While I was thus gawking around, drones came from everywhere and surrounded us, flashing holographic advertisement that offered all sorts of services.
We'll move your respawn point to the Founders' Square! Safe resurrection for just 1000 credits!
Neurus Corporation: the best choice in implants! Affordable quality!
Exobiological symbionts from Xenus Corporation will boost your abilities and contribute some unique skills to your current configuration! All return customers get 50% off their third order.
Pimp your Ship! The Technologists clan offers a complete customization of your spacecraft with the use of the Founders' original blueprints. Modern quality through ancient technologies!
The Pilots clan invites all ship owners to join their raids on deserted stations. Excellent loot and the possibility of fast skill leveling.
Myrus&Myrus will buy scrap cargonite, quantity no object.
The Engineers clan will purchase any of the Founders' devices or their original blueprints.
Go exo! We offer a wide choice of alien metabolites!
Normally this kind of aggressive marketing drove me up the wall. But being surrounded by it now, after everything I'd just gone through, felt like a breath of fresh air.
I looked up at the direction signs. Founders Square was situated in the very center of the enormous hall. Still, it had to wait. My first port of call was clear: I had to find the nearest Myrus&Myrus scrap yard.
And there it was. You just couldn't miss the large double M. I motioned Charon to follow me.
We walked down the wide staircase, attracting more unfriendly attention from onlookers.
Apparently, cargonite was all the rage here. Most players were wearing light armor as an alternative to everyday clothes. The entire Market Deck looked like an enormous Eastern-style bazaar with its multitude of interesting offers and potential opportunities. Still, I had more important things to take care of first. I had to find money to move my respawn point and pay for the docking space.
* * *
Two androids guarded the entrance to Myrus&Myrus. They looked only marginally humanoid. Their armor plates gleamed purple, their build a rough semblance of our own. Their weapons were integrated. Although my meager abilities didn't allow me to scan them, I was more than sure these guys could be quite dangerous in combat. The androids stood a head above the human players. They had no faces, only tinted front plates flickering with scanner lights deep inside.
They paid no attention to us whatsoever.
Before entering, I asked Charon, "Do you think you can extract devices from Dargian armor?"
"It depends on the type," he answered and froze, focusing on his inventory where I'd moved nine of the trophy gear kits.
Soon he handed me the modules he'd managed to extract. Five in total. Not many. Shame but at the moment, I couldn't do much about it. Time was working against us. I'd saved Rash's armor till later. I needed some time to look into it first.
Now we had to hurry. We only had one hour left to pay for the docking space, and I didn't even know how much it was going to cost me. I had no access to the station's network (due to the fact that I didn't have their so-called mind expander installed) and in its absence, I started to feel a bit uneasy. While not explicitly aggressive, other players didn't seem particularly friendly, either. They cast hostile glances at Charon and curious ones at myself, their interest immediately replaced by confusion.
I could imagine that rumors of our ship would soon spread. I didn't at all like the reaction of the two mechanics we'd met by the docking pad. It was pretty clear that the craft was expensive enough. Many would want to lay they hands on it. I would have to either sell it or stick to my cover story which would demand some serious cash injection, primarily to be able to level my char up fast. Which meant I absolutely had to log out and have a few words with Arbido. We had a few things to discuss.
I walked into the Myrus&Myrus.
The shop's façade was impressive enough. The inside though was rather plain. The place resembled a hangar. About a dozen drones floated under the high ceiling.
I headed for a small office counter which looked like a child's toy amid all the mountains of scrap metal.
A disgusting-looking dealer stood behind the curved counter. I had no idea where my subconscious mind had borrowed suitable words and images from, but the first impression was depressing. I had no doubt that the owner of this loathsome, bloated, obese avatar had serious mental problems.
I focused on him.
Ingmud. Human. Level 37. Vendor.
This was another specialization typical of any game world. Having said that, normally the role of vendors was reserved to NPCs. More often than not they were also quest characters, too.
"Excuse me, sir," I humbly tried to attract his attention while thinking that I hadn't yet been given the chance to create my own unique character. What would I see if I looked in the mirror?
The thought made me uncomfortable. My interface tabs only showed a symbolic human outline. What kind of appearance had Arbido chosen for me? Or maybe he hadn't bothered doing it at all but had simply clicked the randomizer?
"Well?" the vendor gave me a rather dismissive glance. "The scale's in the corner," he mumbled. "Just dump everything you've got on it."
I didn't like his suggestion at all. "You'd better have a look at it first," I said, trying to stay calm and polite.
"What's so special about it?"
"These are integrated devices," I tried to sound as if I knew their potential value.
"Not interested," the vendor waved the offer away. "We only accept scrap cargonite. You need to see the Technologists or Engineers about any devices."
"Still, I'd like you to have a look," I insisted.
"Very well, then," he sighed as if doing me a favor. His eyes glinted, though.
Without saying a word, I showed him the cargonite armor kits.
One of his eyebrows rose. He can't not have noticed the bullet dents and the laser scars on the armor. "So where did you steal it from?" he cast me a sceptic glance.
"I won it in honest combat."
"I'll give you ten percent over the scrap price," he drilled me with his stare. "On one condition."
"Which is?"
"I'll need the logs of the fight."
I shook my head.
"Ten percent off, then," he gave me a nasty smile.
"Why?"
"For the risk of trading in stolen goods."
I was a lousy profiteer. Who'd asked me to open my mouth even? I should have gone straight for the scales as he'd told me.
I did have the logs, of course. But showing it here would be a very stupid thing to do. At the moment, I didn't want anyone to know about my fight with the slave drivers. The information about their base and the ship they were restoring could prove much more valuable than the cargonite itself.
"Okay, then," I motioned Charon to dump everything onto the scales. I had no time to look for another vendor.
"Will you sell me your Haash?" the shop owner suddenly asked me.
"No."
"Think again. I'll give you fifty thousand."
"He's not for sale."
Charon had already loaded all the scrap onto the platform that floated a couple of feet above the ground. It sank slightly. The vendor made some brief mental calculations.
"Five hundred credits."
I sent a mnemonic message to Charon, Can you read the weight?
"Six hundred-" he paused as if he'd never encountered the word pound before.
I glanced over the price list exhibited on the transparent holographic clipboard. Eleven credits a pound!
"Charon, pick it all up. We're going."
The vendor rose in his chair, "Wait a second, young man! It's probably the scales playing up. Wretched piece of junk!"
Greed glinted in his eyes. I wouldn't have been surprised if integrated devices cost ten times the price of scrap cargonite. And it wasn't scrap I was selling him,
either. "I don't think so."
We walked out into the street. It felt like a breath of fresh air after the shop's dark atmosphere. I took another look around. This time I didn't rush it.
The Armory.
Yes. Exactly what we needed.
We hurried across the street and entered the shop.
It was small, crammed with holographic models of their wares. They were really spoiled for choice here.
I hadn't noticed the vendor amid all the paraphernalia of weapons and armor. A young fair-haired man proffered me his hand.
"Serge," he said, casting a cautious glance at the Haash.
"Zander," I answered his handshake. "Don't worry. Charon doesn't attack anyone."
"What can I offer you, Zander? Are you interested in weapons or in gear? We have direct contacts with the Technologists. Some of the items are mind-blowing."
"I'll keep that in mind when I need to buy something. Now I just want to offer you some of my loot. Some gear kits and pulse guns. I can't extract the devices though. Haven't been in the game long enough."
"Where did you get it from?"
These questions began to annoy me. Normally, vendors don't give a shit where you got your loot from. Then again, I knew nothing about the local customs yet, so I decided to stick to my story.
"Thing is, I bought this account from someone," I said nonchalantly. "I arrived at the station in my ship an hour ago. And all the gear was already in the inventory."
Serge wasn't as stuck up his own backside as the last vendor. At least he seemed to accept my fake confession. "So how about I have a look at it?" he chuckled.
I motioned Charon to unload the gear onto the counter.
Serge scanned it meticulously. Then he made some mental calculations. "How about three grand in total?"
"Cash."
He shook his head. "I don't work with cash. Too much hassle."
"I don't have access to the station's network yet. I didn't get a chance to get any implants."
"Not a problem," he pointed at a payment terminal. "Just log into it and I'll transfer you the money."
"What kind of cash do you use here, then?" I asked, curious.
"Microchips," he answered willingly.
"What's so valuable about them?"
"You don't mean you haven't even read the FAQ?"
"Nope."
"Microchips are everywhere. They make the base of any cyber system. There are some fakes around but there're not difficult to tell, all you need to do is test them in a dedicated slot."
"And what if someone pays me, say, a thousand of them? How much time will it take to test them all?"
He chuckled at my naïve question. "A thousand chips is a lot. I don't think you'll come across anything like that in the foreseeable future. The maximum an experienced leveled-up pilot can expect is ten to fifteen chips for a really risky mission. Normally it's about enough to upgrade one of the ship's systems. There are also neurochips but they're sold at the rate of one to a hundred. There it gets more difficult. You absolutely have to test them but you'll need special equipment to do so."
"How much does a neurochip cost, then?"
"A blank one is five hundred credits. A pre-recorded one, depends. And those with the Founders' software may go for tens of thousands."
"I see. Listen, I still need to pay for the docking space. Can I do it from here?"
He nodded. "I should install some implants pretty quick if I were you," he added. "You can't really function without them. Even the most basic ones. Or you risk being forever stuck at the shnoob stage. No one will want to deal with you. They'll charge you more for the docking and offer less for your loot. You really have to look sharp here," he opened some kind of list. "Was it an inner or outer docking pad?"
"What's the difference?" I didn't even need to pretend, I honestly didn't know.
"The outer docking pads are the cheapest," he seemed eager to teach me the ropes. "Think for yourself: about a third of all defense systems still aren't functioning. So who's gonna meet the intruder in case of an attack? Evidently it's the pilots docked on the outside. They're the first to reach their ships and go into combat. They have no choice. But if you're safely docked inside, that's a totally different ball game. Then it's up to you whether you join in or not. Most likely, they'll offer you a one-off station defense contract."
"I see. No, I'm docked outside," I sighed. "How much do they charge per twenty-four hours?"
"A hundred credits. For free, basically. I'm going to pay it from your account in a moment. How much do you plan to afford?"
"Three days, maybe? Then we'll see."
"Make it a week. First because there's a discount. Second, because if you do install some implants, you might land in a clinic for five days at least."
"Agreed. Is the station attacked often, then?"
He shrugged at the question. "Virtually every day. Nothing serious, really. Between all those Dargians, Wearongs, Kamresh and the Outlaws, there are plenty of takers. Normally, the Pilots clan handles them no problem. But if your docking pad happens within the attack cone, anything can happen. If you don't make it there in time or you don't launch or you fail to engage, they can easily seize your ship. Especially the Outlaws. They have some top hackers there. They'll take your ship and you won't even notice."
This didn't sound too optimistic. "I see. How much does an inner docking space cost?"
"Five hundred credits."
"A bit pricey."
"But safe."
"Who are the Outlaws, then?"
He cringed. "Humans. A bunch of scumbags. Some have problems with the law. Others have dodgy implants. A lot are said to be on exo," I sensed a badly concealed fear in his voice. "They have their own bases within the asteroid belt."
"Are there many major attacks?" I tried to milk him for as much information as I could.
"Depends. Last week the crafters got it pretty bad. A month ago some Dargians and Wearongs landed in the deserted sectors trying to get to the oil. And," he lowered his voice, "they say there's been a few recent sightings of Phantom Raiders."
"Who the hell are they?"
"Phantoms," Serge answered meaningfully. "The word says it all. They appear out of nowhere. Some say they arrive from another star system. Even though the Technologists and the Engineers swear that a warp drive just can't be built."
"Where do they come from, then?"
He shrugged. "No one knows. We've never managed to get hold of any. When critted, their ships either disappear or they self-destruct. Depends on your luck."
"What's the difference?"
"You'll know it when you see it. If a Raider disappears, that's one thing. You're scored a win and subsequently get paid. Because the logs are still there, you see. But if they self-destruct, that's a totally different story. That's annihilation. If you happen anywhere near it, just pray to the Founders that your force shields hold. The clans will pay any money for a fragment of the Phantom Raiders' ships."
"How much will they pay for a whole one?"
Again he gave me this patronizing, unsettled smile. "That's science fiction," he scooped up my Dargian gear. "No one has ever seized a Phantom. One thing you need to remember: if a general alert is sounded, get up and run for your ship. If a pilot fails to show up, they will confiscate the ship and throw the pilot out of the station. Through the airlock without a spacesuit. To a respawn purgatory in a vacuum."
"Is it so bad?"
"Where the Phantoms are concerned, yes. We can't survive otherwise," he pressed a few buttons. "All done. The docking space is paid for a week, you've got twenty-three hundred on your account. Come back when you want a gear change."
"I will."
* * *
Charon and I walked out of the shop.
My next port of call: having my respawn point moved.
I kept meeting hostile stares. I hadn't yet met a single xenomorph which I found quite worrying. The passersby glared at Charon with undisguised hatred, followed b
y looks of surprised disdain directed at me. I hadn't yet worked out the reasons for such animosity but it would probably be better for us to finish whatever else we had to do quickly and find a place to stay. I needed to look into Wiki — the dated word I used out of habit when referring to gaming encyclopedias.
Founders Square didn't impress me much. It was vast and empty. We paused next to it, noticing a cordon of androids. The impassive steel robots stood watch over the respawning process. From time to time, the square echoed with a popping sound as a flash of green light released a newly respawned player. Generally, all of them looked pissed and confused, having just suffered a virtual death.
I could tell by their gear that most of the survivors were pilots. We lingered behind the cordon, watching. I noticed a few mechanics appear amid the incessant flashes of green. Judging by the few brief phrases they exchanged, it had been some sort of repair gone awry. A few shady individuals must have been the victim of some gang war or other. Then the square flooded with armed people in full armored suits — I could hear snippets of their conversation about mopping up the station's deserted levels and "those raid-wiping idiots".
Aha. They had counted on abundant loot but got a kick in the balls instead. Happens to the best of us. Still, as I studied their weapons and gear, I couldn't help asking myself what kind of mobs had to be lurking in the station's deserted bowels.
All of that was quite an eye-opener, but it was time for us to leave. Personally, I could barely stand straight from exhaustion.
I cast a look around, searching for the offer we needed. I didn't have to look long. At the entrance to the nearest shop, more drones glowed with their aggressive advertisement, pestering the passersby.
I was wary of more questions and technical problems, but the shop owner — definitely an NPC — just kept nodding with a happy smile. No, he didn't need to know where my old respawn point was. He could transfer it to Founders Square for a thousand credits regardless of its current location. The Haash wasn't a problem, either. He was a player like all of us so technically, he was entitled to one, too.
Edge of Reality (Phantom Server: Book #1) Page 10