Edge of Reality Page 6

  This logout ban should have sent alarm bells ringing. Then again, he had warned me — or at least hinted at it. So what had he been playing at? Had he hoped I'd become a mindless chunk of flesh wound with cables? And what were my prospects like now? A lifelong coma in the tender care of miscellaneous life support systems?

  After a while, the door clanged open. One of the "gnomes" walked in, accompanied by two drones. The lights went on automatically. The Haash stepped back into their cells trying to stay as far from the passage between them as possible.

  Still brooding, I studied the gnome. Disgusting. There was nothing human about him. A pushed-in nose, a pair of nasty beady eyes. A long face, an enormous toad-like mouth. Instead of hair, his head was covered with warts. What a heinous creature.

  I focused on him.

  A Dargian. Sentient Xenomorph. Level 22. Slave Driver.

  He had tons of hits — at least five hundred — plus two purple bars and an orange one. Let's presume that the purple ones signified the two drones' status. Where did that leave the orange one? A particular skill? An energy supply?

  Pointless trying to second-guess it. I was going to find it out sooner or later, anyway.

  I just couldn't work out what had prompted them to come up with such crippling imprisonment terms?

  There was a catch there somewhere, I just knew it. I also knew that getting to the bottom of the logout ban wasn't going to be easy. Still, I would do it.

  In the meantime, the Dargian stopped in front of my cell.

  I didn't avoid his stare. I had nothing to lose. Somehow I doubted they'd changed my respawn point. But still I didn't want to find out.

  He grinned, as if reading my thoughts, and pointed at the Haash. On his signal, the drones bent their ribbed tentacles and peppered the prisoner with pulse charges.

  Blood and pieces of flesh flew everywhere. Then I noticed the air shimmering green to my right.

  A respawn.

  The Haash winced with pain, growling under his breath. Point taken. They made it perfectly clear that my death would be equally painful and ignominious, followed by my immediate reinstatement as a slave.

  Lesson learned. I put this particular Sentient Xenomorph on my personal KOS list. For those not in the know, KOS stands for Kill on Sight.

  He grinned again. The magnetic locks clicked. The door of my cell slid aside.

  I lunged forward, aiming for his throat. My collar self-constricted, strangling me. The ever-watchful drones rewarded me with two paralyzing charges.

  I didn't lose consciousness. I hurt, fury clenching at my throat harder than the collar itself. All pointless.

  The Dargian entered my cell and lifted me in the air. He laid me on the floor and unbuttoned the top of my clothes.

  I tried to struggle free but failed. My muscles were lax and unmoving. For a few moments, the gnome watched me. Finally, satisfied with my helpless state, he produced a narrow box made of black plastic and touched a sensor button on it.

  A servomotor hissed gently. A bluish glow escaped the inside of the box. Five identical devices in their respective nests radiated an intense light, each reaching out with thread-like charges of energy that probed the air around them blindly, as if groping for a... a victim.

  The Dargian gave me a dirty look. His gaze focused. His fat fingers touched my right upper arm, squeezing an invisible pressure point. Pain surged through me.

  Anatomy had never been my forte. He, however, seemed to know what he was doing, feeling for a large nerve center. He found one and wheezed, reaching for his box, then reconsidered. His gaze focused again, studying me. His short fat fingers reached for my throat.

  Cold sweat erupted on my forehead. I was immobilized and utterly helpless while he grunted with contentment, feeling the vertebrae at the base of my skull.

  No, he was wrong again. His beady eyes grew harsh. The Dargian was getting nervous, apparently unable to find the problem. I can't have been the first human prisoner they'd had here, but now things seemed to have gotten out of hand. Something wasn't working right for him.

  My paralysis seemed to be wearing off. I tried not to show it but the gnome's keen eye immediately noticed my cheek twitch.

  More paralyzing charges tore at my mind, plunging me into a brief but welcome slumber. Then reality returned, drenched in pain and fear. The neuroimplant flooded my brain with an entire range of painful feelings available for all those billions of credits invested in its development.

  The objects and actions around me came back into focus.

  The Dargian leaned over me, panting heavily. In one open hand he held a glowing ball of thread-like energies. In the other he clenched some sort of surgical tool. The Haash craned their necks, watching the scene in silent tension. I thought I noticed a glint of sympathy in one's stare. That was the thing that finally did my head in.

  Suddenly I knew. Arbido had been right. This was a place of no return. First the neuroimplant turned the game into reality; then the developers' sick mercenary imagination joined in, wishing to evaluate, at these early testing stages, the adaptivity threshold of the human mind, creating neurogram databases and trying to determine the authenticity level at which the game's world would turn into a virtual tomb.

  I assure you it's very scary when you suddenly realize that the monster coming for you is real. That the rusty iron hook that he uses to strike sparks on the wall could soon tear your flesh apart. This is when the game ceases to exist. At these authenticity levels, the brain just can't tell the truth from fiction. One blow followed by going into pain shock could result, instead of a respawn, in a very real dead body. No amount of the "in-mode" could help here.

  All this flashed through my mind as some sort of intuitive epiphany.

  So all those dead bodies in full gear I'd believed to be part of the scenery were in fact dead players?

  No. It didn't sum up. I refused to believe it!

  The black box in his hands jolted.

  A wound gaped in my upper arm, reeking of burned flesh. There was no blood: the laser discharge had seared the blood vessels closed. The Dargian bent down, grinning. The ball of crackling electric charge slid off his hand right into the wound.

  It doesn't hurt!

  My eyes popped out.

  It doesn't hurt! It's a game! It can't hurt!

  My mind shut down mercifully.

  * * *

  I survived but it took me some time to recover.

  I had no idea how much time had passed. The wound on my arm had closed, leaving an unpleasant tingling sensation under the skin like the crawling of a tiny mechanical bug.

  The icon of a new system message kept flashing. I opened it.

  I Can Hear Them: quest completed!

  You have successfully implanted a semantic processor module. Now you can understand the language of the Xenomorphs!

  +1 bonus to Intellect

  +2 bonus to Perception

  You've reached the next level! You have new Talent and Characteristic points available!

  I was surprised to discover a letter from the Admins. Had they finally replied to my ticket?

  Oh no. This was much more serious:

  We inform you of the following actions we have undertaken:

  1. A support group has been dispatched to the address you provided.

  2. The capsule has been serviced, including the activation of the in-mode and replacement of life support cartridges.

  3. We have studied the existing neurograms in order to optimize the neuroimplant's functionality. Feedback levels have been lowered seven percent. Thank you for your cooperation.

  Scumbags.

  Then again, what was the point in spouting bile now? It had been my decision from the start.

  I chose not to argue with myself. Instead, I checked my inventory. All my possessions were still there: the Dargian carbonite helmet, a full set of human pressurizers and three types of weapons.

  The slots in my gear worked too. The only thing missing was the
fact that all the batteries were dead, armor as well as weapons. Without them, my gear was little more than a heap of technojunk.

  I activated the Prison Break quest but found no prompts. It was swim or drown.

  What was the deal with my new abilities?

  I looked around me. Indeed, my perception seemed to have upped a notch. I could see much better in the dark.

  It was time to try this semantic thing. I looked around me, searching for the Haash who'd looked at me with sympathy, and tried to strike up a friendship.

  "Hi. How did you end up here?" I asked the first thing that came to mind.

  He paused, casting a sideways glance at the fellow prisoners. Then he nodded.

  The mnemonic inbox blinked its icon. Mind boggles. Were we going to converse telepathically? My interface had no virtual keyboard: the advent of the neuroimplants had rendered them obsolete.

  Are you a Human?

  I crouched, leaning my back against the cold wall, and closed my eyes. Nice to meet you.

  It felt weird. My very first attempt to use the mnemonic chat. Forming phrases in my mind wasn't easy. My name's Zander.

  I'd already noticed that characters had no nicknames here but I'd explained this away by the fact that I'd so far only met NPCs.

  Apparently, I'd been wrong.

  I was speaking to another player!

  My... name's... Charon.

  I opened my eyes and tried to focus. That's right. I could see nicknames now. Did that mean that I couldn't identify the players properly without this semantic thingy of theirs?

  I hurried to check my KOS list.

  That's right. The char's information had grown. The Dargian slave driver's nickname was Rash.

  Charon? Have you been here long?

  Two full orbits, he answered promptly but obscurely.

  Two what?

  Two complete circles of the station around the star.

  You mean two years? I couldn't conceal my astonishment. Were the developers raving mad? Two years? The skin on the back of my head tingled, growing taut. I gulped, trying to calm down. Have you tried to escape?

  Impossible, the Haash answered darkly.

  Well, that remained to be seen.

  What's the problem? I struggled to pose clear-cut questions. I needed information badly. Personally, I wasn't going to stay here long.

  Rash is strong. You can't remove the collar. It will strangle you. The drones will paralyze you, Charon listed the problems one by one. We have nowhere to run, he added after a pause. This station has suffered a lot of damage. It's not easy to survive here.

  How about the other stations? And the planet?

  They won't let us in. And the planet belongs to the Dargians. It's their world.

  I felt curious. Where are you from, then?

  I'm from another star system, he answered calmly.

  I paused, thinking. I didn't want to play father confessor to the guy just to find out why he'd chosen a xenomorph as his char. The gaming worlds had their own etiquette. He'd tell me himself when he was ready. If he didn't, then I'd just have to consider him a xenomorph.

  Very well. I opened the inventory and checked my helmet's stats. The broken device was still there. Rash was going to regret his oversight.

  I addressed Charon again, Are you a pilot?

  Yes.

  Excellent. Time to try out more complex message options. I wasn't sure if I could do it but surely it couldn't be more difficult than sending an MMS?

  I closed my eyes trying to recreate the view out of the observation window just before the drones had attacked me. The view of the station's docking facilities.

  The Haash followed this mental picture with interest. This kind of communication sent shivers down my spine. Still, I was getting used to it.

  You know what it is?

  That's Yrob! despair was rapidly draining from his voice.

  Which is?

  One of our ships. We arrived at this system, he faltered, in a big ship. We wanted to study the Founders' stations. The Dargians attacked us. They destroyed the mothership. Our group broke away and landed here. Then they captured us.

  I see. What do they want from you? How do they use you?

  They want to use our knowledge. To study our ships.

  And none of you has ever broken down and told them anything? After two years?

  We have. We showed them. After torture. But they can't fly them. They don't know how to. These are our ships. They're not easy, he faltered again, searching for the right word, not easy to customize. Lots of things will have to be changed.

  Are they flightworthy?

  There's nowhere to fly to.

  How about the station next to this one? Who controls it?

  Humans. Your race.

  Are they a problem? I remembered the warning message about potential repercussions of my mixing with "xenomorphs".

  They'll kill us.

  How do you know?

  We divided into two flights during the attack. My group headed here. The other went to the other station. The humans took them prisoner. Then they killed them.

  It's been two years. Lots of things have changed since, I assured him even though I didn't know much. One problem at a time. At the moment, the Haash were my only chance of getting out of here. It wasn't that I was trying to take advantage of Charon. But I knew that in order to survive, a gaming world was obliged to have a well-developed economy. If the Dargians owned the planet and the humans were in possession of the station, they were bound to engage in intensive trade with each other. Which lowered xenophobia levels by definition. This I knew from experience.

  We can't escape.

  They had broken Charon's spirit well, hadn't they?

  We can still try! I, on the contrary, was filled with resolve, my mind replaying various options, going through the details of my daring plan.

  We can't.

  Why? You don't even know what I want to say!

  We don't have enough ships. Only three are still functional. And we are many, he sent me a mental image. At least fifty Haash prisoners!

  We can escape together, the two of us, I came up with a solution.

  A long pause hung in the air as he mulled over my words, exchanging a whispered word with other prisoners.

  If I escape, the Dargians will kill them.

  Not necessarily, I expected him to say something like that, so I'd come up with a suitable response. All they need to say is that it was all your idea. That they're happy to serve their masters. Trust me, it'll work. In fact, you can just blame everything on me!

  Will you help us? the Haash sidled over to their bars, hope and mistrust in their eyes.

  I felt uncomfortable. What could I promise them with my laughable level 3? Still, I couldn't even consider this torturous imprisonment for much longer. So I answered confidently,

  I will! You've been suffering here for two years already. Do you think you can take it for a little bit longer?

  They nodded.

  No sooner than I gave them this questionable promise, a message popped up,

  New quest alert! The Ties that Bind.

  Help the Haash escape from the station. Deadline: 50 days.

  Reward: doubtful, unknown. Your relationship with the Humans may deteriorate considerably.

  I paused, thinking. It was no good trying to get out of here without a pilot and a ship.

  Whatever. Once the Logout button was back on, I'd have plenty of time to think it over.

  I pressed Accept.

  Chapter Two

  Phantom Server. Login

  Charon and I immediately set about plotting our escape. Although my experience was limited to gaming, it suggested that we shouldn't drag it out.

  The distance between the bars was enough to squeeze my Dargian helmet through it. I "discarded" it from my inventory. It worked. Charon picked it up without a problem.

  "Why?" he studied the helmet. His unusual stunted speech patterns drove me to distraction
sometimes.

  "Do you have someone with tech skills maxed out?" I asked.

  My question hung in the air. Somehow I didn't think they understood me. Which was weird: how simple was it? Then again, two years spent in confinement must have been rough. Their mental state must have suffered a terrible blow.

  "I mean I need a good tech."

  Now they nodded their understanding. The helmet began changing hands until it ended up in the cell of someone called Danezerath. Some name. He had probably joined late in the game when all the nice nicknames had already been taken so he'd just entered a random combination or used the name generator. Happens to the best of us.

  "Danny," I adapted his name to my liking. It sounded ridiculously out of synch with his Haash appearance but he didn't protest. "Have a look at the device in the slot. You think you can take it out?"

  He easily removed the broken module and began studying it.

  "I need to have it repaired¸" I defined the problem. The Haash can be terribly slow on the uptake. Still, I didn't want to rush them. The impossibility to log out could turn anyone into an emotional wreck. We may say that we don't really need the real world, but it's extremely important to know that you can quit the game at any moment and never come back again. I had no idea what I'd feel after two years spent in limbo.

  Danezerath sat down on the floor and began taking the device apart in skilled practiced motions.

  Charon glanced at me, hope and doubt in his stare. I tried to get as much information out of him as I could. "Why did they implant me with the semantic processor?"

  He answered promptly without even thinking, "They do it to everybody. The Dargians love bossing everyone around. They go mad when you don't understand them. The top decks are dangerous. Quick information exchange equals survival."

  "What do they want on the top decks?"