by Rick Scott
A single torch illuminates the rider’s face, a face that looks somewhat familiar to me. He’s middle-aged with male pattern baldness hair, white around the edges. His armor is highly ornate with a breastplate trimmed in gold and adorned with a red cape.
He stops his horse and then bellows in a strong voice. “Which of you is named Reece?”
My heart jumps.
“Is this a trap?” Maxis says. “Rem, can you Kill Shot that guy from here?”
“Not on this class, mate,” Rembrandt says. “I could probably switch to—”
“No wait, guys,” I say. “He’s obviously here to talk. Let’s hear him out.”
My friends all look at me like I’m crazy.
“Reece,” Val Helena says. “This is still Braxus we’re dealing with here. Even if it’s one of his flunkies, he still represents him. Just like that guy back in the labyrinth, remember?”
I shake my head. “No. I remember this guy. He’s was talking to Ziegfried back in Stormwall and he was nothing like him. Remember, Aiko?”
The elf touches her chin in thought. “Vaguely. Some general, I think.”
“Right,” I say. “I’m going to go see what he wants.” I then shrug. “Maybe he might turn out like Lady Diana.”
That gives everyone pause, even myself. I think back to Diana and the sacrifice she made for us. God, I really need to do something about her situation. From what Ziegfried said, she’s become one of Braxus’ slave girls now. Just the idea of that creep slobbering all over her has my guts burning with rage. I have to stop Braxus soon. Even now, if I can, if he’s somewhere hiding behind these hundreds of soldiers. I try not to let my emotions show as I prepare to talk with this general guy, whoever he is.
I cast Shadow Copy just in case and then leap from the top of the wall to the top of the perimeter wall some thirty feet away. I land in a crouch, steadying myself. Absently I marvel at how nimble I am to have performed such a feat without even thinking.
I’ve come a long way since Mutt and Jeff.
“I’m Reece,” I say as I stand to full height. “Who are you and what have you come to say?”
The man on the horse smirks bemusedly. “I am General Lyons of the King’s Royal Army, commander of his majesty’s forces and liege to the Northern Clans.”
I guess I’m supposed to be impressed by the titles and I am to a degree, but I can’t let him know that. “I’m just Reece. What do you want?”
“Well…just Reece,” Lyons says sardonically while removing his gloves. “It’s customary in these sorts of things, for me to explain to you, that it will only end one way.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I have over a thousand men. Giants. Siege engines and enough food to last three months.” He then gestures to the keep. “You, on the other hand, have a poorly maintained fort. Less than ten men, I imagine and perhaps not enough food for a week.”
I can’t argue with him there. “We’re also Shard Warriors. Remember that.”
“That is true, but even Shard Warriors can starve. If you wish to avoid such an agonizing death, I’ve been commanded to offer you terms of surrender.”
Surrender? “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, nudging his horse with his knees. “Just remember that I did give you an option.”
His words don’t come across smug, more matter-of-fact. As his horse turns, I call out to him. “Hey! How about I offer you terms?”
He stops and looks over his shoulder with a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry?”
I pull up that old quest again that Gilly sent me. The one she got before entering Stormwall.
New Quest Objective Available: Restore Treaty with Stormwall
The Mad King Braxus has broken the peace treaty with the Wood Elves. Set things right, by slight or by might.
Objective (1)
Defeat the Stormwall Army
or
Defeat the Royal Praetorian Guard [2/5]
Objective (2)
Negotiate a new treaty with King Braxus
or
Assassinate King Braxus
Rewards: +300,000 XP, Access to Stormwall Town Administration +500 Favor with Elf-kin, +300 Favor with Stormwall
Defeating the army was one of the conditions. But maybe there was more than one way to defeat it. By slight or by might.
“I know what kind of king you serve,” I say. “And it doesn’t have to be like that. There are other options.”
Your Barter increases by 0.1.
Lyons harrumphs. “I’d love to hear them.”
I can’t tell if his tone is sarcastic or not, but he seems to be waiting for an answer.
“Relinquish your command to me,” I say. “Together we can defeat Braxus. I’ll take control of Stormwall and put right everything he’s done wrong.”
Lyons’ face is deadpan for a moment and then he bursts into a mirthless laugh.
“I’m afraid you take me for a much lesser man…just Reece.” The way he says ‘just’ this time makes it clear he thinks I’m anything but. “I am a soldier, sir. I serve the throne, no matter who sits upon it. If you wish to command me, then I suggest you do whatever you need to claim it.”
His words strike like an icy dagger to my heart. Guess there won’t be any negotiating with him.
“Nevertheless,” Lyons says. “My offer still stands. If you wish to end all this, it’s possible.” His tone then softens somewhat. “Believe me. I’d rather be back in my warm bed, with my wife and playing with my children than out here waging some pointless siege.”
I actually chuckle at that one. “Yeah, I’d rather be someplace else too.”
And that was the truth. Being able to go back home and see my mother again would be a dream right now. To save her and everyone else. But I suppose nothing comes easy. He’s probably right too. We don’t stand a chance against him and his army.
Thank goodness we have a backup plan.
“So what say you?” he asks. “Just Reece?”
I look back at Gilly and she gives me a wink.
I smile at that. Gilly…our ace in the hole. Literally.
“I say bring it on.” I turn back to him. “And remember my offer still stands as well.”
He grins and scoffs again before rounding his horse to trot away.
I get a PM.
General Lyons: Good luck.
Chapter 42: The Meeting
Rain fell in heavy sheets outside the veranda of the steamy, roadside bar in the heart of Sym-Pattaya. The surrounding skyscrapers towered into the night sky, their fluorescent billboards distorted by the rain as they screamed advertisements in both English and Thai. The neon light reflected off the rain drenched streets below, where pedicabs, scooters, and other fossil fuel-powered vehicles from the early 21st century filled the air with a constant din of engine noise and honking horns.
It all added to the overall historic authenticity that the Neo-Bangkok Shard was known for. Or so the information byte on the Shard’s advertisement stream said anyway.
Bruce, however, could do with a bit less authenticity at the moment—especially when it came to the climate control. He shifted uncomfortably in the oppressive heat and humidity that already had his office attire drenched even without the rain.
He could do with a few less other things present as well.
In front of him, a dozen or so Thai hostesses, wearing skimpy shorts, high heels and tight white tee shirts, paraded themselves at the edge of the veranda—cat-calling to would-be patrons as they strolled along the rain-soaked sidewalk.
Most of them looked younger than Gilly and, knowing what this Shard catered to, had Bruce’s stomach already roiling with disgust.
He released a heavy sigh and checked his HUD. A server time displayed in the corner of his vision told him Dennis was already 15 minutes late.
Typical. Not only had he picked this seedy corner of the Shards to meet, but he was purposefully late to boot. Both th
ings no doubt designed to make Bruce both uncomfortable and take him off guard.
Still, it was all part of the plan. Allowing Dennis to pick the meeting spot was crucial. An invitation by any other means would look disingenuous at best. The game was afoot and Bruce had to play this next segment expertly. Especially with what he now knew. Dennis was a master of deception and bamboozling him with the same would be near impossible.
At least for Bruce, anyway.
He’d have to use another tactic, one that involved as much truth as possible.
That was the only way to beat Dennis at his own game. To make him think he was still largely in control. And all it would take was for Bruce to eat a bit of humble pie.
A thin man in a business suit crossed the busy street under a red umbrella. Bruce recognized him as Dennis right away, not by his appearance, which while somewhat resembling him, had much sharper features and slicked-back blond hair instead of the usual frizzy red.
The name displayed over his head gave him away instead.
It denoted him as a player, a human visitor from the real world as opposed to the AI controlled NPCs that made up the “people” surrounding them. People that, Bruce had to admit, would be indistinguishable from humans aside from the lack of the overhead decal.
Unlike Dennis, Bruce looked very much like himself.
He hadn’t bothered to adjust his appearance at all when creating his avatar for this place, but the game automatically removed certain imperfections. Like the scars on his knuckles from years of turning wrenched in the cramped confines of engine bellies and other machinery.
Now that was authenticity, Bruce thought—a stamp from the real world that separated him from this make-believe place. Still, being in here was what the true game demanded now, and if he ever wanted to find out who Dennis had communicated with in that recording, then he had to get this done.
Dennis put on a plastic smile as he stepped under the veranda and waded through the gaggle of hostesses who pined lasciviously for his affections, the same way they did when Bruce arrived just minutes ago.
“I see you found the place,” Dennis said, dropping into the seat across from him. The software engineer snapped his fingers, drawing the attention of one of the girls. “Two whiskeys, please.”
Bruce sighed. “You know I don’t drink.”
“Aw come on, Bruce. We’re not in the real world,” Dennis said with a grin. “You can let your hair down a little.”
“Not much of it left, I’m afraid,” Bruce said, maintaining levity. “Besides, we won’t be here for very long.”
Bruce had no intention of spending any more time here than he had to. He checked the small meter at the corner of his vision. It was sitting at 0% and represented the amount of data Carl needed to acquire from this ‘meeting’. And it wouldn’t start moving until he got Dennis into the construct Carl had built. So any words shared now were wasted. And he certainly wasn’t about to waste them with small talk over fake alcohol he didn’t want to drink.
“You in a rush?” Dennis asked.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Bruce said, no-nonsense. “I don’t like it in here and you know that. But after what happened in the board meeting I felt the need to clear the air between us.”
Dennis stiffened, perhaps sensing the game afoot. “So we could have done this in person, Bruce. Or are you avoiding me in person now?”
Fishing for a reaction, but Bruce was going to bite.
The hostess returned with the drinks, all smiles, and placed two tumblers of whiskey on the table. Dennis accepted his graciously, taking a sip before giving the girl a wink and smacking her on the rear. “Fantastic. Thank you, hon.”
Bruce wasn’t sure if that was meant to push his buttons or if Dennis was actually some kind of regular here. Although either or both those outcomes wouldn’t surprise him.
“Look, I still don’t agree with your plan,” Bruce said, pushing his drink to the side. “And perhaps I never will…but I do realize that at some point…it may become a possibility.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps even an inevitability.”
Dennis’ eyes widened at the statement. He had his attention now. “Go on.”
“There’s something I want to show you. Here in the Shards. It’s why I wanted to meet in here.”
Dennis’ eyes narrowed but Bruce couldn’t tell if it was from curiosity or suspicion. He prayed it was the former. Bruce accessed the address for the construct Carl had supplied him and linked it to Dennis.
“What’s this?” Dennis asked.
“A surprise,” Bruce said. “Come on.”
* * *
Bruce felt the subtle shift of power in his favor as he materialized into the new domain along with Dennis. It was still nighttime, or what gave the appearance of night anyway. Behind him was the clinic he’d made his speech in front of a few hours earlier, complete with every detail inside. The street where the crowd had been was empty now and so was everything else.
Dead quiet.
“Well,” Bruce said, and watched the meter jump to 1%. “What do you think?”
Bruce’s heart rate increased as Dennis did a double take around him. Would he detect the tracing system, he wondered? He prayed not, but eavesdropping on someone unexpectedly and placing them in an unfamiliar box with a hidden microphone were two different things.
He’d be looking for anomalies now.
This was the risk of Bruce’s plan, and he had to act quickly to mitigate it.
“Welcome to the Hub,” Bruce said, outstretching his arms. “A place you’re no doubt familiar with.”
Dennis eyed him curiously and then released a scoff. “What the hell is this, Bruce?”
His hackles were already up. Not good.
“I gave some thought to your proposal after the meeting,” Bruce said. “And the main reason I don’t agree with it, is that I believe it will fail in the long run.”
“Fail?”
“We’d have less of a chance surviving in there than we would staying in the real world.”
Dennis smirked.
“And is that a data-driven determination, Bruce?” he said sardonically. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to prove some stupid point that doesn’t make sense.”
Bruce forced himself not to react to the insult. But it did tell him something. Dennis had swallowed the ruse, moving from cautious skeptic to condescending critic. Now all Bruce had to do was keep this crazy conversation going for another two and a half minutes and not get jammed in a corner in the process.
“It’s one determined by human nature,” Bruce said. “There’s a segment of our population, however small, that rejects the Shards outright. Then there’s a bigger sector like myself who can appreciate it but prefer the real world. Then there are those who split their appeal for both worlds evenly. And then, just like those who reject it, there’s a small minority that would be willing to live in the Shards permanently.”
“The data shows there’s actually a large majority of the population willing to live in the Shards full-time,” Dennis said.
“The exact numbers don’t really matter,” Bruce said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s principles I’m talking about here. The fact is you’ve got people who are going to reject full immersion no matter what the circumstances.”
“Well, of course, Bruce,” Dennis said, sounding irritated. “We went over this, hence the mandatory part?”
“And how long do you think your little virtual utopia would last before that resentment turned into rebellion? Anarchy?”
Dennis scoffed. “There are ways of controlling that.”
Holy crap…there it was. Right out in the open. He was planning some means of control once inside. He’d tipped his hand, but Bruce couldn’t let him know that he’d seen it. Better yet, he had to do the opposite.
He had to agree with the concept.
“Well, I think I have a better way to keep people happy than anything you might come up with.�
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This truly took him aback now. Dennis raised a brow. “Do you now?”
“Someone told me once, that the only way you’d get the HUB squatters to live in the Shards is if you remade the HUB for them inside.” He glanced about. “So I got someone to do a mock-up to see what you think.”
“You want to recreate the hub?”
Bruce shrugged. “It’s where they feel comfortable.”
Dennis laughed. “Well, you get points for out-of-the-box thinking, I suppose.”
Arrogant prick. But once again Bruce kept his emotions in check. He was playing it completely by ear now. He checked the meter…just at 40%. He had to keep this phony conversation going a little while longer.
Dennis stepped about the clinic, examining the glass doors and the medical pods inside. “Can’t say it looks quite real,” he said with a frown. “Who’d you get to do this?”
Oh crap. Bruce forced himself to answer as casually as possible. “Some freelancer, but if this were for real, I’m sure we’re need a top-notch designer. Someone who could make the Hub look and feel just as real as that skanky sweat box you took me to.”
Dennis let out a laugh. “Aw, I thought you’d like it there. Pity we left early. Happy hour was just starting.”
“Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure happy hour never ends in a place like that.”
“Touché,” he said with a grin. He then looked at him with another squint. “Are you serious about this, Bruce?”
As much as he hated even the thought of full population immersion, he had to keep this going. Just a little while longer. He shrugged. “It’s just an idea. People need to feel real. Like it’s home, even if it’s not, right?”
“So why tell them?”
“Huh?”
“Why tell them that it’s not real. That’s what you’re saying, right?” Dennis flashed him a dangerous grin. “My goodness, Bruce, you do surprise me at times.”
“Don’t tell them? What are you talking about?”
“Well that’s what you’re hinting at, aren’t you?” He stepped around a medibooth to stand face to face with him. “I mean…what sense would it make, recreating this pigsty, if they knew it was fake?”