The Renegades

by Vasily Mahanenko

  A smiling girl stood at the administrator’s desk. She met me as warmly as if I were one of the company’s directors. When she learned the purpose of my visit, she offered me some green tea and a comfortable sofa to rest on while I familiarized myself with the substance of the testing waiver. I didn’t refuse and began to carefully study the document. I could only make out several points from the impenetrable legalese: I would grant the Corporation access to my medical history, I would acknowledge that the testing could cause me pain and I would waive my right to complain about it.

  “Tell me, why is the testing necessary if I want to remove the sensory filter for pleasurable or neutral sensory content? What is the danger of being able to touch a table or feel the texture of bark under my fingers?”

  “The problem is that neutral and pleasurable sensory contents are practically indistinguishable. Some people like the taste of chocolate; others find it uninteresting. As a result we group these categories together. At the same time, pleasurable sensations could cause complications. If you have an addictive personality, then the complete removal of sensory filters is not advisable. Players with heart issues should not be exposed to sudden jolts and therefore should not lower their filter settings either.”

  “If you have heart problems, I’d imagine that an attack by a PKer is much more shocking than, say, the scent of summer grass.”

  “The difference is liability. The Corporation is not liable if you are attacked by another player, but if you have a heart attack as a result of being exposed to sensory content that is too intense for you, we could bear liability.”

  It’s like anywhere else: You sign the papers and undergo the testing, while they look out for themselves and make sure they’re safe. And once they’re safe, they couldn’t care if the world burned down. It’s no longer their problem.

  The testing itself was pretty simple, although a bit tedious. I was placed in a capsule, connected to a virtual lab and then subjected to various sensations. The pleasurable and neutral ones were turned on at full blast, but the painful ones would be ramped up bit by bit. It wasn’t very pleasant, but I was curious what level I could handle. My threshold turned out to be 60%, after which my pride gave in and I cried uncle. Nope. I wouldn’t choose that setting for anything. I wonder if there are masochists out there who drop their sensory filters below 80%? For my own self I decided: 90% was my personal limit. That’s 10% worth of sensory content that would let me know what side I was being smacked from and do so quickly enough without turning the game into a torture chamber.

  On the way home, I dictated a few new ideas and verses into my visor and, upon reaching my crib, collapsed in my bed to slumber with a clean conscience. We had a brainstorming session scheduled for the next morning—on the topic of our new album.

  But in actual fact, this turned into an exchange of stories and impressions accompanied by a few beers. Still, the conversation stimulated my imagination and I spent three hours with my guitar synth, trying to recreate the fledging melody. Again and again I got the impression that something was lacking and, deciding that I was at a dead end, I climbed back into my VR capsule.

  Chapter Five

  Welcome to Barliona!

  You may set your sensory filter preferences.

  I disabled the filter for pleasurable and neutral sensory content entirely and trimmed the filter for pain down to 90%. Heroically overcoming torments in a game is a pointless waste of time.

  The launch screen indicated that my time in the Gray Lands had expired and I pushed the enter button.

  The stars that had welcomed me during my first instants in Barliona were shimmering in the sky now too. It was night once more in the game—yet this time, it felt real. Saturated with the scent of flowers, the air intoxicated. The warm breeze stroked my skin and everything I touched caused a sensation that was indistinguishable from real life. I suppose I looked pretty funny: A humanoid plant twirling its head in shock, touching the giant bouquets next to it and even the bark under its feet.

  The local cemetery where I respawned reminded me of the Branch of Slumber. The same gigantic flowers, though most of the bulbs here were open like in some strange loge. Various vague images flashed through my mind, reminding me of snatches of dreams. A funeral procession comes to a halt…The body is placed carefully in one of the flower bulbs…Its petals close and everything grows gray…

  Attention! You have used Bardic Lore to recover lost information about the Branch of Oblivion.

  So that’s how that works for biota—a stylized vision from the Twilight Dream. I wonder how they do it for the other races? A voice whispering in your ear? A hallucination? New memories or a simple system notification? I’ll have to ask someone when I get the chance.

  I examined the black bulbs closer. So these are like tombs for biota. There must be thousands of these, given the centuries of the race’s existence. Perhaps Amaryllis could explain what’s happening? I need to go see her anyway. Before descending from the Tree, I need to gain several levels using the local quests. I’ll help get the festival ready.

  Here in the Branch of Oblivion I also noticed the geometric ornament that resembled a snowflake or flower. I’ll need to remember to ask someone—maybe I’ll level up my Bardic Lore in the process.

  I found Amaryllis at the Branch of Vocation, at the druidic training grounds. She was speaking to another NPC. Nodding a hello, Amaryllis gestured that I should wait and returned to her conversation. Yeah. This isn’t your grandmother’s Ultima where as soon as a player appeared the NPCs dropped everything to speak to him. Barliona was much more realistic in these matters.

  Having nothing to occupy myself with, I began to examine the player druids. To my surprise, everyone here was at Level 1. Curious. Leaving the training area, I walked down the branch checking out the players I came across. Almost everyone was at Level 1. Where are the higher-level players? Did they die out or something? Or do most players delete their biota once they’ve slaked their curiosity and go on to choose another race?

  “Did you want something, sister?” Amaryllis interrupted my thoughts. While I was wandering around, she had time to end her conversation and come find me on my promenade along the Branch.

  “Eh? Yes…” My thoughts remained stubbornly circling the low-level players and it took me several seconds to recall what I had wanted from the NPC. “I met one of my brothers here—he was decorating the Tree for the First Bulbs Festival. Can I help with the preparations? I’d just like to do something helpful.”

  “But of course, Lorelei! The more helpers we have the prettier our Tree will be during the festival. The palace square has to be clean, but we just don’t have the flowerpower. Wash it until it shines and I’ll give you a lovely bag as a gift.”

  Quest available: Festive Preparations.

  Description: Wash the palace square within the next 24 hours. Quest type: Annual scenario. Reward for completion: Lovely Bag (20 slots), +40 XP, +50 Reputation with the Biota, +10 silver coins. Penalty for failure: -50 Reputation with the Biota.

  Mmm…yeah. Not quite the quest I was expecting, but taking into account the aggressive monsters camped out at the foot of the Tree, I’ll need to eke out all the XP I can.

  “I’ll be happy to help out with the preparations!” I said, accepting the quest and swiping away a notification that I had received the items I needed to do it. I’ll see what they are later. At the moment, I’ve accumulated a bunch of questions.

  “Who’re these First Bulbs that we’re celebrating with the festival?”

  “This is the day when the Tree bloomed with its first ten bulbs, bringing our leader into the world.”

  “And the other bulbs?”

  “The first biota and her fellow nine, whose bulbs opened next, convened our Council. Nigella the Druid is the First. She is the one who speaks for the biota to the Guardian and the Tree. In the Council her vote is deciding. Salvio the Warrior is the Second. Our commander-in-chief, he has spent his life battling other sentient
s. He can be brusque and even cruel but these are precisely the qualities our allies, the pircs, prize in him. It’s thanks to the Second’s iron will that we put a halt to the invasions of the other sentients. Fresia the Paladin is the Third. Another hero of the biota, her sword is guided by Our Forest Father—Sylvyn. The Third is equally a master of the blade and divine magic and her words are always carefully-weighed and wise. Ageratum the High Priest is the Fourth. He speaks the word of Sylvyn. Ageratum is the most influential member of the Council, after the First. The Fifth is Portulac the High Mage, fallen in battle with the red orcs many centuries ago. The Heart of the Sixth, Astilba, his betrothed, is to this day filled with mourning for her fallen mage. Her sorrow is so great that the most powerful necromancers have spent centuries searching for a way to bring her love back to life. Her judgments, which were always just earlier, are now blighted by her hate towards other races. Eben is the Seventh. He is our spymaster. Thanks to him we know what takes place in the world beyond the Arras. Cunning and elusive, Eben can find a way out of the most complicated situation. Enotera the Hunter is the Eighth. Her judgments are as true as her arrows’ flight. Monarda the Harbinger is the Ninth. She is one who speaks with the Spirits of the Higher and Lower Worlds. She has always been guided by her spirit, not her mind, and her counsel is therefore especially valuable. A yawning void has formed in the Council after the passing of the Harbinger. But among all the members of the Council, it is the Tenth, Cypro, who should be most interesting to you. He is the bard who first sang on the day of the First Bulbs. He is the chronicler of our people’s history, capable of reminding us of past mistakes so we don’t repeat them, as well as to cheer us up with tales of feats, instilling our hearts with faith and true strength.”

  In the next instant, a whirlwind of visions from the Twilight Dream descended upon me.

  I found myself standing in a bulb, my heart skipping a beat as a world I could only dream of unfurled itself before me. An enormous forest, its peaks breaking against a magnificent mountain range in the distance. My forest. I can feel each one if its trees, its every living creature. A moment of complete oneness with the earth that Sylvyn entrusted to me. Born of a fleeting union of the sun and the moon, I stand in the viscous twilight, melding day and night, basking in the power of the two heavenly bodies. The first biota witnessing the setting sun.

  The dream faded out, replaced by a series of others: One after another, illuminated by the sun and the moon, the other biota emerged from their bulbs. The future Council of my race. After these scenes of their births, came the scenes of deaths. A long sequence of battles in which the biota fought shoulder to shoulder with the mighty pircs against the treacherous invaders: the orcs, the trolls, the drow, the undead…Countless battles.

  The forest alight, the flames’ reflections glinting in my eyes. Ground wet with the blood of the various races: the red of the pircs, the green of the biota, the boiling rust of the red orcs. The hot air sears my body but I move stubbornly forward to the orders of the Fifth. We fall on the flank of a horde of red orcs, inch by inch cutting our way forward to unite with our main force. I can see Portulac fall, slayed by the poleaxe of the orc chieftain. Exhausted by the interminable battle, the high mage can no longer resist. Astilba does not witness it—she feels his demise and rage distorts her face. Blinded by her loss, the great necromancer, the Sixth in the Council, opens a portal to the demon world. The ranks of nightmarish creature rush from the portal and smash into the orc ranks, turning their unexpected counterattack and routing the invaders. For a moment I freeze from horror, seeing the red orc chieftain dragged to one of the demonic portals as Astilba laughs maniacally: What is the price that the Sixth shall pay for such assistance?

  A new battle. Fires from the enemy camp stretched into the horizon. The allied armies of eight races striving to destroy the Great Forest and its denizens. Kneeling, Ageratum begs Sylvyn to come to the aid of his children and a blessing descends on the biota army, paltry in comparison to that of their opponents. Monarda flies overhead in a deep trance. At her bidding, the Spirits summon a thick fog that covers the forest and the enemy camp. The terrifying face of the Seventh looms amid the darkness. The spymaster seems to appear from nowhere, holding a terrible trophy in his hand. It is the bloodied head of the drow queen. Seven assassin adepts appear behind Eben, his students, a crowned head in each one’s hand.

  Nigella leads a huge pack of predators from the Great Forest. The beasts heed her call to defend their habitat and in a silent sprint fall onto the enemy who are exhausted from the long march and blinded by the sudden fog. The Second barks terse orders and at his command, fire, ice, lightning and everything else the biota mages can cast explodes around the enemy. The terror in the leaderless, enemy camp reaches its peak when fallen comrades suddenly rise from the bloodstained earth, grab their arms and wield them against the former friends. Like the Sixth’s, the undead eyes are empty and black.

  The Second orders a retreat and the predators step back and fall in line with the pircs. Their time is still to come. Meanwhile the thunder of a terrible and grim march rumbles over the field of battle and to its cadence, figures march to the enemy camp as if woven from the fog into one cloth. A phantom army. Cypro, the great bard, has summoned the fallen heroes of lore to help in the fight. Biota and pirc heroes whose memories he has kept alive in his songs. Their spirits heed the call of the Tenth and return from the Gray Lands to fight for their people one more time.

  By the time the officers in the enemy’s camp have finally taken command of their forces, their host has shrunk by a quarter—and yet still it is enormous. Now the first warriors manage to break through the phantoms and undead—only to be felled by the arrows of the Eighth and her marksmen. And when the arrows have abated and the piles of bodies are tall enough to conceal an entire grove, the pircs enter the fray. Those of the enemy who managed to break through the forest army meet their death at the steel and claws of the beastly warriors.

  The cruel battle lasts all night, the next day and the next night. I think that I’m about to collapse from exhaustion, but as soon as a bit of my magic is recovered, I turn once again to pour fire onto the enemy. A great portion of the enemy army has been annihilated, but there are still too many of them and our forces begin to falter and wane. It is then that Monarda makes the greatest sacrifice to her Spirits. She gives her life and in return receives a spell of unprecedented power. The Supreme Spirits of the Earth cleave the ground beneath the enemy and plunge them into a precipice that will be henceforth called the Stone Maw. We have withstood them. We have turned them back.

  The setting changes once again: In a regal hall, the Sixth argues bitterly with the First, enjoining her not to trust the foreigners who’ve tried to destroy the forest multiple times. The Second supports Astilba, counseling her to accept the offers of a new faction and with it forever end the threat of invasion. The Seventh objects, pointing out that the sentients have changed and the new faction will be no less dangerous than their former foes. A shaggy pirc with coal-black fur, bares his fangs and growls that he is not afraid of anyone in this world, but the Kartoss races must pay for the crimes of the past. Ageratum shakes his head, saying that Sylvyn won’t forgive an alliance with a faction that is an enemy to nature itself, one that wishes to see both light and dark destroyed. The Council votes in favor of an alliance with the Nameless Dark Lord of Kartoss. The Sixth screams something wrathfully but the vision fades.

  It took me a moment to realize I was standing next to Amaryllis. The vision was so real, so lifelike, that it took me a bit to come to my senses and collect my thoughts.

  Attention! You have recovered lost information about the biota through Bardic Lore.

  Still under the spell of the vision I’d had, I swiped away the system text. That was awesome! Easily worthy of a long, beautiful ballad. I’ll need to find out more about it. At the moment, most of these visions were lost on me, but the locals will surely be able to explain all these legends in detail. At l
east Amaryllis. She, by the way, had remained patiently waiting for me to complete my conversation. Curious this local etiquette—is she waiting for the vision to end or is this just a feature of the NPCs tasked with introducing new players to the game?

  “I…In my Twilight Dream, I saw the appearance of the Ten. Some of them left their bulbs as solar biota and others as lunar and only the First’s bulb bloomed at dusk. Did this affect her somehow?”

  The NPC’s face expressed surprise and elation.

  “This is a great rarity and a significant honor—to see the First in your sleep and all Ten to boot. To witness the day of the First Bulb with your own eyes…You are very lucky, Lorelei. I’m sure this is because you have budded as a bard, the collector and keeper of history, legends and lore.”

  Hmm, that’s interesting. Is this just more boilerplate or a bonus for bards?

  “It is true,” Amaryllis went on, “that the First is special in that both the sun and the moon are her patrons. As a result she combines the best characteristics of the solar and lunar biota within her. They say that when her time comes, the moon and the sun shall join in the sky and the Creator shall bless the bulb that will grant us our new ruler.”

  Now here’s something I can get behind. A good system. No elections, no power struggles. Kings and queens growing in a vegetable patch, waiting for the right time to sprout. Although, stop. Why wouldn’t there be struggle? What’d I see just now?

  “I also saw the Council argue about a new alliance, but I didn’t really understand what was going on.”

  When I was rolling my character, I clearly indicated that I wanted to be aligned with Kartoss. Yet it turned out that the biota were an independent and closed faction. A bit odd, that.