The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) Read online

  “Right,” Jyrd grinned. “What do you want from me, then?”

  “Kill him! Destroy him once and for all! Block his resurrection point!”

  My fake impassiveness flew out the window. Was this freakin' tin can nuts or something? Without the respawn option, my physical body that had been left to the tender care of the in-mode life support modules would cease to receive signals from my identity matrix!

  Jyrd nodded without much thought. He knew perfectly well the meaning of the creature's demand. Killing someone “once and for all” meant that their avatar would stay forever trapped in the world of Phantom Server, adding to its sinister stage props. What it also meant, in case of “definite death”, was that the player's dead body rejected all the implanted devices.

  “I'll do as you say,” Jyrd said firmly.

  “Good,” Avatroid rumbled. “I have other things to do.”

  He turned round, having already lost interest in both me and the Outlaws, and faded into the dark depths of the ravaged decks.

  * * *

  His heavy footsteps sidled away.

  Khors cussed. “Gives me the creeps every time I see him. Off we go, then? To block Zander's respawn point?”

  “No,” Jyrd snapped.

  “You nuts? You've just said you'll do it!”

  “Khors, please. We need the ship's coordinates. He respawns one more time and we'll have them.”

  “But what if Avatroid finds out?” Khors asked anxiously. “Did you see where he went? It's hell down there. Can you imagine how many new mobs now populate the lower decks, thanks to this update? They'll rip our Frankenstein apart before he knows it.”

  “That's his problem,” Jyrd snapped back. “That would be too simple, wouldn't it? He'll have those mobs for breakfast, trust me. And I can't see what you've got to do with it!” he lost it.

  “Quit aggroing,” Khors said. “Can't you just tell me what's going on?”

  “And you don't see, do you?” Jyrd frowned. “I can't control him anymore, is that clear? This evocation was a good idea but I have a funny feeling it's time we call it a day. Enough playing with fire. So basically, I won't be too upset if he doesn't come back.”

  “All right, all right, but who's going to respawn those devices for us?”

  Eh? 'xcuse me? I remembered the uncompleted quest I'd received at Argus. Could that alien thing really resurrect machines?

  “I'm sure we can work it out ourselves. I've already leveled Replication, Disintegration and Materialization up to 10,” Jyrd fell silent, making it clear he didn't enjoy the conversation.

  “This Avatroid creature is a piece of work, I agree,” Khors heaved a sigh. “He gives me the creeps. Once an alien, always an alien. He overdid it with destroying Argus too. Not everyone is going to like your decision, though. Especially now when the Eurasia is about to land. We'll never hold our asteroid bases against it without Phantom Raiders. Did you hear their scouts' reports?”

  “Not yet. Didn't have time, did I? I was too busy learning to use the Destructor. Anything interesting? Make it short, please.”

  “In short, I can quote Admiral Higgs. ‘We know who assisted the xenomorphs in taking over the Argus station. All the Outlaws will be apprehended and eliminated,’ he says.”

  “Oh. Sounds too posh for a player.”

  “So it should. The Admiral and all the senior staff are NPCs,” Khors replied. “Level 200+. So are all the pilots, the landing troops and the colonial infantry. They're all around 100, not more. The players are few at the moment. Most likely, they'll be connected within the next twenty-four hours via the cryogenic platforms interface. According to the book, they've spent the ten-year journey in suspended animation.”

  Jyrd didn't seem to have liked the news. “What's with their equipment?”

  “Our stealthers only managed to inspect two of their hangars. They've scanned the latest airspace fighter, the Stiletto. Up to 100,000 armor. 10 megawatt shields. If I can be brutally honest, Condors are rust buckets next to them. We also managed to copy the signature of their assault module. Now that is something. Its performance characteristics are still being assessed but it's pretty clear that this little bird will make quick work of any of our shields. So if I were you, I'd give it another thought. It might not be the right moment to fall out with Avatroid quite yet.”

  Jyrd paused, pondering over his words. “Khors, would you like to go back to real life?” he finally asked.

  “You nuts? What am I supposed to do there after five years in the in-mode? At least here I'm alive! Back there I'm just a shriveled mummy hung with IV drips. And that's the best-case scenario.”

  “Then we need to think realistically. Our world is here. We're going to squeeze the ship's coordinates out of Zander now. This will allow us to disappear off Eurasia's radars for a while. This star system is big enough. We'll get some cover, too. And in a month or two when the game finally goes live, there'll be plenty of normal players around. True, if we withdraw now, we risk losing some of our bases in the asteroid belt. But this way at least we can return one day and become a force to be reckoned with, considering all the technologies we've studied. I'll tell you more: Admiral Higgs might have just turned the name, Outlaws, into a buzzword. We might see a whole bunch of new clans take it as part of their monikers. That might allow us to blend in with the crowd at first and stage our comeback as planned. We could restore Argus, I suppose, and make it into our citadel.”

  “That's all well and good but who's gonna cover our asses for us now? You told Zander that the developers have lost control of the game. But that's bullshit, can't you see that? Who do you think installed this update? Besides, when the Phantom Raiders arrived, the admins were prepared, don't you think? They were a bit too quick on the draw. Did they know that our experiment with Avatroid would end up in a massacre?”

  “It may have been a massacre, but we survived it,” Jyrd pointed out.

  “Answer my question.”

  “You really want me to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. The developers are only one side of the story. There's another force in the game, and this force would do anything to control Phantom Server. We have an agreement. That's all I can tell you at the moment.”

  “Do you mean that whatever happened on Argus is only an echo of real-world power games?” Khors insisted. “You were promised the station, then someone intervened, is that it? Do you imply that Zander,” he nodded at me, “was allowed to activate the alternative plot line simply to highjack the Founders' frigate right from under our noses?”

  My blood ran cold with his speculations. The information scalded me like icy water, soberingly lucid. So my mind expander's continuous work between respawns wasn't a glitch? Someone wanted me to see Avatroid and hear this conversation?

  But who? The game developers?

  I didn't think so. They were too desperate to rid the game of any alternative scenarios, impatient to release it as soon as they could.

  Jyrd's mysterious protectors, whoever they were, wouldn't bother to clue me in, either.

  Who, then?

  Was this guy right suggesting some “third force”?

  “Let's go, Khors. Time is an issue. How much time left till he respawns?”

  “Fifty-three minutes.”

  “We need to find a sealed module and get everything ready. As I said, this time we'll be killing him slowly. Until he sings.”

  Their voices died in the distance, the words consumed by the crackle of interference.

  * * *

  The Founders’ Station. Respawn

  I resurrected in a flash of emerald light.

  At first, I couldn't breathe. My every muscle was paralyzed with pain, my brain ripped apart, my thinking disjointed. I ignored the first batch of system messages. I had more important things to do.

  Wheezing, I scrambled to my feet. In a swipe of my eyes, I injected myself with a bumper doze of exo — my emergency stock. The small capsule containing alien m
etabolites gave me +50% to Strength, Stamina and Agility, leveling my chances in any potential combat with Outlaws.

  So where were they?

  The floor noticeably vibrated underfoot. Flashes burst through the dark, erasing it, playing with shadows. A geyser of molten metal rose above the remnants of the living modules, its incandescent spray spilling crimson clouds into zero gravity.

  Exo ran through my veins, dissolving in waves of fever. Reality bled through in large brushstrokes. I could see three assault modules approach the station, their shields pulsating as they deflected blows, their guns rattling as they mopped up a landing zone.

  The update: installed. The game developers' intent had breathed an ancient mechanical life into the station's silent halls. According to my scanners, the place was crawling with NPCs. The only active respawn point was drawing mobs like a magnet, also serving as a reliable beacon for a group of ships that had just broken away from Eurasia's main force.

  I ran a quick check of the area. The bodies of three Outlaws lay on the floor nearby, their suits ripped by missiles. Unfamiliar nicknames. The mechanical remains of shot-down serves were everywhere. The battle for the active respawn point must have been desperate.

  Engines flashed closer and closer. An assault ship was approaching an enormous hole in the station's hull. I darted and ran, sticking to the route I'd laid earlier. A fine emerald line was leading me down into the station's ancient depths. They weren't safe anymore, I knew that. Still, I had no choice. For me, nothing had changed. The countdown was on. According to the alternative plot conditions that I'd accepted, my faction relationship with the Eurasia Colonial Fleet members had turned to hatred. So I had only one way. Down.

  A familiar corridor, the gravity elevator, its shaft behind a crumpled bulkhead. A weak light seeped from inside.

  I had no time to ponder over it. Forty-five seconds left.

  I dove into the vertical shaft, flying past mangled pieces of gravity compensators. I landed on my feet, somehow keeping my balance, and began climbing over the debris, noticing the tell-tale molten dents in the walls. So I hadn't dreamed up Avatroid, then.

  Thirty-five seconds.

  I turned a bend, dove into a breached hole and ran through a succession of adjoining modules, noticing the ancient machinery glitter with indicator lights. The station's systems had activated — and I thought I knew who was trying to control them right now. This was a risky and very iffy undertaking. Most of the cyber modules sparked, some exploded; the dilapidated pipework puffed out flakes of frozen atmosphere, its giant snowflakes floating in the vacuum.

  Another elevator shaft.

  Quick!

  I dove into the dark, leaving the weak light behind fading rapidly.

  Twenty seconds.

  My legs gave with the impact. So! They had gravity here already. I cast a quick look around, noticing a forced door of a module down yet another corridor. The weak shimmer of a force field shielded the doorway. Just what I needed. I could see a murky haze swirl behind the shield: the place had an atmosphere.

  Five seconds.

  Three.

  The iridescent shimmer of the force shield closed behind my back.

  My helmet's visor began to open.

  Instinctively I held my breath. The vitals' indicators quivered, then jumped into the red zone.

  Radiation. Toxins. Only seven percent oxygen.

  For a short while, the metabolic corrector would allow me to breathe the toxic air. But the Outlaws had prudently stripped me of my life support cartridges, which meant that the implants were going to syphon my body's resources.

  I took a tentative breath. The room swam before my eyes. I was seeing double.

  You have received a dose of toxins.

  I willed my eyesight to focus, simultaneously trying to force the visor close and restore the suit's settings. To no avail. My interface was blocked. I couldn't deactivate the maintenance mode, couldn't remove the suit. Its force shield was inoperative.

  I cast a haunted look around. The module was small. Insulation still smoldered on molten cables. I could hear the screech of some machinery working behind the bulkheads. Holographic screens glowed dimly, dispersing the gloom but not showing any data.

  My heart was pounding. Exo was wearing off. My throat was raw with toxins. A mob lurked in the corner, glaring at me with its unblinking stare but unable to attack, crippled by a Critical Failure debuff.

  Great work on the developers' part, thank you very much!

  The mob could wait. He was no imminent threat. I had nothing to finish him off with, anyway. My integrated weapons didn't work and clubbing him with a piece of rusty pipe could prove counter-effective: every breath I took stripped me of ten points Life. I had to find an emergency life support module, I told myself, trying to be proactive and failing. I'd escaped the Outlaws but that was about it. I had nothing to replace the hacked gear chips with. And I wasn't skilled enough to reprogram them.

  I glanced over the remaining control consoles, reading the faded instructions. I had no problem understanding the Founders' language. Courtesy of the Dargians, I still had the semantic processor with its auto translate function. I followed the instructions and soon found a removable panel in the wall marked as Reserve Suit. The panel concealed a niche. Inside it, I discovered something very interesting.

  On the niche's floor lay a three-digit pressure glove made of a material unknown to me. It was soft but strong without visible seams. I saw several connector sockets. Apparently, they had been used to secure an entire pressure suit but its other elements must have disappeared over time. Judging by the clamps' size and their respective positioning, the suit was meant for a humanoid-type creature slightly taller and larger than man.

  A Founder's Glove.

  Item's class: Rare, Reproduced. Skills required to activate special abilities: Mnemotechnics, Technologist and Alien Technologies.

  I had no idea what this “reproduced” thing might mean. I'd never come across anything like it before. I wasn't pleased with the level restriction, of course, although I had no idea how I could use this three-finger gizmo.

  I looked over the glove and shoved it down my inventory. I was pretty sure I'd be able to study it at a later date. It would probably give Jurgen a heart attack.

  Until this day, I hadn't come across a single picture or description of Founders. So apparently they had three-digit hands, just like the Haash.

  Apart from the empty clamps, I also found a hemispheric panel with three round indentations on it. A sign by the panel read, Turn knob to activate emergency systems.

  The device must have been very old. Touching it wasn't a healthy idea. Still I decided to take the risk.

  Straining my fingers, I turned the hemispherical knob. A sharp hissing sound echoed under the ceiling. With a pop, the atmosphere grew muddy.

  Space is a tough environment. One wrong step here can mean sudden death.

  I was lucky. The murky white particles turned into mist. My suit's sensors pinged, choking on the sound. Radiation levels remained the same while the concentration of toxins dropped dramatically. The oxygen indicator froze at 12%. Either the chemicals had lost part of their properties or those Founder creatures who'd built the station didn't need much. One more mystery on the Founders' list of secrets.

  Very well. At least now I breathed in only the bare minimum of toxins.

  Mechanically I gave the mob in the corner a wide berth. He was level 70 against my 20. Much as I would have liked to, I wouldn't have even left a scratch on his steel body, even if I found some old piece of steel to brandish.

  The floor and the bulkheads kept shuddering. In the brief time it had taken me to study the room, the artificial gravity had gone off and come back on again a few times. The light had gone off too at some point, then the ceiling panels resumed their weak yellowish glow.

  I thought I knew what was going on. The installed update had turned the ancient space station into a complex multi-level dungeon, and eac
h of its decks promised a player an unforgettable experience. Because all those Eurasia staff needed someplace to do their leveling, didn't they?

  Actually, they'd already started doing exactly that. The assault modules I'd noticed must have served as cover and landing support for a raid.

  I sat down, trying to level my breath and calm down. I needed to concentrate. The activation of this ancient emergency system now gave me the chance to recover my senses.

  One of the icons on my interface flashed insistently,

  You have unread messages!

  Very well, let's have a look.

  Quest alert: Immortal Hardware. Quest completed! The rumors have been confirmed. The Outlaws are in possession of a technology allowing them to resurrect all weapons and devices destroyed in combat.

  Shame I wouldn't get any XP as I couldn't close the quest. Argus had been looted and burned. I knew nothing about the vendor's fate.

  Never mind. I'll live. I opened the next message.

  Quest alert: Shadows of the Past. Available within the alternative plot line only.

  By watching Avatroid's manifestation, you've created a scanner file containing information about the Founders' unique technology: Materialization. You can either study it yourself or hand it over to the science department of the Eurasia Corporation.

  Reward: In the former case, you will acquire a new skill unavailable to other players. In case of surrendering the information to the science department of the Eurasia Corporation, your relationship with the Fleet's senior staff will improve to Neutral.

  In order to study Materialization you will need the following skills:

  Technologist, level 30+

  Mnemotechnics, level 30+

  Alien Technologies, level 30

  Other abilities required: Replication, Disintegration and Object Replication.

  They didn't want much, did they? The quest rather resembled some sort of sick indulgence offer. I suppressed a smile. Had they just offered me a potential way out? All I needed to do was contact the players who'd just landed on the station and hand the information over to them?