"What do they want on the top decks?"
"They look for the Founders' devices. As well as ore, power supplies and ancient machines."
"Why?"
"The Dargians are restoring a large ancient ship. Once they finish doing it, a war will start."
"With humans?"
"No. The Dargians will eliminate them. They aim to take over their planet."
"Does it mean slave drivers are outlaws?"
He nodded. "Their own world treats them as criminals."
"And humans? How do humans treat them?"
Charon cringed. I didn't like the expression on his face.
"Humans are bad," his voice changed, allowing a few angry hissing notes. "They're all for themselves. Against everybody else."
Most likely, the station I hoped to get to was controlled by gamers' clans. No idea yet why they were so aggressive toward xenomorphs. I'd better start thinking how not to end up caught between the gears of their war machine.
After some pondering, I thought I'd come up with a suitable solution. I didn't say anything to Charon though, not yet. He wasn't going to like it.
In the meantime, Danezerath had already put the device back together. Now he was shuffling from foot to foot nearby, casting occasional glances my way.
"And? Cut the crap," my rude tone didn't seem to offend him at all. "Report!"
"I've fixed it."
So! That was impressive. "Let's test it, then. Can you switch off my collar?"
"I can't," he looked down guiltily. "I need a power supply."
"Okay then, you can stash it somewhere."
I turned to Charon. "We'll need micro nuclear batteries. Seven or eight. Think you can get hold of them?"
He gave it some thought and nodded, "Half-charged, yes. We'll have to work now. The overseer will come soon. I'll try to get a few batteries. Can you tell me how you want us to escape?"
"That's my problem," I wasn't quite prepared to lay my trump card on the table. Watching the Haash and their behavior, I could clearly see that the majority of them were broken. They had accepted their situation and were obviously scared of the Dargians. Entrusting my secret to them would be rather stupid. I couldn't do that.
The arrival of the slave driver saved me from more questions. He wore a full space suit. Silently he unlocked the cages and left.
The Haash began suiting up. I followed their example, then walked out into the corridor where about a dozen drones were overseeing the procedure. Silently the Dargian began distributing the micro nuclear batteries: one each. I clicked it into the slot. Thirty percent charge. Not a lot.
The communication system clicked on.
"Move it!" a command crackled.
I experienced an unnatural surge of energy. I was buzzing, my perception sharpened. My hatred for the Dargians was still there but it sort of withdrew, peering spitefully from behind a barricade of common sense. I couldn't afford doing anything stupid now. So I trailed along obediently without raising my head, my gaze shuffling through the interface icons looking for the option I needed. There it was. The map hadn’t been blocked. Excellent. I hadn't had the chance to explore the location, so now the thin line of our route lay through the omnipresent expanse of the mist of war.
We headed for the deck below. I marked down a vertical shaft that looked very much like an obsolete gravity elevator. We began climbing down using the manhole steps. About halfway down I noticed the shimmer of a force field. That was worrying. Now it was barely visible, letting the Haash through with just a hint of a spark, but if the place was put on full alert, it would shut our route down. We had to prepare for the worst.
I cast a few inconspicuous glances around. The shaft's walls sported a few semi-spherical blobs. Emitters, most likely. Once we were back, I'd have to ask the Haash about them.
We'd left the force field behind. The sensors on the rim of my visor changed their color. We were floating in a vacuum.
The experience was unusual. Awkwardly I tried to move, feeling nausea rise up to my throat. Was this zero gravity?
My sense of balance was confused. Unwillingly I let go of the step. I was floating. I waved my hands around me, trying to get hold of something. I hit the wall and bounced back. The Haash descended with a practiced ease. The slave driver was already below, looking at me. It must have been fun watching a newb like myself.
I allowed the Dargian a generous eyeful. Let him think I was useless. In fact, the nausea had subsided quickly as my old skills had kicked in. Ten years previously, I'd spent some quality game time in a space station simulator. The job was a pain: solving all sorts of technical problems while floating in mid-air, but at least now it had done me a good turn.
I bounced all the way down the elevator shaft and floated out, spreading my arms wide as I enjoyed the sensation of flight while trying to suppress an instinctive bout of fear. Awkwardly I hit the ledge of a structure overhead and ricocheted up, helplessly drifting away into the void.
I was scared, of course, but the risk was worth it. From above, I could see the external launch pad and could make all the screenshots I needed to study them at leisure.
The Dargian looked worried. I didn't think he'd be disciplined for the loss of a prisoner. I'd respawn in my cell anyway. But the delay caused by my freefall could cost him. The Haash stopped moving, watching me drift away. They stood comfortably and confidently thanks to a special substance that covered the soles of their space boots.
A few drones took off after me. They caught up with me quickly, their snaking manipulators hitching me under the arms and towing me back.
The Dargian was furious but he couldn't punch me. The communication system crackled again.
"Remember: only place your foot on an even surface!" he instructed me. "Can you feel it lock?"
I nodded. Both my feet felt glued to the surface. "How can I walk, then?"
"You slide," he quipped. Another delay will mean three deaths in your cell."
Okay. I got it. I broke my footing with the surface and slid off, then stopped abruptly, lodging my foot firmly on it. This worked. Now the other foot...
Unlike me, the Haash proceeded quickly. They seemed to be used to this kind of space walk. I lagged considerably behind but at least I was trying. Soon I got the hang of it, moving my feet rather well. One of the drones followed me closely.
I didn't have a chance to enjoy the beauty of space. Only occasionally during our short breaks did I get a chance to take instant pics, seeing as no one could have caught me doing so.
The Haash were already far ahead. I was amazed at their agility and coordination. In front of us lay some sort of wall of heaped-up debris. The Haash took it in their stride, moving in well calculated leaps from one support to the next. Wish I could learn to do the same, otherwise I could jeopardize our entire escape plan. It would be no good me crawling like a crab when there was a chase hot on our heels.
Suddenly the collar constricted, strangling me. The slave driver appeared from around the bend. He looked furious.
I spread my arms wide, gesturing my willingness to do my best.
I couldn't see the Dargian's face. The visor of his helmet was opaque. No idea how he was seeing everything around him. He probably had a screen on the inside of the helmet — either that or he was in possession of some unique ability.
I couldn't breathe. I started wheezing.
He came close to me and mumbled something bitterly. Suddenly a new device appeared in my armor's slot.
The collar released its grip slightly.
"Watch where you're going!"
The meaning of it wasn't quite clear. Still, I obeyed. I found a small flat platform halfway through the destroyed area. Suddenly the thin broken line of my path became visible in my projection visor. Mechanically my brain processed the information, sending my legs moving on their own accord, reaching my destination in a series of leaps.
Wow.
That was breathtaking. While both the drone and the slave driver
approached, I studied the surprise gift.
The Movement Coordinator. Produced by Haash technology. Suitable for use by all humanoid species. Define your destination, then allow the system to calculate the optimal effort necessary.
This was awesome.
I just hoped the Dargian didn't claim it back on our return. This was a most useful thing. Without it, moving along the station's deformed hull would be murder.
I hurried to catch up with the rest. Today I was an obedient and helpful prisoner, ready to do anything they told me to.
The ridge of mangled metal ended abruptly, revealing an enormous open space.
I froze unwittingly. Here, the station's hull wasn't damaged. But that wasn't what had puzzled me so. In the middle of a vast platform, clutching at its launching towers, sat a gigantic spaceship.
Some damage it had taken! My eye slid along its soft outlines, noticing a multitude of gaping holes and other damage. The Haash were already busy working in several groups. Some of them were removing the warped diamond-shaped armor plates, others were checking the utility lines while yet more of them were bringing new armor segments, installing them into the restored mountings.
A piercing light flashed nearby. Some Dargians were working there: you couldn't confuse their squat figures for anyone else. Armed with plasma torches, they were cutting out more diamond-shape plates.
I began descending, using every opportunity to take some panoramic screenshots.
The first impression was quite mind-blowing. The ship was rather big, about three hundred feet in diameter. But when I remembered the veritable Leviathans drifting nearby, I began to realize how tiny this ship was compared to them.
Whatever made the Haash think the Dargian slave drivers could use it to attack and even invade their planet?
We'll see.
* * *
That day I had to work long and hard.
As it turned out, the station did have its own gravity. I hadn't noticed at first that my freefall jumps, controlled by the movement coordinator, did have a certain trajectory. But the moment I was ordered to help bring in the armor plates, I sensed the artificial gravity straight away. As the Haash explained to me, its source was located somewhere in the station's unexplored bowels.
Lugging the multi-ton parts proved hard. I was struggling; by the end I could barely move my feet. The Haash were taking it much better: they were both stronger and used to this kind of work.
One of the drones followed me everywhere. I studied it inconspicuously. Why would Dargians use prisoners for the job if they could use machines instead? Surely drones could do the work more efficiently and with better precision?
I didn't get a chance to get close to the ship.
By evening, I had plenty of questions to ask the Haash. But once back in the crumpled darkness of my cell, I was too exhausted to talk.
I couldn't keep my eyes open. I was neither hungry nor thirsty, the capsule's life support module providing my mortal body with everything it might need. But sleep, that was something I had to get for myself.
* * *
I didn't have the chance to sleep properly. My mnemonic interface beeped insistently, another person's mind waves forcing their way through all the filters, rendering me awash with anxiety.
What is it?
Ten micro nuclear batteries, Charon reported. Each thirty percent full. Is that enough?
The Haash didn't seem to sleep at all. Were they made of steel?
I shook myself out of my slumber. Time to get working. I looked through the screenshots I'd made earlier, forwarding some to Charon. You could clearly see the fighter craft in their docking pods. There were seven of them. There, the makeshift "path" forked, the crudely welded sheets of metal laid right on top of the ravaged upper structures.
I wanted to know why we'd had to move on the outside of the station. Why such an awkward and dangerous route? Couldn't we get to the launch pad and the ancient ship via internal tunnels?
Charon answered willingly. Apparently, the Dargians had only managed to reclaim about a dozen sections for themselves. The rest was still part of the Founders' ancient technosphere. Most adjacent corridors were blocked with security devices that respawned in under eight Seggs. Charon's use of some weird time and distance measurements made it hard for us to understand each other. He had really grown into his gaming character's role!
What a shame for him, I pondered. He must have been a normal kid who'd decided to make a quick buck by participating in this alpha testing thing, and what now? Was his mind deformed irreversibly?
The thought made me cold and empty inside. Compared to him, I'd been lucky. My neuroimplant had been a much more advanced model; besides, I had adapted to the direct neurosensory contact while playing in much more forgiving worlds.
The thought didn't sound like fun. Now I didn't have the slightest doubt that the whole "closed alpha testing" thing was only an excuse to have a trial run of the new device. I'd have loved to know how many players had arrived here with the first wave and if any of them were still alive.
This theory could also explain the existence of the "alternative start". Understandably, the test operators wanted to milk the subjects of their experiment for anything they were worth. And the developers were interested primarily in the character's behavior in various emergency situations. They didn't care about his or her reaction to the comfortable process of mundane leveling.
If this is not clear enough, let me explain. Here we were watching the future of gaming in the making. By the time of the revolutionary game's release, they had had to bring the risks of players' death or insanity down to acceptable figures. The developers had to amass a wealth of statistics, create numerous neurogram databases and optimize feedback, all in order to allow the consumer to experience incredible new sensations without the risk of ending up in the morgue or a mental asylum.
My conclusions weren't happy to say the least. Surviving here (literally) wasn't going to be easy. I'd have to accept the rules of the game and act ruthlessly but cautiously if I didn't want to become a new stage prop to decorate their scenery. Take Charon, for instance. Let's presume he'd escape — and then what? Would his mind, distorted by the implant's continuous use, be able to come back to real life?
Most likely, he'd be appalled. By then, his physical body would have been in the in-mode for years. But that wasn't the worst thing about it. He really thought he was a Haash! He was now a true xenomorph, both in his actions and his train of thought. Exactly. I never envied the players who'd been tempted by the exotic abilities of alien races. I was pretty sure that all of them had a special version of the neuroimplant installed, one that contained additional neural chains that gradually, bit by bit, distorted their mindsets.
Why did I think so? Well, once you grasped the essence of what was going on, adding details to it was easy. Watching the Dargians would be enough. How much of human nature had they preserved?
I could be utterly wrong, of course. Each and every "sentient xenomorph" could be just an AI module complete with its own mindset and even identity.
I couldn't really judge, not yet. As far as I knew, no one had ever created a fully functional artificial intellect.
So if you thought I could think of nothing but gaming you might be in for a surprise. In this technological era, self-education is constant and natural. My job added to it, too. Earlier I'd mentioned the space station simulator. A more boring gameplay you can't even begin to imagine. With one catch: completing their quests demanded real knowledge. These kinds of educational games have their place and their niche, sometimes becoming the first step in a professional career.
Corporation recruiters call it dredging. They closely watch these simulators as the easiest way to discover grains of talent amid tons of online fool's gold.
What had I been doing there? Working. I'd been busting my hump like a dog to add a touch of glitter to some dumb rich numbnuts to make them look like real talent.
Enough of that.
<
br /> I was in the game. The bets couldn't be higher. They'd thrown down the gauntlet and I'd accepted the challenge.
That was it. I'd said it, never to repeat it again. I might not like it but it was true: someone somewhere read and analyzed all of my neurograms.
* * *
The Haash were patiently waiting.
I studied the screenshots, planning our escape. I kept forwarding some of the pics to Charon, with questions,
"There's a force field here. How can we get past it?"
He furrowed his forehead. "We must shoot. At the emitters. To create an explosion. Decompression."
"Are there any emergency bulkheads there?"
He nodded, marking it down on the scheme. We went on exchanging brief messages.
You think the bulkheads could stop the pursuit?
They would slow it down. Not for long. We'll have to run fast. The Dargians will send out the drones.
The fighter's cockpit, will it hold two people?
You'll have to stand and hold on tight. I will fly it. It won't be long but unpleasant. Lots of Gs when maneuvering. Not enough battery power for the G-force absorbers.
I'll survive.
Hundreds of questions were crowding my head. So many things I wanted to know! Like, who were the Founders? I had to remind myself to stay focused. This wasn't the right time.
"Danny? Have you checked the controller?"
The darkness stirred. Danezerath stood up, stooping. The low ceiling didn't allow the Haash to stand up properly. For some reason, he also tried to squeeze his head through the bars but failed and sniffed angrily, reaching out his long sinewy arms. I made out his open hand and a small device in it. His long many-phalanxed fingers were shaking. What had made him so nervous? Was he afraid?
Then I understood. Charon had mentioned decompression. I'd never experienced it before so I could only speak academically. The prisoners, however, must have been familiar with it already.
"How possible is it that the bulkheads won't work?" I asked.
Edge of Reality (Phantom Server: Book #1) Page 7