The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) (7 page)

“As far as I remember, you used to trade in cargonite? Where did you get all these abilities from?” I nodded at the serve still hovering around while I was rummaging through my video archives. After the Phantom Raiders' attack on Argus, Charon and I had done a quick check of the depressurized market deck in search of supplies. We'd popped into his shop too — that had been Charon's idea who said that he'd seen a set of gear in Ingmud’s shop suitable for his size.

There! Found it!

The view of a dark hangar consumed by cosmic cold appeared in my mind's eye. Cargonite piled everywhere. The only little spot free from scrap was taken by the vendor's chair. Ingmud slumped in it, his face distorted with a spasm, his tag missing — he was long and decidedly dead. Most likely, his own physical body back in real life hadn't survived the decompression shock. The neuronets they'd implanted us with knew no difference between real and virtual pain.

In which case who was it in front of me?

I remembered Ingmud as a greedy and cunning player. Somehow I had my doubts that he'd had a complete makeover within the last twenty-four hours, changing class and growing 82 levels. The only explanation I could think of was that he'd been made into an NPC. The update must have used his vendor avatar as a base for the new Ingmud. This version answered most of the questions and removed most of the doubts. I was pretty sure if I began asking questions, I'd hear a convincing well-plotted story, the product of the scriptwriters' imagination.

“Did you say cargonite?” Ingmud flipped a few switches on the control panels and nodded. “Yes, that's what I used to do. Ripped off a few, I'm the first to admit it. Greed is addictive, you know. It sucks you in like quicksand. The way I looked at it, you couldn't have too much money. I thought I'd always find what to spend it on.”

I listened to him closely, making up a mental list of questions to ask him. This location had proved not just interesting but also very useful. An independent human settlement on board a Founders' station was an exceptional precedent. Just think of all the new updated plot lines that must have been tied to its inhabitants.

Yes, it was probably worth my while not to lose contact with Ingmud.

“You've changed a lot,” I said matter-of-factly, encouraging him to continue our conversation.

“Have I?” he turned to me, raising a surprised eyebrow. “You and I, we've only met once and even then only fleetingly. Had it not been for your Haash friend and a couple of decent devices among your Dargian gear that you wanted to scrap, I'd have never remembered your face even.”

This set my alarm bells ringing. How could an NPC, no matter how well-plotted his backstory, know such minute details of his human prototype's past?

“But you're dead right,” he went on. “You've read my tag, that's what made you say that. Once a vendor, now a hybrid. But I tell you, Zander, it didn't happen overnight!” he lowered his body into the chair.

Ah, that did touch a chord! Would he issue me a quest, maybe?

“Think for yourself, I used to handle tons of cargonite on a daily basis,” the hybrid stooped as if the memory still hurt him. “Mainly useless scrap, fragments of station hull and such, but sometimes I came across various pieces of the Founders' devices. I just didn't have the heart to scoop them all into the furnace. So I started tinkering with the scrap for a bit, removing a part here, an unknown device there. With time I got seriously into it. I became good at dismantling them, I even got myself a special technological scanner. I set up a small workshop in my hangar. I knew, of course, that taking artifacts apart was an unhealthy idea, but temptation got the better of me. I'd find a neurochip among all the junk and I'd be happy as a pig. Why wouldn't I be? It costs an arm and a leg, normally. So I kept all these little gimmicks stashed in a nice little container waiting for their chance to fetch me a nice bit of cash.”

“And?”

“They all melted, didn't they?” Ingmud shrugged. “One day I open the box and all my chips have turned to mercury. Or some such. A liquid metal, cold to touch. I didn't notice it at once though. I reached into the box — I had this habit of scooping them out, as if to feel my wealth, if you know what I mean. That's how it happened. I felt something wet and sticky run between my fingers. I looked at my hand and I nearly had a heart attack! By the time I found a cloth in my workshop to wipe the stuff off my hand, it had all soaked in, all of it, without a trace! Then suddenly I couldn't think straight, and the pain, you can't imagine — like someone was ripping my brain to shreds! I thought that was the end of me. No idea how much time I spent on the floor unconscious. When I finally came round, I was already like this,” he unbuttoned his well-worn jacket and bared his chest for me to see.

Jesus. His mangled flesh was fused with metal gleaming blue. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other started.

I felt uncomfortable. He must have suffered a torturous agony.

“You think it hurt? Nope. It didn't. At first this constant mess in my head really bugged me. Then I got used to it. It was worth the new abilities I got. Like when you brought me that Dargian gear, I could see right through it. I knew which devices were still in there.”

“Why didn't you offer me a normal price, then?” I couldn't help asking.

“Just a habit. A second nature, as they say. Had I noticed the Founders' neuronet inside you then...” Ingmud stared at the floor, silent. I understood him without saying. Had he noticed it, neither Charon nor myself would have left his shop alive.

“Zander, you need to understand. I wasn't myself then. The Founders' artifacts are sick bastards. Especially those AI modules. You're doing the right thing denying them access to your mind. Because they do things on the sly, you know. First they help you, then the next thing you know you're not yourself and the thoughts in your head aren’t yours anymore: they're cold and alien. And then there's this voice constantly whispering,
Go and look... go seek the missing pieces...
So many times I gave in to that whisper, and every time I ended up in places so deadly you don't want to know!”

“You're still alive, though.”

“Depends what you mean by alive,” he sighed. “I'm a
hybrid
, and that's that. I don't know all of my abilities yet, but as for Mnemotechnics and the Alien Technologies, I've already leveled them up almost to 100. How do you think I run this place? I see a mob, I immediately know what it can and can't do and whether I can use him. Then my head starts swimming with codes and commands until I cast a God-awful bunch of debuffs over him. Some serves just explode on the spot. Others freeze. Then I can come close and tinker with their programs. When it comes round it follows me everywhere like a dog.”

“You mean you don't know how you do any of it?”

“I didn't, at first. Honestly, I can't even remember leaving Argus. I spent some time wandering around this station, alone. The things I've been through! So, little by little I learned to understand and control my abilities. Then I met up with four mercs. They had set up camp under a dome shield on one of the decks and survived there by hunting xenomorphs. Basically, scavenging.”

“Mercs, you say? No girl among them? Her name is Liori.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Can't remember anyone of that name.”

“Shame,” still, I activated a holographic model of the station and marked the alternative start point through which I had entered Phantom Server. “Was it here you met them?”

“Oh, no. This is the other side of the station. I've never gotten
that
far. No idea what's there.”

Shame again. “Can I speak to the mercs?”

He closed his eyes, switching to the local network. “None of them are at the Oasis now,” he delivered the bad news. “They're all on Argus, raiding it for supplies. There're a few old stores there that aren’t yet completely looted. We're only setting up our life support system, you see. This,” he swept his hand along the ragged deck remains, “is what will become our eco system.”

“Will it really? All I can see is dust and force fields. What's in there?”

“Just some basic terraforming,” he answered cryptically. “I'll show you,” he focused, creating a holographic screen running with data.

I glanced at the people in safety suits picking at something resembling poor soil. Some of the mobs tamed by Ingmud helped them, bringing what looked like rubble, then pulverizing it. A thick cloud of dust hung in the air.

If you asked me, it looked aimless to the point of stupidity. Just a waste of time and effort. What did they hope to grow in these conditions on a space station, of all places? And even if they did it, what were they going to do with a dozen sickly saplings?

“The Oasis will live!” he snapped as if he'd been reading my thoughts. “And it will live up to its name!” Then he added in a quiet voice, “It's my redemption...”

Redemption? It sounded melodramatic. Which was actually quite normal for NPCs.

* * *

I cast another glance at Ingmud. He hadn't buttoned up his jacket yet. His flesh, infused with metal; spots of what looked like chemical burns; the steely purple sheen of his skin — all this didn't create a good first impression. By a sheer miracle, his face hadn't suffered at all, but it was repeatedly contorted by a strained expression — whether of physical or moral suffering, I couldn't tell.

I had a funny feeling that next to him, Avatroid was a joke. Especially considering the hybrid's uncontrolled and in many respects yet unstudied abilities.

“I have a proposal for you,” he finally broke a long pregnant silence. “Think you can help me?”

Ah, finally. A quest. I knew it wasn't for nothing his serves had pilfered my reactor block. They'd been luring me in. That's why they hadn't aggroed me!

The hybrid misunderstood my silence. “I'm not rushing you. But hear my advice. If you want to grow, you absolutely need to level Mnemotechnics and Alien Technologies. You just don't seem to realize their potential yet.”

I got the hint. “What kind of help do you need?”

“I want you to go to Darg. I have a daughter. She's an exobiologist. Kathryn's the name. She set off to Darg just before the Phantom Raiders attacked us. That was the last I heard from her. All I know is their landing coordinates and possibly the mission's objective. She might still be alive.”

That I didn't doubt. If Kathryn was a player, barely twenty-four hours had elapsed for her.

But Ingmud's story raised quite a few questions. Why did he remember Charon and myself? I couldn't get rid of the thought. True, you didn't forget Charon in a hurry but somehow I had my doubts that our lame attempt at selling him some scrap cargonite could have inspired the scriptwriters as they’d worked on this particular NPC's story.

Should I try and test him? I had nothing to lose, really. If Ingmud's new role in the game was mentoring the few players who'd chosen to level the rare Mnemotechnics skill, he couldn't very easily say no.

“A Darg mission takes quite a bit of preparation,” I said. “I'm sorry but you can see yourself that my level isn't quite up to it. I have a counterproposition. If you help me to contact my friends, I promise to come back in a few days with a well-prepared group. Then we'll talk about it.”

I thought he'd frown and change his attitude, maybe even reduce my reputation with Oasis. Instead, he just lost it.

He leaned forward out of his chair and grabbed my hand anxiously. “Zander,” tears glistened in his eyes. His chin quivered. “Help me. Please. In a couple of days it’ll be too late!”

I expected anything but that. I'd seen my fair share of NPCs and clever animation, but the way Ingmud behaved was far too human!

“Zander, I can teach you anything. For free. Please don't say no.”

Watching a hybrid capable of sending me to my respawn point within seconds as he collapsed in a heap on the floor, kneeling and looking askance into my eyes, felt weird — spooky even.

“You're not mad at me because of the cargonite, are you? It's because of your pet, right? This Haash, correct? You think if I wanted to buy him off you and sell him for organ harvesting, then I'm hopeless?”

A tear rolled down his puffy cheek. “I was doing it for my daughter! Fifty grand for a xenomorph! We'd had a falling-out, you understand? She had just started organizing this Darg raid. She knew I had a whole boxful of neurochips stashed away so she came to me asking for money. She wanted to hire a good ship and pay for the mercs,” his voice broke. “Tell me,” he wheezed, “how could I have told her I wasn't even a human being anymore? I couldn't tell her the truth. And she took offence, you see. She thought I begrudged her the money! She stopped talking to me. Then they left in an old transport module without a support group. And... and they disappeared. And there's not a moment when I'm not thinking about it!”

He let go of my hand and wailed, bitterly and hopelessly.

Admittedly, I was shaken.

Ingmud wasn't just any old NPC. He was something much more than that. True, the scrap dealer I'd met on Argus had died there. But his neurograms had survived.

I shuddered as I stared at the hybrid, realizing that he lived and suffered for real.

You say it's not possible?

And I tell you that the corporation had the technology for producing artificial neurons. They were used in the implants we had, mine included. The tiny device processed the gaming events, filling the user's mind with a whole range of unique experiences — but it also streamed the user's neural activity to a dedicated server.