actions. This was all part of the plot. Finally the traditional gameplay was back: by accepting the quest, I'd been immediately transported on board the Eurasia.
First things first. I opened my inventory and connected Ingmud's module to a spare mind expander slot.
I just hoped he hadn't botched it.
Now I had to sort out the one remaining neuronet implant. I only had six hours left to complete the Reincarnation task by deciding whether to grant it access to my mind expander. Still, this wasn't the right time. I'd probably have to do it while flying to Darg.
Things were looking up. I had a lot to celebrate. I'd survived and escaped the Outlaws' trap without losing my mind despite the lethal authenticity levels. I'd received new abilities, opened a unique quest chain and a most interesting development branch.
Now, once I completed the hybrid's quest, I could go back to my ship. The Haash would help me repair it. It would make us the first independent clan in the whole of Phantom Server — allowing us to travel wherever we wanted in search of adventures and new knowledge. Of which, I was sure, this world had plenty.
Admittedly the thought of Liori kept bothering me. I'd done everything I could to preserve the remaining fraction of her mind but the neuronet module containing it was still inactive. And God only knows how it would all go in the future.
* * *
Soon we were shepherded through the docking lock as a disorderly bunch of recruits.
I looked around me, studying the station with curiosity. It was nothing like Argus. Everything was so brand-new and in good working order. Each and every surface had a finish of some foamy substance that softened the framework's angles. Safety was key: this way no one would hurt themsel
ves in zero gravity had the gravity generators packed up.
The corridor took us into a large hall with a coarse-meshed ceiling. The hangars were located on the deck above. A few of the ceiling's segments had been slid aside, revealing some working power hoists slowly lowering assault modules onto the deck. They looked impressive. You just felt you could trust those things.
I discreetly switched my Synaps' scanners on. I could now make out the outlines of electromagnetic coilguns retracted into the airframe as well as the links of ship defense lasers and two plasma generators on the bow.
Oh wow. Had we had one of those beauties, not a single Phantom Raider would have gotten anywhere near Argus!
I followed the other newbs up the escalator. Our assault module had just been lowered onto the docking pod and clanged into place. The railed-off assembly areas were packed with players, the sound of thousands of voices merging into a hum.
Another ship floated out of the cargo shaft. It was bigger than the assault modules and considerably worse for wear. The sheen of its hull had faded in places; its outer structures bore the signs of fire damage.
A multi-purpose corvette. Property of the Manticore clan.
The ship docked near the mooring platform where I and other newbs stood awaiting the next developments.
The ship's airlock opened. The outline of gravity airstairs shimmered softly in the air. Five players walked down the steps, levels 30 to 42. They hadn't wasted their time leveling, had they? They definitely looked straight from battle with their tinted visors still sealed, their armor surging with occasional charges of energy. Their suits' cargonite was dented and fire-polished; some of the damage looked critical. They'd had it rough. By the looks of it, they'd only survived thanks to their personal force shields which was why their suits were still in combat mode.
Unlike the newbs around me, I could scan their communication frequencies and decode the messages.
'Forget Argus,' Manticore fighters were messaging to each other, ignoring us. 'It's just not worth it.'
'I beg to differ! Its respawn points are worth the trouble. I'm not going to run to the Corporation every time I need to resurrect! That's bullshit. Why on earth did they have to tie everything to the Founders' technology? You think it's got something to do with the difficulty levels?'
'Dunno. Our players did manage to build a respawn platform, didn't they?'
'So what? People keep dying anyway. It's just not up to the job. It can't be, considering they have a respawn waiting list already!'
'I agree,' another voice joined in the chat. 'All this mass awakening and landing is a crazy idea. Trying to suppress the enemy with numbers and gun power without as much as a quick recon! That's a bit too simple, isn't it? Our admiral is unfortunately too limited in both brain and the imagination department — but what do you want from an NPC? Couldn't they have posted a human player to command the fleet?'
'So you don't want to participate in the landing? What other options do you suggest?'
'We need to think of some!'
'I agree. We need to split and go our own way. There're nine abandoned stations in the area. I just don't understand why they're all so fascinated by Argus?'
'Because it's the only one with a functioning reactor, sort of. It has a man-made infrastructure. All you can find at other stations are mobs, toxins and vacuum. Good to do a bit of leveling but definitely not good enough to settle down!'
“Okay. Let's talk about it later. The Admiral is waiting for us. Let's see first what he has to offer.'
There was logic in their reasoning. I just couldn't work out why they considered the Darg landing to be doomed from the start. From what I knew, the planet's orbit was defended by the slave traders' fleet: little more than a motley group of small craft unlikely to put up much resistance to Eurasia's frigates and cruisers.
The Manticore members disappeared from sight. An officer in the uniform of the Corporate airspace forces appeared from the assault module.
Immediately he was showered with questions,
“Lieutenant, wait! What's going on here? Why aren't we allowed onto the station? Are we free players or what?”
“I suggest you check your contracts,” he dropped without slowing down. “Fleet command will explain the rest.”
* * *
Most players seriously didn’t like it. The hall filled with indignant clamor,
“Are they raving mad with their authenticity levels? They've just pulled a dead body out of a cryogenic capsule, I saw it myself! They dragged it directly into the incinerator!
“The contract, what does it say actually? I haven't read it. Show me where it says it. Which page? Someone please?”
“It's in the beginning.”
“Every beta tester commits to a hundred-hour obligatory period performing tasks issued by the project developers,” someone quoted mockingly.
“Why is everybody so skinny? I have a custom-made avatar, what am I supposed to do with it now?”
“Don't worry, you'll beef up no problem. It's because of the cryogenics. According to the script, that's how you're supposed to look when you leave them. That's what ten years of suspended animation does to your body-”
“Which ten years? I logged in an hour ago!”
Then the air quivered over their heads, forming the 3D image of a gray-haired corporate type with Admiral's insignia on his airspace forces uniform.
Jonathan Higgs, my interface offered helpfully. The Eurasia commander, no less. His lower-rank retinue hovered behind his back, their faces and outlines blurred.
I peered at the Admiral's face. The hologram's size and resolution were impressive. We all looked like insignificant bugs at his feet.
This was the intro I'd been so naively expecting when I'd first stepped on the Phantom Server cyber soil.
The figures behind the Admiral's back faded, replaced by an urbanscape of Terran cities. Stretching entire continents, enveloped in emissions, they sank in the acid mist that had long killed all wildlife.
The image began to blur, replaced by the picture of gigantic space stations and orbital docks busy building new spaceships.
The betas couldn't take their eyes off it. My lips curved in a bitter grin.
The true history of Phantom Server had been written in blood, literally. The neuronet implant technology had thrown us into the depths of hyper-realistic authenticity that was way beyond an average player's endurance.
The naïve crowd went quiet, taking in the beautiful intro, probably anticipating their imminent arrival in a world of mystery and adventure.
The show unfolded. I watched the Eurasia Fleet leave the Solar System. The movie had compressed the ten years of flight to a few colorful seconds until finally it arrived: an invincible space station surrounded by dozens of cryogenic platforms, cargo ships and combat craft.
The mauled outline of Argus emerged from space, followed by the rapidly growing globe of the planet. The Admiral's charismatic face loomed in front of them,
“We have traversed space in order to find a new home planet!” his voice rang with drama. “Now we need to take it by force. This isn't a raid — this is a military campaign. All of you,” he looked over the crowd of players, “will come under the command of the officers of the Corporate Fleet. Any disobedience of their orders will result in a drop in your reputation, or in the most severe cases, a drop in the offender player's levels. Those who excel, however, are guaranteed quick leveling and a share of the loot. Show no mercy to the Dargians!” the Admiral's voice filled with righteous fury. “They destroyed Argus!”
Sorry, but he was a bit loose with the facts there. The station had been attacked by Phantom Raiders. The Dargians, the Wearong and the Kamresh had arrived much later, together with the Outlaws who'd only finalized the massacre started by the mysterious alien ships.
It didn't matter anymore. The game developers had already rewritten Phantom Server's earlier history and uploaded its new version to Wiki. In the eyes of new players, t
his was the ultimate truth.
An interface icon blinked, disrupting my thoughts. A new quest message:
You must take part in the obligatory adaptive story The Fall of Darg.
Step 1: Once Admiral Higgs finishes his speech, you must board the assault module and follow the instructions issued by Corporate Fleet officers.
Enjoy!
It was deceptively simple. I was pretty sure the hybrid had known what he'd been doing by porting me to the cryogenic chamber. He must have known the Eurasians' landing plans. The ship I was about to board would take me to the area I needed, unloading the assault party in the neighborhood of the exobiologists' crash site. It had to, otherwise Ingmud's idea made no sense.
The Admiral finished his speech. I joined the other players and headed for the ship's airlock.
* * *
I sat in the antigravity seat, hugged by the compensating field.
The personnel module was cool and brightly lit. Two rows of inclined ejection capsules resembled loaded gun clips. If the ship was shot down, we'd be automatically ejected into the unknown.
Still, the atmosphere was cheerful. None of the newbs showed any concern. Some told jokes and traded stories over the local network while others discussed the new world's potential.
I was listening, adding occasional quips and posting smilies, trying to fit in with the crowd. Still, my mind was far from their small talk. My chest felt like a taut spring. The closer to Darg, the tighter it clenched me.
Was it a premonition?
The tips of my fingers began to prickle.
Was my virtual twin getting restless? The twenty-four-hour deadline was nearly over and I still hadn't made up my mind what to do with it yet.
It was high time we got to know each other. My knowledge of the Founders' neuronets was rather limited. I had no idea what decision to make. What would become of the nanites already incorporated into my nervous system if I denied them access to my mind expander?
The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) Page 7