The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) (8 page)

Basically, Ingmud's was a synthetic identity, a neuromatrix pieced together out of the many neurogram fragments collected during his lifetime. Was it a daring attempt of a superpower gaming corporation to create an artificial brain? Is that why he could remember the slightest details of his own past?

Why do I care, might you ask? Wasn't it the corporation's business to create whatever it fancied? It made the characters more real, your emotions more authentic — so why did a shiver ran down my spine every time I thought about it?

Because I lived in cyber space. I too had a neuroimplant. Reluctantly I tried on the skin of an NPC — and it didn't make me feel good. I couldn't help thinking,
one day you die, then they'll use you as a base for another “advanced” NPC, patching your identity together like a quilt as they hadn't yet learned to do it any better...

I honestly felt sorry for the hybrid. “Okay. I'll see what I can do. Just tell me, you've been waiting a year already. What difference can an extra couple of days make?”

“Don't you understand? The Eurasia fleet! Darg is their primary target!”

“How d'you know?”

He cracked a smile, pulling himself together. “I have a level 36 Founders' neuronet and the location tower just outside. I patched it up so now I can listen in to the command frequencies. Will you help me?” he asked me again, his voice brimming with hope.

“What are our chances?”

He grunted, scrambling back to his feet, and waved his hand in a practiced gesture, commanding the air to thicken into a holographic map of some Dargian location. “This is where the raid was heading. You can see a rocky range shielding a plain followed by a wooded area. Lots of exo ingredients and virtually no Dargians. Once Kathryn and the others heard about Argus being attacked, they must have realized they had nowhere to come back to. So they must have set up camp somewhere deep in the forest hoping to sit it out.”

There was logic in his reasoning.

The freshly-patched serve came into view again. It shinnied up the beams and froze overhead. I had the impression it was listening to us and could understand everything we were saying. The unpleasant feeling of being watched washed over me.

My nerves had definitely been playing up since my encounter with Avatroid. My imagination was getting out of hand, too. What would a utility robot want with our conversation?

“So you think they're still alive, then. You don't think they've been captured and enslaved? Why didn't you go there and see for yourself?

“I wanted to! I tried! But I couldn't. Something won't let me off the station. Like I'm tied to the wretched place! No matter where I point the ship, I can't go further than one light second away from the station! I pass out,” his voice dropped. “All these neuronets, may they burn in hell! You see, Zander, most of those fragments I foraged for chips were from this station. So now the Founders and their AIs won't let me go and look for her! But I'm getting better at resisting them,” unconsciously he clenched his fists. “Although if you bring Kathryn back to me and rescue the artifact, there'll be no need for me to go anywhere anymore. I'll just settle down here for good.”

I pricked up my ears. “Which artifact?”

“Didn't I tell you?”

“No. You didn't.”

“It's a Founders' device. Its name is complex and difficult to translate, something that can be described as ‘Genesis’. It's basically what the raid went to get.”

“Can you expand on this, maybe? What would exobiologists want with a technological artifact? That's not what they specialize in, is it?”

“There, take a look,” he changed the picture on the screen. “It might help you understand. This is how this station used to look millennia ago.”

I was looking at a chiseled spatial structure permeated with light and made up of a multitude of transparent domes. The glow of force fields, the intertwined support beams, the fragile petals of shield-protected external platforms that recreated landscapes of yet undiscovered planets — all this was humbling.

So the way the station looked today was only a miserable shadow of its past glory — only what was left of its sturdy technogenic frame?

“Genesis stores all the databases and DNA samples designated for cloning,” the hybrid's voice interrupted my thoughts. “From what I know, it can turn dust into fertile soil within days. It's not science fiction, Zander. There are certain types of bacteria capable of feeding on metal, ore, toxic and nuclear waste,” he pointed at the terraces still enveloped in dust. “I'll use the artifact to recreate the station. I'll call it Oasis and will invite everyone who wants to come and settle here. It's a good project, trust me.”

“But how did the artifact end up on Darg?”

“I don't know for sure. The past events are not clear. The Exobiologists clan deciphered a few of the Founders' log entries that said that after an accident at the station, its AI had rescued Genesis' core unit by sending it to the nearest planet. The coordinates point at these ruins in the forest,” he gestured at the map. “The Dargians don't seem to know anything about it, otherwise they'd have already dug the whole place up.”

No player would ever miss a chance like this. This yet unassigned quest was in fact a whole scenario with a multitude of unique plot lines.

If I refused it, I'd be forever kicking myself. But this Ingmud wasn't that simple. He'd forgotten to tell me about the artifact, yeah right.

“I still don't get it,” I keep pushing the envelope. “Are you worried about your daughter or are you trying to lay your mitts on the artifact?”

“The two aren't exactly incompatible, are they?”

“Do you ask everyone who happens past to go to Darg? How many people have already gone missing there?”

His face darkened. “My men tried to do it. They couldn't.”

“Why?”

“They don't have pilot's skills. Most of the Oasis settlers are either Mechanics or Vendors. Darg's orbit is patrolled by the slavers' ships. It's not easy to slip past them unnoticed. But unlike all the others, you'll have help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I'll tell you all the details later,” his tone switched to businesslike suspiciously quickly. “We'll make a contract,” now he was speaking like a gamer. “I offer you one neuronet upgrade of your choice. In return for this, you stop asking questions. When you come back from Darg, I'll teach you lots of things I've already learned. That'll raise your Mnemotechnics and Alien Technologies at least twenty levels.”

I tensed up. If after all this I don't receive a new quest, all my speculations about corporation-made AIs would prove pure fiction.

Quest alert! New quest available: Restoration of the Oasis.

Quest class: Script (within the alternative plot line).

Step 1. Ingmud seeks your help to bring his daughter from Darg back to him. You can accept his proposal.

Immediate Reward: you will receive a unique neuronet upgrade of your choice.

Future reward: The hybrid will teach you for free until you reach level 20 in both Mnemotechnics and Alien Technologies. Your relationship with Oasis settlers will improve considerably.

Step 2. Find Kathryn.

Reward: Unknown, varies.

For your information: if you choose to complete the quest chain within a group, all other group members will receive a unique set of gear (depending on their character class)

Fine for failure or quest rejection: your relationship with Ingmud will be ruined irrestorably.

It looked like he was one of the key figures on this station. I wondered why the quest message hadn't mentioned the artifact. Or could Kathryn already have had it?

I absolutely had to accept the quest, no doubt about that. Gaming balance wasn't something I could ignore. If I received this quest, it meant it was doable for someone of my level.

Also, I had to remember that both Mnemotechnics and Alien Technologies were the key to restoring the Founder's frigate.

I focused on
Accept
, activating it. Still, the quest left a lot of unanswered questions. What kind of help had Ingmud meant? How was I supposed to safely clear the planet's orbital defenses? Was my char's level up to tackling that particular region?

At least Ingmud had cheered up. He must have already received the message informing him of my decision. “So, Zander. I'm going to send you a list of all available upgrades.”

I waved his offer away. “Don't need it.”

“Why? What's up?”

The decision flashed through my mind instinctively, at gut level, and I wasn't going to reconsider. “I want to ask you about something,” I kept pushing my luck.

“Okay,” now it was his turn to look puzzled. “Tell me.”

“You were right saying that I have two of the Founders' neuronets implanted. I would like you to remove one of them without damaging it. Think you can do it? Here's its icon,” I forwarded him the pictogram I’d noticed during the test activation.

He didn't say anything for a long time. Finally he nodded. “It won't be easy but I think I know how to do it. Would you like to get rid of it completely or do you want me to throw in a handful of nanites and form an external connection module?”

I had to think quickly. “That would be good.”

He scratched his head. “You sure you're up to the risk?”

“I know I am. Just do it. No, wait. One more thing. My friends will be looking for me.”

“You mean the Haash?”

“He too. His name is Charon. I know he'll come and he won't be alone. Tell him I'm gone to complete your quest and that I'll be back in a few days.”

“Will do,” Ingmud nodded. “But I'm not going to tell him anything about Darg.”

“Deal. Now you can do it.”

“Sit down,” he removed his jacket, exposing his mangled torso. “And close your eyes,” he added with a sinister glint.

“I'm not easily scared.”

“As you wish.”

I sat in the chair and clenched my teeth. The next moment, pain flooded over me. I tried to resist it and remain lucid — in vain.

The last thing I remembered was a message on Ingmud's holographic monitor,

Hyperspace transporter activated. The object will be teleported when ready. The target within the station's transmitters' range. Warning! The receiving equipment is not compatible with the transmitter. Would you like to proceed anyway?

My tortured awareness crumbled under the pressure. Darkness swallowed me, merciful.

* * *

I was breathing.

The air was clear but so cold it brought me out of my stupor. My gear was gone. All I was wearing was a light onboard suit.

My head swam; my vision blurred. I was weak and completely disoriented. I forced my head up and bumped my forehead on a translucent barrier.

Where was I? What had happened to Ingmud?

I heard the sharp hissing of hydraulics. My eyes closed weakly. Messages flashed against the backdrop of my shut eyelids,

You have lost one of your neuronet implants.

You have a new cyber module installed. Type: Connector.

You have one unread message. Would you like to open it?

I forced my eyes to click
Yes.

Hi Zander,

You've been out for quite a while which is why I decided to act at my own discretion. While removing the implant, I came across some very interesting information. I'll keep it as my security in the meantime. If ever you decide to abandon the quest, I'll forward the frigate's coordinates to the Outlaws.

You will receive help as promised. May nothing surprise you. More importantly, don't resist anything. Once you're on Darg, you'll have to play it by ear.

Ingmud

He was something else, really! In some cases being a vendor was a diagnosis rather than a trade!

I forced my eyes open, trying to work out where I was after all.

I could make out the outline of a translucent lid sporting the logo of the Colonial Fleet and the following inscription,

Reserve cryogenic chamber 34672

The hydraulics hissed again. The sealer made a smacking sound. The chamber filled with vibration and the humming of engines.

Attention all personnel
, a voice said.
A cryogenic platform approaching Dock Five.

A soft jolt.

Attention all new arrivals. Heavy equipment is working in the personnel collectors of the Eurasia station airlock area. Please be careful.

Eurasia Station

“W
hat's that now?” a muted voice asked. “This capsule is marked as Reserve. What's this player doing in there?”

“Do you care? They said, everyone get in line. So that's what we'll do!”

“His tag is funny. A level 20 Pilot? Did he complete training twice?”

“What difference does it make to you? We've got too much on as it is. How are his vitals?”

“Look okay. He'll come round any minute.”

“Let's move it, then. The captain's already here! He'll be on our cases in a moment.”

The voices died in the distance. I opened my eyes again. It was cold. My teeth were chattering. The translucent lid over my head was gone. I lay exposed.

Is this one of Eurasia's cryogenic platforms?
the thought throbbed in my temples.
They will seize me!
I tried to suppress panic.

“D'you need a special invitation, you?”

An NPC stopped by my capsule. Gaunt cheeks covered in ginger stubble, a “helmet special” crew cut, an unknown uniform. His stare was cold but not unfriendly. “Get the hell outta there! Grab your gear and fall in!”

The alternative plot line had changed my affiliation to “Alt Outlaw” but it looked like Ingmud had somehow managed to delete it from my settings.

Hadn't he said to me,
May nothing surprise you
?

I grabbed at the capsule's sides and forced myself out. Here, I couldn't surprise anyone with my emaciated body (from the time when my metabolic implant had been in overdrive, burning my own body's resources in its fight against the toxic environment).

Attention all personnel. A cryogenic platform approaching Dock Seven.

A jolt, followed by more vibrations.

So! This hybrid was a genius! Was this the surprise he'd spoken about? If it went like this, they would deliver me to Darg protected by the full force of the Colonial Fleet! And I had been wondering how to jump their orbital defenses!

Two corporate types and an android walked along the wide passage between the two rows of sarcophagus-like capsules. I turned my back to them and grabbed the first piece of gear I could see, clueless about how to put it on.

They stopped next to me. One of them slapped my shoulder condescendingly, “You need to put the uniform on first! You
are
a newb, aren't you?”

“He can't think straight, Sir. They're all like that after suspended animation.”

I mumbled an unintelligible reply.

The room was packed with people. All gaunt and too confused to follow orders. I cast a few inconspicuous glances at their name tags. Players, levels 7 to 10. Mainly Soldiers, a few Pilots and Mechanics. I couldn't see any other specializations.

I hurried to pull on the uniform and began to kit up. It would be safer to blend in with the crowd. But Ingmud! I'd heard, of course, of the Founders' transmitters capable of sending cargos and passengers from one station to the next. But to beam me up right into a cryogenic chamber on board a platform which wasn't part of the Founders' technosphere... that had been risky indeed — not for him but for me.

A smile touched my lips. Enough racking my brains trying to second-guess Ingmud's actions. This was all part of the plot. Finally the traditional gameplay was back: by accepting the quest, I'd been immediately transported on board the Eurasia.

First things first. I opened my inventory and connected Ingmud's module to a spare mind expander slot.

I just hoped he hadn't botched it.

Now I had to sort out the one remaining neuronet implant. I only had six hours left to complete the Reincarnation task by deciding whether to grant it access to my mind expander. Still, this wasn't the right time. I'd probably have to do it while flying to Darg.

Things were looking up. I had a lot to celebrate. I'd survived and escaped the Outlaws' trap without losing my mind despite the lethal authenticity levels. I'd received new abilities, opened a unique quest chain and a most interesting development branch.

Now, once I completed the hybrid's quest, I could go back to my ship. The Haash would help me repair it. It would make us the first independent clan in the whole of Phantom Server — allowing us to travel wherever we wanted in search of adventures and new knowledge. Of which, I was sure, this world had plenty.

Admittedly the thought of Liori kept bothering me. I'd done everything I could to preserve the remaining fraction of her mind but the neuronet module containing it was still inactive. And God only knows how it would all go in the future.

* * *

Soon we were shepherded through the docking lock as a disorderly bunch of recruits.

I looked around me, studying the station with curiosity. It was nothing like Argus. Everything was so brand-new and in good working order. Each and every surface had a finish of some foamy substance that softened the framework's angles. Safety was key: this way no one would hurt themselves in zero gravity had the gravity generators packed up.

The corridor took us into a large hall with a coarse-meshed ceiling. The hangars were located on the deck above. A few of the ceiling's segments had been slid aside, revealing some working power hoists slowly lowering assault modules onto the deck. They looked impressive. You just felt you could trust those things.

I discreetly switched my Synaps' scanners on. I could now make out the outlines of electromagnetic coilguns retracted into the airframe as well as the links of ship defense lasers and two plasma generators on the bow.

Oh wow. Had we had one of those beauties, not a single Phantom Raider would have gotten anywhere near Argus!

I followed the other newbs up the escalator. Our assault module had just been lowered onto the docking pod and clanged into place. The railed-off assembly areas were packed with players, the sound of thousands of voices merging into a hum.

Another ship floated out of the cargo shaft. It was bigger than the assault modules and considerably worse for wear. The sheen of its hull had faded in places; its outer structures bore the signs of fire damage.

A multi-purpose corvette. Property of the Manticore clan.

The ship docked near the mooring platform where I and other newbs stood awaiting the next developments.

The ship's airlock opened. The outline of gravity airstairs shimmered softly in the air. Five players walked down the steps, levels 30 to 42. They hadn't wasted their time leveling, had they? They definitely looked straight from battle with their tinted visors still sealed, their armor surging with occasional charges of energy. Their suits' cargonite was dented and fire-polished; some of the damage looked critical. They'd had it rough. By the looks of it, they'd only survived thanks to their personal force shields which was why their suits were still in combat mode.

Unlike the newbs around me, I could scan their communication frequencies and decode the messages.

'Forget Argus
,' Manticore fighters were messaging to each other, ignoring us. '
It's just not worth it.'

'I beg to differ! Its respawn points are worth the trouble. I'm not going to run to the Corporation every time I need to resurrect! That's bullshit. Why on earth did they have to tie everything to the Founders' technology? You think it's got something to do with the difficulty levels?'

'Dunno. Our players did manage to build a respawn platform, didn't they?'

'So what? People keep dying anyway. It's just not up to the job. It can't be, considering they have a respawn waiting list already!'

'I agree,'
another voice joined in the chat. '
All this mass awakening and landing is a crazy idea. Trying to suppress the enemy with numbers and gun power without as much as a quick recon! That's a bit too simple, isn't it? Our admiral is unfortunately too limited in both brain and the imagination department — but what do you want from an NPC? Couldn't they have posted a human player to command the fleet?'

'So you don't want to participate in the landing? What other options do you suggest?'

'We need to think of some!'

'I agree. We need to split and go our own way. There're nine abandoned stations in the area. I just don't understand why they're all so fascinated by Argus?'

'Because it's the only one with a functioning reactor, sort of. It has a man-made infrastructure. All you can find at other stations are mobs, toxins and vacuum. Good to do a bit of leveling but definitely not good enough to settle down!'

“Okay. Let's talk about it later. The Admiral is waiting for us. Let's see first what he has to offer.'

There was logic in their reasoning. I just couldn't work out why they considered the Darg landing to be doomed from the start. From what I knew, the planet's orbit was defended by the slave traders' fleet: little more than a motley group of small craft unlikely to put up much resistance to Eurasia's frigates and cruisers.

The Manticore members disappeared from sight. An officer in the uniform of the Corporate airspace forces appeared from the assault module.

Immediately he was showered with questions,

“Lieutenant, wait! What's going on here? Why aren't we allowed onto the station? Are we free players or what?”

“I suggest you check your contracts,” he dropped without slowing down. “Fleet command will explain the rest.”

* * *

Most players seriously didn’t like it. The hall filled with indignant clamor,

“Are they raving mad with their authenticity levels? They've just pulled a dead body out of a cryogenic capsule, I saw it myself! They dragged it directly into the incinerator!

“The contract, what does it say actually? I haven't read it. Show me where it says it. Which page? Someone please?”

“It's in the beginning.”

“
Every beta tester commits to a hundred-hour obligatory period performing tasks issued by the project developers
,” someone quoted mockingly.

“Why is everybody so skinny? I have a custom-made avatar, what am I supposed to do with it now?”

“Don't worry, you'll beef up no problem. It's because of the cryogenics. According to the script, that's how you're supposed to look when you leave them. That's what ten years of suspended animation does to your body-”

“Which ten years? I logged in an hour ago!”

Then the air quivered over their heads, forming the 3D image of a gray-haired corporate type with Admiral's insignia on his airspace forces uniform.

Jonathan Higgs
, my interface offered helpfully. The Eurasia commander, no less. His lower-rank retinue hovered behind his back, their faces and outlines blurred.

I peered at the Admiral's face. The hologram's size and resolution were impressive. We all looked like insignificant bugs at his feet.

This was the intro I'd been so naively expecting when I'd first stepped on the Phantom Server cyber soil.

The figures behind the Admiral's back faded, replaced by an urbanscape of Terran cities. Stretching entire continents, enveloped in emissions, they sank in the acid mist that had long killed all wildlife.

The image began to blur, replaced by the picture of gigantic space stations and orbital docks busy building new spaceships.

The betas couldn't take their eyes off it. My lips curved in a bitter grin.

The true history of Phantom Server had been written in blood, literally. The neuronet implant technology had thrown us into the depths of hyper-realistic authenticity that was way beyond an average player's endurance.

The naïve crowd went quiet, taking in the beautiful intro, probably anticipating their imminent arrival in a world of mystery and adventure.

The show unfolded. I watched the Eurasia Fleet leave the Solar System. The movie had compressed the ten years of flight to a few colorful seconds until finally it arrived: an invincible space station surrounded by dozens of cryogenic platforms, cargo ships and combat craft.

The mauled outline of Argus emerged from space, followed by the rapidly growing globe of the planet. The Admiral's charismatic face loomed in front of them,

“We have traversed space in order to find a new home planet!” his voice rang with drama. “Now we need to take it by force. This isn't a raid — this is a military campaign. All of you,” he looked over the crowd of players, “will come under the command of the officers of the Corporate Fleet. Any disobedience of their orders will result in a drop in your reputation, or in the most severe cases, a drop in the offender player's levels. Those who excel, however, are guaranteed quick leveling and a share of the loot. Show no mercy to the Dargians!” the Admiral's voice filled with righteous fury. “They destroyed Argus!”

Sorry, but he was a bit loose with the facts there. The station had been attacked by Phantom Raiders. The Dargians, the Wearong and the Kamresh had arrived much later, together with the Outlaws who'd only finalized the massacre started by the mysterious alien ships.