Navigation control: completed
Engine control: control module malfunction
Weapons control: fire control system malfunction
The situation was clear. Both pilots were “awaiting respawn”. Wind gushed in through the ragged holes in the hull. The slopes of the frontal armor were riddled with shell holes.
I seized control, planning to bring the ship out from under fire, find a suitable spot and land.
As if! Darg air defenses struck from the cliff range, their missile tracers and laser beams brushing our hull, all but touching the power shields. Why no direct hits? Were they shepherding us, forcing us to move in a particular direction? Any maneuver attempt could become our last. Our shields were at 10%, unable to sustain such intense fire.
I don’t think so! I'd been trained by Argus' best pilots. I'd faced the Phantom Raiders flying a Haash fighter, a heavy and unpredictable machine much more difficult to control than this little craft.
I'd make it.
My body was sitting in the ejection capsule but it didn't matter anymore. My mind had already connected to the assault module's subsystems, uniting them. This was the method I'd been taught on Argus. This is how both my mind expander and reflex enhancer had been configured. I was in my element.
First of all I had to escape the narrow corridor marked by the tracers. And then we'd see.
I needed extra power. Standard in-atmosphere maneuvering just didn't cut it.
I turned on the G-force absorbers and switched over to the cruise thrust, sending all the remaining power to the upper hemisphere shields. The space engines kicked in, making the lake boil. Enveloped in thick clouds of scorching steam, the module reared. The shields throbbed but held. I soared up albeit without losing speed as normally happens when you do a death roll. The plasma thrusters kept pushing, strong and confident. Darg's surface flipped over and began to distance. In a well-calculated burst of the maneuver thrusters, I turned the ship around its axis, redressing it.
I'd shaken off their fire. Immediately I turned on the stealth and antigravity, switching the ship to auto-hover. Their guns had lost us; they kept firing randomly which still wasn't particularly pleasant. I quickly assessed the situation, then dropped a false target decoy imitating our crash.
Half a minute later, an explosion shook the lake's opposite shore. The firing stopped. Our “death” must have looked convincing enough.
Finally I could take a look around.
The lake below was boiling. Ashen smoke rose on three sides of us. The only direction in which you could still see was the cliff ridge surrounding a fragment of the Founders' station.
I scanned the shore.
It was packed with Dargians, their scarlet markers scattered against the outlines of the squat buildings. Further toward the cliff range there were literally thousands of them. I zoomed in and brought the picture into focus. There were too many things there that told me that these weren't civilians. This was some kind of a military unit. They'd turned the Founders' station fragment into a fort. I could see the dark mouth of a tunnel at the base of the ancient structure, some railroad tracks and a platform carrying a strange-looking device topped with a huge transparent crystal. It resembled an arrowhead pointing into space. Powerful energy lines snaked down the tunnel.
I could barely resist the temptation of sending a couple of plasma missiles its way. Still, the area was protected by a force shield. I was unlikely to bring it down the first time, only expose myself and waste precious energy. I marked it as a target, anyway. We'd see.
I used the break to shoot off the recon probes and activate the system's diagnostics. I wasn't familiar with this kind of ship; its network was hacked; I had to take stock before making any decisions.
I glanced through my avatar's characteristics. My Piloting of Small and Medium Spacecraft skill had grown considerably, almost earning me a new level.
Reports started coming in.
The Second Colonial Fleet turned out to have been equipped much better than Argus. Even peppered with everything possible, the module was still airborne. The batteries charged up quickly, raising the shields' power to 60%. The plasma generators and the coilguns' batteries were ready for action. The pilots' lack of experience under fire was the only reason everything had initially gone awry.
In assessing the situation, I was guided by common sense as well as my own interests. Steering the module toward the area of the ashen discharge would be unwise. I had no idea what could await us there. At least here I could clearly see all the enemy's emplacements and firing points so I could take my time distributing targets and use the automatics' full potential. Actually, the forest that Ingmud had marked on my map was situated in the same direction, behind the cliff range about thirty miles from where I now was. If I had to go there on foot, I'd have to cross the busy Dargian settlement swarming with soldiers.
That was it, then. I'd have to battle my way through. That would allow me to check a theory I had concerning the surviving newbs' leveling perspectives.
There was another option, of course. I could fire up the cruise thrusters again. That way it would take me less than a minute to get to my destination, but I'd leave an impressive trail as plasma would scorch everything in my wake. The Dargians were unlikely to disregard my audacity: they would surely dispatch a pursuit after me and that was the last thing I needed. I'd better take the risk by mopping up the barracks myself, using the surprise factor and the module's fully charged assault systems.
“Private!” a voice rammed into my thoughts via the command frequencies.
“Pilot, to be precise,” I mumbled as I checked the person's avatar. Lieutenant Marcus Novitsky. Oh, well. Only Eurasia officers had the right to choose complex nicknames.
“Bring the module down — now!” his voice broke. His lips were shaking, his face gray, his eyes dull and faded.
I didn't have the time to explain to him all the implications it could have. Even the regular Dargian fighters were a good 20 to 30 levels above us. Facing them in hand-to-hand combat left us no chance. But while we were still airborne and enjoying the network's full support, our ship's fire power could compensate for this fatal disparity. I thought that was exactly what the fleet's command counted on: the players would get the XP for every enemy ship destroyed.
Was I right? Well, we’d have to find that out.
The data from the recon probes started streaming in. I began selecting and distributing targets, issuing orders to the subsystems directly through my mind expander.
The Lieutenant was livid. “What do you think you're doing?”
“I'm saving your fucking ass,” I snapped back.
He showered me with threats. I had to keep an eye on my status. The Lieutenant's commands had priority over mine, but the hacked network ignored them! Excellent. He couldn't do anything at the moment. He could only lose his voice trying.
To stop him from distracting me, I forwarded the data to the group network: for those who were smart enough to appreciate my idea. The Lieutenant could go and stuff himself for the time being. If we survived, then we'd talk.
* * *
Novitsky finally shut up when the search and target recognition system discovered the nearest respawn point.
The picture I received from the recon probes was something else. The slave drivers had set up camp at the base of the cliff range at some distance from the fort. The location was studded with a miscellany of tents and huts — some richly decorated, others humble, depending on their owners' wealth and status. A small paved square was surrounded by cages and pens — most of them empty but in some the probes' sensors had detected the presence of organic life. Ragged figures crouched on the floor. No idea who they might be. The square was awash with the constant emerald flashes of respawns.
I'd already been in Dargian slavery so I had a good idea how it all worked. The others, however, had quieted down. The square was patrolled by drones. The moment someone respawned, they slashed the poor wretch with
paralyzing charges. Then the squat slave drivers hurried to strip the new prisoner of his or her weapons and gear, binding the helpless victim hand and foot.
They'd noticed one of the probes and shot it down, but Novitsky had seen enough. Now he'd have some food for thought, considering our own resurrection platform had been destroyed.
Silently I finalized all the necessary calculations, manned the controls and took a course.
The module gained speed, crumpling the pale mist that hung over the boiling lake. The Dargians wouldn't expect the damaged ship to hang around for so long — and they definitely wouldn't expect us to battle through the area of highest resistance.
The cockpit weapon controls sprang to life. The reactor was at 90%. The batteries had accumulated enough charge. I'd even managed to use the automatic mode to replace the shield generators with reserves.
Phantom-like, the assault module escaped the thick mist. False targets followed above and alongside us, their signatures marginally brighter. They forced the enemy's automatic defense systems to sound off with lots of noise and cascades of shrapnel — but no actual damage done to our ship.
My mind expander went into overdrive, slowing my subjective time flow. I could see the xenomorphs lash around the shore seeking shelter, taken by surprise.
I became one with the ship, compressing hundreds of tasks into each split second, controlling it at the speed of thought, pushing my mind beyond its limits. The on-board weapons showered the enemy with fire; coilguns rattled rhythmically; tracers of missiles ripped through buildings, reducing walls to rubble and sending the disoriented Dargians to their respawn points. Pulse ship defense lasers added their voice to the humdrum, burning through the enemy's gun points and shooting down the few missiles they'd managed to launch.
But we too took our fair share of a beating.
Each direct hit on the ship pierced me with pain. Not the most pleasant of feelings, but this was the price you paid for the lightning reactions and the fastest possible interactions between the pilot and his machine that allowed him to act with pinpoint precision, answering dozens of stinging attacks with one well-choreographed maneuver.
I directed the ship along the shoreline. The guns of the right hemisphere kept showering the buildings while the upper ones fired at the cliff range where I'd just discovered yet another defense line.
These isolated bursts of fire merged into a wall of black and orange. The fragments of Dargian defense structures rolled down the slope. Their return fire was sparse: the enemy panicked.
The surviving newbs and the lieutenant were still pinned down by the compensating field. From time to time, their bodies shimmered with a golden glow as the game engine generously bestowed new levels on them, earned as part of my group.
Soon I too felt awash with several surges of warm golden light.
I zoomed up to engage the lower hemisphere guns while discharging the plasma generators into the strange-looking structure mounted on the platform. My first hit very nearly brought its shield down; the second one pierced through it, damaging the strange weapon although not destroying it completely. I just hoped they couldn't use it anymore.
I pushed the little ship and all its systems beyond their limit, knowing we had to wipe this particular defense point off the face of Darg. If we didn't, the Dargians would surely come after us, following our trail and combing through the area. And this was the last thing I needed.
I banked into an assault course, emptying the plasma generators into the cliff range. This time I was in luck. A whole layer of rock sank, collapsing and breaking into enormous chunks of stone.
The force field emitters exploded in a cloud of smoke and dust. The blast wave shook the module.
You've damaged a space defense installation! Wipe it out completely!
No. Not now. I'd rather survive myself. The ship wouldn't withstand a third attack. The batteries were almost empty, the power units struggling to recharge them. The shields kept dropping. In just two minutes of combat I'd virtually emptied our entire tactical ammo reserves. The lasers were about to overheat, the reactor was destabilizing. They couldn't keep up with my demands.
Enough. Time to go.
In one smooth altitude-gaining maneuver I banked into a new course. Soon the mauled cliff range pockmarked with impacts came into view below. Once we'd crossed it, we'd be relatively safe.
Suddenly, the cloud of dust surrounding the Founders' station fragment lit up with dozens of rocket launches. Alarms began wailing as a swarm of missiles came after us. I put my foot down, simultaneously banking to drop and cling to the cliff face — all in vain. The enemy had used an unidentified type of missile which kept gaining on me, avoiding both the uneven lay of the terrain and my return fire.
That was it. The lasers on the bow hemisphere were dead, leaving a murky trail of evaporating chemicals from the decompressed cooling system in their wake. The shields still held but they wouldn't last much longer. About fifty missiles chased after us. Time to eject the capsules — but they could be shot down just as easily.
I couldn't think straight anymore. My mind refused to handle the flow of data.
I boosted the reactor to 100%, pouring all available power into the shields of the bow hemisphere. Enough lying low! I zoomed up again. In the absence of G-absorbers, my vision darkened with the pressure.
A direct hit. They'd got us!
The thrusters packed up. The ship began losing speed. The power unit was in overload. I kept climbing higher... and yet higher... Now!
I sent the ship into a spin. The coilguns and the lasers spat death at the finally exposed sectors of fire.
The enemy missiles split up, feinting, then returning to their assault course. Only a few exploded, their falling fragments leaving trails of smoke in the sky.
Another hit. Dammit!
My shields were down. The reactor was about to explode.
I saw a plain lying directly ahead, followed by the dark mass of a forest. At eleven o'clock lay an enormous swamp, its muddy waters glittering about a mile away.
With one last effort I changed the course, zooming down onto it. A few seconds later, the thunderous splash of an emergency landing sent cascades of evaporating mud into the sky.
Two missiles exploded nearby. The others had lost their target.
Critical reactor overload!
The ship submerged into the boiling water. Twenty or so feet lower, its bottom screeched against the rocks.
The compensating field switched off. The lights went out. The life support system died. Murky mud leaked in through the holes in the hull. Weak daylight seeped through a large crack overhead.
Chapter Four
Darg. The assault module crash site.
The silence was deafening.
Sounds came back slowly. I could hear the bubbling of mud and the hissing of water against red-hot metal. Someone groaned weakly.
A damaged cable crackled, sparking.
All the systems were dead. The reactor was in overload and I had no means of shutting it down. The sharp smell of chemicals escaping the leaky pipes hit my nostrils. I ran a quick scan of the area — it had already become a habit. The Synaps considerably widened the limits of my perception, allowing me to take a peek outside the ship.
We'd been really lucky. The swamp in this particular spot wasn't deep, so the top hatches remained above the water line. I stood up, holding onto the mountings of my seat's shock absorbers. I had to act fast.
Mud slapped underfoot. Occasional emergency lights glowed red in the gloom of the personnel module.
“Novitsky!” I croaked in the dead silence.
The Lieutenant was alive but paralyzed with terror. He couldn't think straight. No wonder. Thanks to the wretched neuroimplant, his very being was oversaturated with pain, blood and fear. He was deep in shock, his life bar shrinking slowly but surely. But of course! A debuff! Deadly Fear, the one that removed 1 pt. Life per second! I'd never seen it happen before: a player who'd managed to cast
it over himself simply by being terrified.
A narrow ragged crack crossed the module's ceiling. The armor plates there had parted, the supporting beams mauled by the missile's direct hit. Thick yellow fog hung outside.
We need to leg it, as soon and as far as we can, before the reactor bursts, the thought kept throbbing in my head.
I grabbed the Lieutenant by the lapels and jerked him out of his seat. He was limp like a rag doll, his eyes frantic.
“Piss off,” he croaked.
I see. Novitsky's mind had crumbled under the crashing realism of the experience. Now he was going to die here without lifting a finger for his own survival. His gamer's mentality allowed his mind to blank out in the naïve hope of respawning. His inner voice must have been whispering through his mind, telling him that the respawn point was safe, free from pain and horror, free from the taste of the blood caking his lips, free from this numbing, humiliating fear.
I ripped the small plastic cover off his right forearm, concealing a tiny panel with several sensors. It was a good job I'd glanced through the manual for this type of gear which was completely new to me. I touched the first-aid icon. The Lieutenant's life bar soared into the green. His countenance cleared somewhat.
The bumper dose of combat metabolytes had wiped away the shock. His cheeks were spotted crimson. He was still casting mad glances around but his hands grasped the armrests as he tried to scramble to his feet — which was a good sign.
I didn't lose time. Clambering past the rows of seats and dead players (marked as “awaiting respawn”), I checked the floor for any supplies that had poured out of the burst bags that were yet undamaged by mud and water. I picked up an extra ammo kit and three fully charged batteries.
Next one.
A beefy goon, the inside of his pressurized suit covered in puke. His face was ashen. The visor of his helmet had burst and disintegrated into tiny granules. Blood caked on the cut on his cheek.
The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) Page 9