Galactogon by Vasily Mahanenko
Book 2: In Search of the Uldans
Release - April 25, 2019
Pre-order - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NJ569WP
Chapter One
If
you have ever been killed before—in real life, I mean—then you have my most sincere
condolences. There is nothing pleasant about this procedure: It is frequently painful,
unnerving and scary. Accordingly, if you are not partial to masochism, I
recommend you avoid psychos and serial killers. Otherwise, my advice is grin
and bear it and hope that if paradise awaits you after death, it will be like
the one I’m currently in.
The sun in this, my
personal paradise, is always at its zenith, but you don’t have to worry about
heatstroke or sunburn. Comfort here is paramount. I blinked blissfully, staring
straight into the disk of hot light and savored the sea breeze along my skin.
Warm, emerald waves lapped at my feet and tickled them like a playful girl. The
sweet chirping of exotic birds behind me mixed with the surf to form a tranquil
music. Everything around me dispelled any possible cares and submerged me in
nirvana—which is what I concentrated on, letting my mind enjoy a moment of
peace. In precisely ten seconds I will give myself a mental kick and remind
myself that these are nothing but illusions, digital decorations, plastered upon
the walls of the medical diagnostic center. In precisely ten seconds—and not a
second more. I have to remember who I am and why I am here.
My name is Alexis Panzer.
I am a progamer who specializes in Galactogon, although at the moment, I’m in a
therapeutic VR scene generated by my medical recovery capsule. The world around
me is a projection created to deceive my mind. I have to feel whole and
healthy. Only then, according to the doctors, can I recover from my surgeries.
Three days have passed
since I regained consciousness and found myself on this beach. Since then my physician
has dropped in to visit me as well as to check in on my psychological recovery
and discuss my physical condition. And, the physician pointed out, my physical
condition was pretty poor. My battle with the final boss, Constantine, cost me
an arm and a leg, literally, and then some: I needed a heart transplant, three
synth-tissue patches on my lungs, and prosthetics for my arm and leg. There is
still no prognosis and all my questions receive the same boilerplate answer: ‘Your
current state is satisfactory.’
But it’s the not knowing
that hurts most. I don’t know how my struggle with Constantine ended, and I
constantly ask myself: How did I end up in the capsule? How long was I
unconscious? What happened with Eunice and our child? Every attempt to learn
anything from the doctor ended in failure. Doc claimed he knew nothing and told
me to shut up. I obediently kept quiet, followed his instructions and waited.
The important thing was to live. I hadn’t the strength to do anything more.
My eyes began to ache from
looking at the sun for a long time. Squinting, I brushed away the tears. The
discomfort was pleasant, if only because it took my mind of my anxious thoughts.
Suddenly I heard the rustle of sand, as if someone was walking along the
strand, but I was not worried. My doctor always appeared like that, gradually,
instead of materializing beside me so as not to scare me. Delighted by the
company, I greeted him warmly without opening my eyes:
“Guten Tag Herr Doktor! Buen dia! Buon giorno! I hope, Patient Panzer has
managed to demonstrate a healthy spirit?”
“And then
some, in my view,” answered an unfamiliar voice. “But I lack the medical
expertise to declare it with any authority.” I opened my eyes and tried to look
at the stranger through the dark spots and the sun’s blinding rays. From my position
on the sand, all I could make out were some expensive leather shoes.
“Good afternoon,
Alex. It is extremely inconvenient to speak when you are in this position.
Could you stand up please?”
While I silently got up,
my information-starved brain worked at a frantic pace. The doctor had always
showed up casually: sandals, canvas shorts and a cheerful shirt covered in
multi-colored pills like he was Dr. Mario, so as not to disturb me. This
visitor though had appeared in his finest dress: A strict business suit, a
leather case and name-brand accessories. Either this is a representative of the
corporation’s legal department—people who tended to sleep in their suits and
slacks—or he’s a junior detective who wants to frighten me. My intuition
screamed that the second option was more likely, but my experience insisted
that this man had some power behind him. His commanding demeanor did not
suggest he was trying to make an impression on me.
“Thank you. Have a seat.”
An office table and two chairs materialized right there on the sand. The man
took off his sunglasses, opened the suitcase and, undoing the bottom button of
his jacket, sank into one of the chairs. While I silently occupied the other
chair, he took out several sheets of paper from a suitcase and arranged them on
the table in a neat pile.
“My name is Reynard the
Fox. My title and responsibilities do not matter at the moment. What is salient
here is that I can help you resolve the difficult situation you find yourself
in,” the man looked at me expectantly.
“Could you explain what that
situation is?” I asked. “I’m a little detached from reality at the moment, for
reasons of health.”
“I understand. The law
enforcement investigation believes that you intentionally moved to a dwelling
equipped with special security and hacking equipment. The owner of the house
you rented has already been charged with illegal use of specialized equipment.
You hacked the tracking system, tricked one of the competitors and killed him.
Having made sure that Constantine was dead, you tried to get rid of Eunice, reckoning
that she and her child were a burden. Thus, you faked an assault on yourself
and falsified evidence in order to frame Constantine. This is currently the
official theory of how the crime was committed. Do you have something to say?”
“Are you insane?!” I
jumped to my feet from the madness I’d just heard. “It didn’t happen that way
at all! He was the one who threatened us with a gun. He shot Eunice in her legs
and arms! He threatened to kill her and then bring the child to term inside of
her like…like she was some kind of incubator! I did what I did because I feared
for our lives!”
“Please, take your seat! I
understood you. The doctor does not want you to grow agitated. I agree that the
official theory has some flaws. That is why I’m here. Tell me your version of
events. According to official information, Constantine should have been in a
coma under the supervision of doctors at the time of the crime, but instead he
was found shot dead in your house. Cameras in the street have him coming to you
independently and fully conscious. Is that so?”
“It is,” I agreed, taking
my seat again and with a hollow voice asked, “Are Eunice and the child still
alive?”
The sensible part of my
mind quickly took hold of my emotions, isolating the important from what
Reynard had said: ‘You tried to get rid of Eunice.’ This could mean different
things.
“They are alive indeed,
but they are in intensive care. She has lost a great deal of blood and the
child’s life is in danger. The doctors are doing everything they can, though
Eunice’s life is not in danger.” These words took a great weight from my soul. “She
is being held in a medically-induced coma and no one is allowed to see her.
Consequently, you are the only witness in the investigation at the moment. Let’s
return to the purpose of my visit. I’m listening to you.”
Trying not to miss a
single detail, I told Reynard about everything, starting with the exit from the
game cocoon. Constantine’s appearance, his threats, the shooting, my desire to
save my child—and me throwing the weight plate from my barbell. I had nothing
to hide because I am a law-abiding citizen and was confident that the experts
would draw the right conclusions. Thinking, I decided to add an important
detail:
“He jammed my smart home
system, but he couldn’t know that mine occupied only half of our resources.
Eunice had control over the other half. She could have recorded a video. Here
is the access key to the system. Check it out.”
Reynard nodded and
disappeared into the air where he sat. A second later, his belongings
disappeared along with his chair and table, leaving me sitting alone in the
middle of the beach. I stroked the upholstery of my armrest and made sure that
Reynard the Fox had not been a figment of my imagination. I felt a little bit
of ease—my family was alive, so the rest was unimportant.
Once more time turned to
molasses. An hour passed, another, a third, but no one was in a hurry to drop
the charges against me. In the end, I got up and, with almost Olympic calmness,
returned to my main activity, swimming laps along the waves.
Almost a day had elapsed
before I finally received the long-awaited news. No matter how hard I tried to anticipate
my guest’s reappearance, Reynard managed to catch me off guard, materializing
right beside me.
“Good afternoon, Alex. On
behalf of the corporation and law enforcement, thank you for your cooperation.
The incident has been fully reconstructed. There was indeed a video. All the
charges against you have been dropped.”
“Thank you,” I nodded,
relieved.
“Certain decisions have
been made and I have been tasked with acquainting you with them. Sit down, this
conversation will be long and difficult.”
The desk and chair reappeared,
once again recreating the seaside corporate office. I sat down in my old chair,
which had remained after the last visit and therefore become my ‘seat of
meditation’ over the last 24 hours.
“Let’s get right to the
point. In view of the circumstances, it was decided to terminate the scenario you
were involved in ahead of schedule. This was done pursuant to clause thirteen
of the contract you signed, the ‘Force majeure’ clause. You may reacquaint
yourself with it if you like.” Reynard handed me the signed document and I read
over the standard force majeure boilerplate.
“You might agree that this
is the only reasonable solution. All project participants have already been
notified of the closure and…”
“What participants?” I
stopped him. “Has Eunice woken up?”
“Not yet. Constantine
killed only six,” Reynard replied. “Your friend, whom you asked us to take care
of, is alive. Constantine was bluffing when he said that she and her family
were dead.
Alonso and Lucille are
alive! I even pumped my fist from joy. I had spent my time here tormenting
myself for not being able to save them and here it turned out that it had all
been in vain. They were alive!
“Permit me to go on. My…employers…have
instructed me to destroy the prize planet and everything that is somehow connected
with this scenario—so that human greed does not cause more people to suffer. Yet,
it would be unfair to leave you without any reward, since you lost your
opportunity to find the prize even as you were so close to finding it. As
compensation for the loss of profits for reasons beyond your control, you have
been allowed to retain all the rewards you received in the course of your
attempt.”
“Rewards?” The word caught
me off guard.
“You sound surprised…Why?
Galactogon is a commercial project aimed at generating income. Maximum profit
is possible only if the internal game balance is respected. No players may have
an unfair advantage—or disadvantage—relative to the others. Everyone is equal,
within limits. The exception are those individuals who spend their real money
in Galactogon, but they are treated as a discrete playerbase that requires its
own balance. In the case of the competition you took part in, the contestants
were initially placed in conditions that were radically different from those
faced by ordinary and commercial players. The corporation therefore instituted a
reward and penalty system and applied it to the decisions you made in the
course of your attempts. I could furnish some examples to explain better.”
I nodded, unable to hide
my chagrin and trying to dampen the fire which had just incinerated all my professional
self-esteem to a sad heap of ash. Stupid old me had assumed that I had earned
what I had. I thought I was cool, smart, unique.
Reynard, meanwhile, took a
document from the suitcase and read:
“If you care to examine
this—here are all the rewards. Item: You received compensation for meeting the
conditions for starting your search. Specifically, you could not know anything
about the game, you could not prepare for it, and you had to make your choices
based on your intuition. Item: You helped another player fulfill his long-cherished
dream of becoming a pirate. You could have escaped from the Training Sector on
your own, but took the player with you. For this, you received a frigate and
engine prototypes. Item: You filed a formal complaint against the hacker Dan
Cormak, as a consequence of which he was sentenced to twenty-two years and had
his illegally-acquired property confiscated. For this, you received your own
planet. Item: You tried to warn your fellow contestants and competitors about
impending disaster, in particular, Lucille and Eunice. For this, you received an
orbship with a full crew. Item: You agreed to marry Eunice, putting the
interests of the child above yours. For this, you were granted access to the
Zatrathi orbital station. Throughout, all your decisions and actions were
considered by a special commission and found worthy of encouragement. Due to
the project’s termination, this commission has been dissolved and there will be
no more rewards. Now you are a regular player in Galactogon, but, as I said,
you are allowed to retain all of the rewards listed above. And with them you
have the chance of ensuring substantial profits for the owners of Galactogon.”
“If I return to
Galactogon,” I muttered angrily. Keeping calm was proving difficult. My
professional self-esteem had just suffered a significant blow. Everything was
bubbling inside of me. It turned out that they had helped me out all along my
way. I had played with a handicap. And now that their little betting game was
done with, the mighty of this world had folded up the board and placed the
pieces back in their case.
“There is little doubt
that you will return. Your injuries require lengthy and expensive treatment.
You must spend the next six months in a medical recovery capsule. And as luck
would have it, your medical bills cost about as much as a couple high level
spacecraft in Galactogon, while your current financial situation leaves much to
be desired. Take a look.” Reynard handed me a sheet of paper. “This is your
balance sheet: Your assets and accounts. That red number is the balance owed by
you as of today, minus the costs of treatment and rehabilitation in the clinic
for the current month. Do not forget that from now on you are responsible not
only for yourself, but also for your spouse and child. Even if you liquidate
all property, there is enough money for only two months, no more.”
“And you won’t help us? We
didn’t end up here because of our own mistakes. We are here because two fat
cats decided to have a little fun! They are liable for our condition and must
pay for the treatment. It’s spare change for them.”
“Mr. Panzer…Mr. Panzer…”
Reynard shook his head. “Be careful about what you say. I understand that you
are upset now, and I will pretend that I have not heard anything, but keep in
mind that I represent the legal interests of my clients. You are an intelligent
man. It is foolish to blame anyone for the actions of a maniac. Do not take this
as a threat, but no one except you is responsible for what happened. Let me
remind you that you signed the contract voluntarily and, as a result, accepted
all the risks and consequences. But…my employers are ready to tender you a
helping hand. Your medical capsule will be connected to Galactogon, giving you
the option of playing the game and therefore earning money to pay for your
treatment. First, we will connect you. Later on, when she is feeling better, we
will extend the same offer to Eunice.”
I pulled the document over
to me dramatically and rubbed my nose. Treatment and rehabilitation in a private
clinic really cost a lot.
“What about transferring
us to an ordinary clinic?” There had to be some way of severing all ties with
Galactogon.
“The choice is yours,”
Reynard did not try to dissuade me and pulled out another sheet. This Fox
character seemed loaded with boilerplate for any occasion. “Here are the
findings from the medical commission. Without the current medical capsule
supporting you, you have two days to live. Public clinics, unfortunately, are
not equipped with such modules, and it’s not for me to tell you about the quality
of their services.”
I felt like a hunted
quarry which had only one way out—to surrender. And the truth was that I myself
would customarily go to private doctors and clinics as soon as I felt under the
weather. The public healthcare was free and very good, but it was twenty years
behind the private sector in terms of medtech.
“So what is your decision?”
Reynard hiked an eyebrow. He gave me next to no time to think.
“As if I have a
choice…Very well. I agree to your terms.”
“I figured you would. I
won’t occupy you any further. Rest assured that your oral consent is sufficient
for your capsule to be hooked up to Galactogon. You’ll feel right at home—the
weather’s quite hot in there too at the moment. All the best!”
Reynard vanished, taking
his office furniture, documents and the still open briefcase with him. Caught
off guard, I collapsed into the sand and swore long and hard, feeling even more
angry and humiliated.
Will you just look and see
how quickly the bettors pulled the plug on their entire wager as soon as the
results had become clear! At least I can be happy that we got off so easy—along
with the prize and the planet, they could’ve just as easily ‘pulled the plug’
on all the survivors as well.
“We need to run some
tests, Alexis.” The doctor appeared immediately after Reynard left and seemed
already up to date. “We must check to see how your time in Galactogon will
affect your body. We will start with a few seconds and then gradually increase
the interval. We’re connecting you to the test server now.”
The seascape around me
drifted and reformed into a colorful spaceport. I managed to make out several
docked frigates before I returned back to the beach. The doctor was nearby. The
medical capsule gave him a full account of my physical condition, but the
doctor himself wanted to monitor my emotional stability.
“Excellent. There is no
adverse reaction. We will increase the immersion interval to a minute. If you
feel sick, simply sit down on the ground. This will serve as a signal to stop
the test.”
The interval kept
increasing: first a minute, then five, ten, half an hour, an hour, three. The
next two days for me turned into a series of spatial jumps from the beach to
the unfamiliar spaceport in Galactogon. There were no other players on the test
server and the NPCs offered few dialog options, so at first I wandered
aimlessly amid the empty buildings. Then it occurred to me to take the
opportunity and look for non-trivial ways to get into the control center. I figured
that most of the Galactogon spaceports were created using the same templates,
and as a pirate in training, it was useful for me to know the ways of getting
into the planet’s holiest of holies.
“The tests have been
concluded successfully, you are ready to enter Galactogon,” the doctor
announced after the second day. “Any requests before we send you to the game?”
“Yeah. I want to connect
the capsule to my smart home system.”
I would be lost without
Stan to guide me along. Information analysis, web search, a sensible
adviser—the personality matrix of my home AI suited me like a glove and I was
not about to give it up. In addition, it was unwise to allow yourself to leave
reality for half a year without maintaining your business IRL. Stan would be my
eyes and ears in the real world.
“Our clinic does not have
its own technicians, nor the capability to do this, but for an additional fee
we can contact your home AI’s service department. Will that suit you?” It did
not suit me one bit and in fact it annoyed me even more, but also there was
nothing I could do about it. After a long and ornery conversation with a clinic
representative, I felt like twisting the neck of the thin-necked extortionist.
It should be legal to sign contracts with tears, as if to say: ‘I agree with
the terms, but I ain’t happy about them.’ I was forced to pay an amount with
five zeroes to expand the clinic and install extra broadband channels. The
clinic director was unmovable: Either I pay the specified amount or I don’t get
Stan. The bank terminal appeared as soon as I hollered my consent and kicked up
a cloud of sand in exasperation. Those bastards. I don’t even want to imagine
how much it costs to integrate a banking module into a medcapsule.
“Good afternoon, Master, what are your instructions?” Stan could not
speak, only write to the chat in the interface, but even this was enough for me
to break into a wide grin. My heart immediately warmed up.
Saying goodbye to the
doctor and agreeing to weekly check-ups, I found myself in complete darkness,
barely diluted by a loading bar. Galactogon was slowly seeping into the medical
capsule. The loading bar reached a hundred percent and the game opened its arms
to accept me. I had been gone a mere six days, but it felt as if I had lived an
entire life during my absence.
I spawned in the palace of
the Precian Emperor, in one of its myriad guest rooms. I made a few familiar
movements to check my new hardware’s performance and collapsed in my bed as I
was. Now it was possible to relax and sleep—my own caring doctor had injected
me with a mild tranquilizer. My last thought before shutting down was that I
should forbid him from doing this the next time I saw him.
***
“Captain Surgeon, an
official reception with the emperor will take place in four hours.” A soft
knock and a polite voice broke through my sleep. A Precian noble stood in my
room’s doorway. “Would you like to freshen up before the audience?”
This offer came in very
handy. Having caught up on my sleep, I was ready to calmly figure out what had
happened in the game since I left and where the hell my damn ship was. I could
not contact my crew: The NPCs did not respond to my comm, and I still hadn’t gotten
my marine armor back, so I started with the most important thing: integrating
with Stan. There was no voice feature for communicating with third-party
software in Galactogon. The only way to communicate was to chat through my
avatar’s PDA. This turned out to be very inconvenient, and it was Stan who
found a solution. He began our communication with several detailed reports
about how he missed me, how he had waited for me, how little resources he had
left, and how brazen, evil law enforcement officers had rummaged through his
databanks. Listening to his litany of complaints, I made a mental note to lower
his emotion settings. Stan seemed to be trying to match the behavior of a
person, and forgot his main duty—to provide me with analytical data. At the first
attempt to gain an answer, my patience failed. Stan came to the rescue. His
next message contained instructions for setting up voice input and audio playback
in the PDA interface. The only pity was that the PDA only had a loudspeaker
option which everyone around me would hear. This would constrain what I could
say to Stan.
“Home construction is currently at 70%, all systems are
already connected. What are your instructions, Master?”
“All right. I need the
following information…”
It took Stan some time to amass
the data on the current state of my finances, the location and operation of my
clinic, the recovery technologies in my medcapsule, the limitations and
negative consequences of my six-month convalescence in it, as well as the cost
of such a model for personal use. The problem had to be considered from all angles.
Stan assured me that his data collection would be assigned the highest
priority, wished me a speedy recovery, reminded me to do my morning workout and
disconnected. I already felt like I was at home—a week without a loyal
assistant was an eternity.
While I was dealing with
urgent matters, two Precians drew a bath and waited to help me wash and then
have a massage. Too bad that Galactogon had a 12+ age limit. Everything was by
the book, decorous and noble, with no hint of eroticism, let alone happy
endings. Eh…A pleasant languor spread through my body, and I had to force
myself to look through my current list of missions:
The Imperial Gift: You have been given a
unique opportunity to meet with the emperor of the Precian Empire and receive
from him a reward for finding information about the KRIEG.
The Stork and the Fox: Notify Alviaan, First
Councilor of the Delvian Emperor, that the princess and he have ‘made it.’
Meet Trid: Meet Trid, Hilvar’s
contact, hand him the envelope and receive his instructions. Return to Hilvar
with his message.
A Pirate I was Meant to Be. Part 1: Destroy 150 interceptors
(12 of 150 destroyed) or 125 scouts (0 of 125), or 100 shuttles (0 of 100), or
75 monitors (0 of 75), or 50 frigates (0 of 50), or 20 albendas (0 of 20), or
10 cruisers (1 of 10).
Treasure Hunter: Find your way to the secret Uldan base, located on a moon of
the planet Zalva. Required item: Orbship Warlock.
On top of this, I had
earned two audiences with the emperor of any of Galactogon’s empires for earning
the ‘First Defender’ and ‘Semper Fidelis’ achievements. In total, three
meetings with the masters of this universe. Not bad, though it’ll go sour quick
if the system decides that this one meeting with the Precian Empire counts for
all three. Just in case, I better extract the utmost from this one, which means
I need to thoroughly prepare and call my partner.
“Marina, how are you? This
is Surgeon speaking. Do you have any interests in the Precian Empire?”
“What the hell, you
weirdo! You just call me as if nothing’s happened?! Is this some way of making
fun of me?” the girl yelled in response to my greeting. I was taken aback, not
expecting such a turn. “Or is your nut sack too small to show up in person?
‘Cause if so, sew yourself a bigger one, you surgeon, and we can talk when you’ve made yourself a big boy!”
“Wow.” I couldn’t help
appreciate the state that the typically-restrained captain of the Cruiser Alexandria was in. Most likely, Kiddo
was pissed about the disappearance of my planet, which served as the homeworld
for her cruiser. If that was the case, I’d better not keep the truth from my
partner. “Marina, I’ve been away from the game for six days due to health
problems. I almost swapped this metal box for a plush wooden one. I have no
idea what happened during that time. You are the first person I called because
I still assume we’re partners. Let’s not start fighting right away. What happened?”
A noisy exhalation in the mic
and a long pause suggested that Marina had switched her mental tumbler from the
‘pissed’ to the ‘cogitating’ setting. After a short while, she managed to calm
herself:
“Last night I attacked
Shylak XIV, the Qualians’ trade planet, overwhelmed the Grand Arbiter and
destroyed the planetary control center. Basically, the raid went off better
than we could have expected. But then the aliens showed up out of nowhere and attacked
Alexandria, destroying her. That is
to say that they appeared on the opposite edge of the galaxy from where their
invasion is supposed to be happening! The binding to your planet vanished and so
did the planet itself. Hell even the star system, no longer exists! Without a homeworld,
Alexandria respawned in Qualian
space. And those buggers boarded and captured her. So what am I supposed to
think, partner? I trusted you and now I am stranded without a cruiser! And what
the hell did the devs get involved for?”
“The Zatrathi attacked
only your ship or everyone in the system?” I frowned, hearing her account. As I
had assumed, Marina’s troubles stemmed from the devs’ having moved Blood Island.
If I understood Reynard correctly, the planet was still in Galactogon, but only
Brainiac, my ship’s computer, would know its coordinates. But anyway, what were
the Zatrathi doing in Qualian space? My many years spent playing Runlustia paid
off—the plot twists remained similar. If the invaders attacked only Marina’s
vessel and ignored everyone else, then the Galactogon playerbase had some merry
times ahead of it.
“Is that all you care
about?” came the indignant cry from the comm. “I lost my ship! What’s the
difference who else the aliens attacked?”
“You haven’t lost anything
yet!” I snapped back. “In a couple hours, I have an audience with the Precian Emperor,
I will ask him for help. They are in the same alliance with the Qualians. Let
me ask you one more time, did the Zatrathi attack only you or everyone?”
Kiddo did not hurry to
reply, seemingly mulling the ambush over in her head.
“You’re right, they only
attacked us. They didn’t bother with the other players raiding Shylak. What
does this tell you?”
“What does it tell me?” My
fears had been confirmed. “Do you have assets with the Qualians?”
“Oh only my legendary cruiser!”
“Aside from the ship.
Other ships, mining facilities, valuables? Everything you can take with you.”
“Suppose I do. What’s it
to you?”
“Get it all out. Logic
dictates that within the next week, the Qualians will announce their withdrawal
from the Alliance and join with the Zatrathi. First of all, the Qualians have
lost their prince. Second of all, there is news that the KRIEG has been completed.
Third, the players are being pushed to fight on two fronts, just the way the
developers like it, and now there’s this Zatrathi ship ambushing you. All
indications are that the Qualians are about to start a power struggle for
mastery of Galactogon. I’ll figure out what happened to my planet and try to
get your ship back. By the way, where are you now?”
“I’m in prison on Raydon,
the Qualians’ second largest trading planet. I’m under arrest until the
investigation runs its course.”
“So sit tight and wait
quietly. What about your business in the Precian Empire? Don’t hold back.
Consider it compensation for the loss of your ship. I have the audience with
the emperor coming up and I don’t really have anything to ask him. Just some
trifles. It would be foolish to waste such an opportunity.”
“Precians, you say? Yes,
there is one piece of business. There is a trading combine called Hansa that’s
based on the planet Belket in Precian space. Hansa specializes in weapons,
ammunition and high-end ship weaponry. They are the best gunsmiths the Precians
have and by extension the Alliance as a whole. Their services cost astronomical
amounts of money, but their products are always singular. You can’t buy them
from players, even after the latest update. It would simply be the bees’ knees
if the Precian Emperor grants me permission to work with them and throws in a
discount for the cooperation, of say, twenty percent. I know plenty of people
who are ready to purchase Hansa products, but who don’t have the chance due to
the current limitations. If we manage to set ourselves up as middlemen, the
income will be modest but stable. We can go in fifty-fifty if you like.
Galactogon’s accountants can generate the relevant reports. What do you say,
partner?”
“I’ll say it’s a pleasure
doing business with you, partner,” I replied. “You’ve got a deal. Do you know
where Wally and the team are right now?”
“I don’t know for sure. I
don’t keep track of them, but I think they’re out hunting small ships. All
right, I have to go. They’re about to take me on my daily walk. Call me in
about four hours and let me know how it went with the emperor.”
Marina disconnected and I
grinned. Naturally, Kiddo had no reason to track my ship herself, since Wally
would do that for her. Every chance he got, he sent reports about what was
going on to his true boss.
“Mister Surgeon, it is
time.” A Precian appeared next to me with clothes for me to wear. “You are
already expected in the audience hall.”
Compared with its
analogues in Runlustia, the emperor’s ceremonial hall in Galactogon could be
called ascetic. I was used to the fact that every detail of the palace interior
had its own history—everything had artistic and, most importantly, material
value, which meant it could be stolen and sold for a profit. Here, however, the
eye had nothing to latch onto. The place was like any other ordinary gray room
that had been labeled the ceremonial hall and which had a psychedelic throne in
its center. It was an odd approach on the part of the devs to the design of a
location that many players wanted to get into. But it should be noted that the
palace matched its owner. Outwardly, the emperor differed little from his
subjects. He was a blue-skinned humanoid wrapped in a legendary suit of armor
and therefore looked more like a space marine than one of the twelve most-influential
NPCs in Galactogon. Only the hologram of a crown above his pointy-eared head
and long, thin neck suggested his higher status.
There were about twenty
attendees in total, but I was the only player among them. Standing last in line
for my reward, I realized the reality of what was going on. Reynard warned me
about this—there would be no more concessions. If I had met the emperor before
Constantine’s attack, this reception would have been in my honor. Now I have to
stand and wait for my turn. It was boring to watch the NPCs receive orders,
titles or planets. Finally, the celebration reached my end of the woods.
“Outlaw of the Qualian
Empire,” announced the court clerk, “gifted with the grace of our emperor,
witness of the heroism of the Precian prince, the first to destroy the ship of
the Zatrathi, the first to kill a Zatrathi in melee combat, who set forth upon
the path of piracy, captain of the Orbship Warlock:
Captain Surgeon!”
The emperor nodded,
allowing me to approach.
“I’m glad you could
recover from your disease, Surgeon,” said the head of the Precians, officially
restating the reason for my five-day absence from the game. “You were able to
obtain the orbship and showed that the Uldans are not a myth. I heard rumors
about the search for this amazing civilization that lead people like you, but I
thought it was a whim. I am overwhelmed with contradictory feelings. I am both
unhappy and pleased that I was wrong. Tell us all about your adventures. How
did you manage all this anyway?”
There were no other
players around, so I freely recounted how I had received Warlock. I kept the drama to a minimum and emphasized my fortune.
My professional self-esteem squealed from the effort. I had lucked out so many
times that anyone with a modicum of humility should have put it together:
Something was going on. Ordinary players don’t get their hands on special
prototype engines while still in the tutorial.
“Now I understand how you
learned about the KRIEG,” the emperor shook his head and said instructively: “Remember
this lesson for the future, Surgeon, luck is a fickle mistress. Do not imagine
that she will hold true.”
The developers had just
used the emperor’s mouth to inform me that my walk in the park had brought me to
uncharted waters. And I was yet to find out exactly what lay in store for me.
“The Precian Empire is
grateful to you for the information about the KRIEG and my son’s actions,” the
emperor continued. “The prince did the right thing in killing the traitor.
Accept this gift as a reward for the news.”
One of the Precians gave
me a small piece of paper on a golden platter.
“A check for two hundred
tons of Raq,” the emperor solemnly declared. “You may redeem it in whole or in
parts on any of the planets of my empire.”
I accepted the emperor’s
first gift, bowing my head gratefully. Two hundred tons of Raq at a cost of
fifty credits per kilogram made me the owner of ten million credits. My current
balance barely exceeded one and a half, so this generous gift from Galactogon
would be very useful. I guess they decided to finally give me some money.
“You were the first to
destroy a Zatrathi ship, proving to the skeptics that such a feat was even
possible. Accept this gift as a reward for your valor!”
Again a Precian with a
golden tray approached me.
“A ship that has achieved such
success should be rewarded. This is permission to contact the Hansa Trading Combine
and an order to upgrade one of your vessel’s systems. Hansa shoud find
something that will please even the owner of an orbship.
It’s a good thing that
Kiddo had told me about Hansa, otherwise I would not have realized the value of
the second reward. Happy, I bowed my head again, accepting the document.
“You were the first to
kill a Zatrathi, demonstrating that the enemy may be killed not only in space,
but also on the planets it has captured. Accept this gift as a reward for your
courage!”
Instead of a golden tray,
a cargo drone flew into the hall, hauling a sparkling suit of armor in its
tractor beam. The properties of the gift were hidden, but one glance turned out
to be enough to understand that the A-class Qualian marine armor that I had
never received was an ancient prototype compared to the sleek killer in front
of me.
“Armor and arms are the alpha
and omega of any marine. This legendary marine armor and ranger’s blaster will
allow you to more effectively vanquish our foes. Wield them with honor!”
A solemn fanfare followed,
marking the end of the award ceremony. I took a step back to take my place, but
a light tap on my back indicated that the emperor had not yet finished.
“Once you have visited
Zalva’s moon and received your upgrade from Hansa, you shall be expelled from
our empire. Pirates have no place in the Precian Empire! I cannot trust someone
who voluntarily chose the path of piracy. From now on, and as long as you
remain a pirate, you shall find no safe harbor in Precian space. Escort Surgeon
to his ship and see that he leaves Zalva immediately.”
This marked the end of
both my audience with the emperor and my walk in the park. Two armored marines
appeared on both sides of me and unceremoniously turned me to the door. My eyes
followed the drone with the armor suit, which turned around after the escorts.
It looked like ‘the alpha and omega’ of any Precian marine would be delivered
directly to my orbship.
Until I reached the
spaceport, I still harbored some hope of secretly meeting the emperor. Things
like that happened in Runlustia all the time—when it was possible to solve
problems with the rulers behind the scenes, bypassing the officially announced
political course, or even get non-trivial tasks. But this time, there was no
miracle forthcoming. As the dock with the now-kindred Warlock loomed on the horizon, it became clear that the Precian
Emperor did not entertain any intrigues. If I wanted to stay on Zalva, then I
had to give up on Hilvar’s mission. It’s a shame that the issue with Kiddo’s
ship remained unaddressed. My mission log appeared before my eyes and I cursed.
It was impossible to cancel the mission. My choices were either to slink back
to Hilvar and confess my inadequacy or wait a calendar year until the deadline
expired. There were no other ways of quitting my path to piracy.
Yet the nearer I came to
the dock, the calmer I became. The mere sight of Warlock dispelled my doubts. Come what may. I could of course, fly
to Hilvar, abandon piracy and join the glorious horde of those fighting against
the Zatrathi. But why not try to live the Pirate Dream? The Confederacy did not
refuse admission to freelance privateers. If I joined them, there would be no obligations
and, therefore, neither foreign allies, nor foreign rivals. I would be the only
one to decide whether to attack a ship that came across my path or not. The
more worrying question was how I was going to make my living. Although, on the
whole, it wasn’t such a pressing one for the moment. There was even time to
consider my other missions.
Thinking these thoughts, I
stepped onto the dock. Thanks to my rhino marine, a desolate zone had formed
around my Warlock. Watching the
maintenance men cautiously skirt in an invisible circle around my ship, I
realized that my cryptosaur had already become infamous on Zalva. I jumped off
the platform and waved to the rhino. He roared menacingly and rushed straight
towards me, paying no attention to the technicians and repair equipment in his
way. It was petty, of course, but still nice to see the Precians jump out of
the way at the last moment, abandoning their instruments in their flight. Oh,
what a pity! I was not going to reimburse the cost of the equipment. That’s
what you get for exiling me.
The cryptosaur rushed up
to me like a locomotive at full steam and, ignoring all inertia, stopped dead
in front of me, blasting me with hot air from his flared nostrils. I patted the
marine on his nose and climbed onto his back, which had morphed into a
comfortable saddle.
“Wait, Surgeon! We need to
talk…” was all I heard before my mount brought me to my ship. I was in such a
hurry to get back that I paid no attention to the voice.
“Our lost lamb has
returned!” It may have seemed that the ship herself had greeted her captain in
a deeply-buried voice, but this was really my engineer who dwelt in the vessel’s
depths. Of the entire Warlock crew,
he was the only one who could speak. I dismounted my rhino and waited for the
engineer to crawl to the surface. “We thought you decided to settle here, Cap’n.
To sprout roots, find yourself a blue wife and make some blue kids. You
surrendered to the blue meanies without a struggle or a fight?”
“Don’t hold your breath,”
I smiled, affably patting the head of the slizosaur who had bent down to my
height. My engineer and permanent shieldsman was a huge and extremely snarky
serpent. “Someone needs to captain this tub. You lot would grow rusty without
me. Then I’ll have to go about sanding everything back to order.”
“Surgeon! We need to talk!
Don’t leave!” sounded the voice again. The rhino marine snarled menacingly,
cautioning the stranger from approaching. I turned around and saw a player in a
typical suit of armor with Precian insignia. It was the kind of insignia you
got for grinding rapport with the empire. The man was standing beside a tent,
pitched right there on the dock as if he had been camping out waiting for me
for a long time. Such perseverance should be rewarded, and I was curious to
hear what he wanted from me.
“I’ll listen, but not for
long,” I glanced over at the Precian guards. The marines’ postures suggested
that they were ready to see their emperor’s orders performed to a T.
“Mr. Eine wishes to speak
with you. If you could wait for a half hour—he is on his way here as we speak.”
“I don’t think I can spare
even five minutes.” The guards had perked up noticeably. “At ease, fellas…I’m
going, I’m going…”
Before entering my ship, I
turned and yelled to the stranger:
“Sorry, if I don’t go now,
these courageous fellas will destroy me. So take care and don’t hold it against
me.”
“This man is under the
protection of Mr. Eine!” The stranger turned to the guards and flashed a
sparkling badge. “Leave him.”
“Emperor’s orders. The
pirate must leave Zalva immediately!” One of the guards replied in a metallic
voice and knocked the player away with a single blow.
I had no desire to get
into a fight with the Precians, so I ordered:
“We are leaving! Everyone
aboard! Space awaits us!”
This was mostly addressed
to the cryptosaur, who had decided that the guards were posing a threat to the
ship and was about to attack them. A platform extended from the bottom of Warlock, and the rhinoceros stalked inside
with a business-like snort as if to say that if it hadn’t been for my orders,
he would have wiped the entire dock clean with the Precians. The ship’s hull
meanwhile wavered and parted, forming an entrance for me.
“Welcome back, Captain!”
the ship computer greeted me.
“Hello, Brainiac! I need a
full report on the current status of the ship, crew and equipment.”
“All systems are operating
normally. Crew readiness is at 100%. The droid squadron is back at 100% as
well. We have two suits of armor, one of which we received a few minutes ago. I
am currently running diagnostics on it. There are ten tons of Elo reserves, forty
tons of Raq and two tons of Tiron in our holds.”
“Send the new armor suit
to the bridge and synchronize it to the ship. Anything important that I should
know about before blast-off?”
“Unauthorized persons made
twenty-eight attempts to breach the ship’s security perimeter. I dispatched the
marine to protect the perimeter and hull integrity. In response, the enemy
detachment set up a camp at the far end of the dock and engaged in intelligence
gathering until you appeared. The guards were changed around the clock, every
two hours. An enemy parliamentarian requested permission to speak with you
several times. That is all. The new armor suit has been synched to the ship. I
congratulate you on your new equipment.”
My curiosity subsided,
sending a fiery farewell to the stranger picking himself up out on the dock: just
another hunter of rarities, trying to get into my orbship. The hell with him. And
yet…well, if he’s a potential buyer, I should sound him out just in case…
“Stan, I need information
about a player named Eine. This process is high priority. Have you finished
collecting data for the previous process?”
“I have. The information has been uploaded to your PDA. New process
accepted. Getting started on it now.”
The handheld computer
squeaked, displaying an incoming message icon. Reminding myself that I needed
to take time to assess my situation out in reality, I turned my attention to
the new armor. Its properties exceeded all my expectations. It was like the
Christmas gift of a lifetime. The emperor’s generosity impressed me! The
legendary class gave the armor 21 stats with the option of replacing or
integrating blasters, active shielding, a jetpack and a bunch of extra
components that basically made whoever donned the suit into a good old tank.
With this kind of gear, I could calmly go toe to toe with a Zatrathi, without
any fear of failure. Brainiac could project the ship’s control systems directly
into the suit’s HUD, turning it into a kind of personal captain’s chair. I
designated one of the screens as a channel to Brainiac and adjusted my captain’s
chair to the suit’s dimensions.
“Brainiac, I ordered you
to compile a list of the crew’s abilities. How are you doing with that?”
“The process has been
completed. The compiled data has been sent to your armor’s computer.”
“Excellent. Let’s take off
then. Set course for Zalva’s second moon.”
“This is Orbship Warlock requesting launch clearance,” Brainiac
addressed the control tower.
“Launch clearance granted.
Follow corridor 2-2-5 to rendezvous with Grand Arbiter Intrepid. Your ship must be inspected before leaving planetary
orbit.”
This was unexpected but
reasonable. What if I was about to smuggle some dangerous outlaw out with me? I’m
a pirate, after all. It’s something I’d do. Just in case, Brainiac assured me
that there was nothing illegal or prohibited aboard.
Warlock took off and a countdown timer appeared to indicate the time
left before we docked with the Grand Arbiter. This was enough for me to read
over Stan’s report.
Reynard hadn’t deceived me—there
wasn’t much of a silver lining in our situation. We had been justifiably
admitted to one of the most expensive clinics on Earth. It was a very private
facility, yet Stan managed to dig up something about it. My personal assistant
managed to download the data from the medical capsule directly. There had been
no exaggeration—without constant stimulation of my heart muscles, I would be a
dead man. The implant worked well, but it would take time for it to merge with
my system. My prognosis was good on the assumption that I would spend four or
five months in the medical capsule, and then another month for rehab. Eunice’s
condition was stable, but she remained in the coma. Stan reassured me that the
critical threat to the child had passed and now the doctors were just playing
things as safe as possible. That was it for the good news. Even though Eunice
and the baby were basically all right, I was still in deep trouble. There was
no alternative, cheap treatment in my situation. My insurance payout for the
destroyed house and the money that I had managed to earn during my search for
the prize planet made it possible to pay the medical bills, but I would have
nothing left. There was one loophole. Although there was no official system for
converting Galactogon credits into real ones, there were quite a few
third-party resources offering exchange services. The rate was naturally
unprofitable, but, in an extreme case it would provide at least some money. So,
I would need to increase the amount of Raq I had on board and periodically
exchange it for loans of real money. Piracy was beginning to look better and
better.
“We have docked, Cap’n,”
the engineer notified me. There followed an unpleasant metallic sound. The
docking mechanisms of the Grand Arbiter had grown rusty from disuse, the hatch
in my orbship took shape, and a team of customs officers stepped on board.
Having made a cursory inspection, the underlings lined up, waiting for
management. After a minute or so, a Precian in rather elaborate armor appeared
in the hatchway—an Imperial Adviser.
“According to regulations,
the ship inspection should take five minutes, so we will not waste time. His Imperial
Highness instructed me to accompany you to the moon, but only if you agree to
take me with you.” I had no chance to respond to this because the adviser
immediately raised his hand, calling for silence. “Do not rush to refuse! The
palace is rotten with spies; the emperor made a public show of exiling you for
their benefit. Consider your exile a guarantee of your safety and relative
freedom in Galactogon. We suspect that the Qualians are collaborating with the
Zatrathi. They plot to eliminate the ruling dynasties of all the empires,
including the allied ones. Thus we are on the brink of hostilities with the
Qualian Empire. The margin for error is very small. When the problem with the
Qualians is resolved, the Precian Empire will show its appreciation for you. I
am asking you to take me with you at the behest of the emperor. I am the keeper
of knowledge about the Uldans and would very much like to enter their base.”
“Well, your words explain
a lot, and it is possible that I don’t mind taking you along, but after
searching the moon, I have to leave imperial space,” I clarified an important
point. “What am I supposed to do with you then?”
“I would be quite happy if
you set me down on Belket, where you will receive your reward from the Hansa.
If that does not work, any other planet of the Confederation would do. The
Precian Empire has consulates on all inhabited planets. I am not a pretentious
person and when it comes to my life’s work and passion—the Uldans, that is—I
can abide some inconvenience.”
“I bet,” I muttered to
myself, thinking and watching the adviser’s small beady eyes scrupulously crawl
over Warlock’s interior. Still, if
the NPCs themselves decided to visit my ship, it means that they are ready to
make concessions. “What will I get in return? I was kindly awarded an exile
earlier. I would like something more beneficial to my person.”
“Oh! The emperor
anticipated such a development.” The beads flashed knowingly in my direction. “People,
especially pirates, rarely adhere to the principles of charity. The Precian
Empire is prepared to share with you the Uldan technologies that it has. I’m
sure your ship’s computer can figure out what to do with them.”
Brainiac drew my attention
with a blinking message:
“I recommend we accept the offer! There is a critical dearth
of information about the Uldan base. It is reliably known that it is located
deep below the surface of the moon, and our ship serves as an access key. There
are no exact coordinates. Let me remind you that the orbship is a
reconnaissance vessel, not a research vessel. New information may be hard to
come by and therefore very useful.”
“I see no reason to
refuse, especially since we could use the help,” I agreed with my ship’s
computer and nodded to the adviser, while swiping away the warning that had
jumped out:
Mission updated: Treasure
Hunter…
“Write in the inspection
report: Orbship Warlock has no
prohibited items for export,” the adviser ordered, and the customs officers
left my ship. The inspection regulations had been executed immaculately.
“Brainiac, set course for Zalva’s
second moon. Maximum acceleration. Adviser, we have a few minutes of flight
ahead of us. Could you share with me what you know about the Uldans in the
meantime?”
“Unfortunately, there’s
not much to share. The technology employed by our winged ancestors strain the limits
of our understanding, but you yourself no doubt already learned as much from
your ship and crew. We don’t even know how they disappeared. There is a theory
that a war broke out between the Uldans and an unknown race, and ninety
thousand years ago one of the parties used forbidden weapons. Analogs of the
KRIEG, only on the scale of Galactogon. Both sides of the conflict were
destroyed, and other races took the leading positions in our world.”
“Hold on. The KRIEG. What
can you tell me about it?” I seized an unexpected opportunity.
“I’m sorry, Surgeon, but I
cannot reveal classified information. And the KRIEG is very classified.” The
adviser spread his hands helplessly.
“I’ll trade you some info
about the Uldans for some answers about the KRIEG,” I said, pushing the Precian’s
sore point.
“It all depends on the
question.” A transparent film descended over the adviser’s beady eyes and he
began to thoughtfully stroke his long neck. “If I can answer it, without
violating confidentiality, I will gladly exchange the information. I can say
one thing right away, the aftermath of using the KRIEG shall be terrifying for
everyone.”
“Yes, I already realized
that the KRIEG is a weapon of mass destruction. What I am interested in is its
area of effect. If the Qualians decide to use it, I’d like to know how far to
jump from the epicenter.”
“Two hyper-minutes,” the
adviser replied after a bit of thought, making me whistle in surprise. In two
minutes you could fly through a dozen star systems and that’s only in one
direction. If a KRIEG detonates in a sphere, then a vast region of Galactogon
would be laid waste.
“The Uldans fought against
the Vraxis,” I handed over the information I had received from Warlock and
now it was the turn of the adviser to show surprise by preening his neck in my
direction.
“Is this information
reliable? As far as I know, the Vraxis is a race of hypertrophic insects with a
very rudimentary intelligence.”
“You could not find a more
reliable source. I heard it directly from the last Uldan commander of this very
ship. And, in my opinion, the intellect of the Vraxis is a bit higher than
rudimentary, since their queen had a dangerous army which was guided by
generals,” I replied.
“Yes you are right. It is
likely that our information is not accurate,” the adviser muttered
thoughtfully. “I was present at the audience where you told the emperor about how
you acquired the orbship. It is unheard of and incredible, yet I both believe
and envy you. You had a chance to see a living Uldan. Everyone else has had to
content themselves with rare images.”
“I am picking up a weak
distress signal,” Brainiac interrupted suddenly. “The signal is coming through
in the Uldan language. Its transmitter seems to be located below the moon’s
surface. ETA is thirty seconds.”
“Route the signal to the cabin
speakers and ready the cryptosaur. We will land. Translate the signal into the
common language.”
A noisy hiss sounded in
the speakers and gradually gave way to a monotonous message in a foreign
language:
“Mayday. Mayday. This is
base 20-449. We are under attack and require assistance,” Brainiac translated
out loud. “The message repeats. This is an emergency recording, Captain.”
But that was already
clear. Neither the timbre nor the pitch of the voice has changed. No matter how
incredible they are, it’s impossible to wait for help at the microphone for a
hundred thousand years.
“That’s enough. Crew—any
suggestions for where to look for the entrance? Any ideas are welcome.”
“Here is the location
where the signal is strongest,” Brainiac poured forth new information like fuel
onto the fire.
“So the entrance is in another
place,” the snake remarked in a business-like tone.
“What? Why?” I was
surprised at the engineer’s certainty.
“The first thing the enemy
would do is target the transmitter, to prevent the defenders from calling
reinforcements. Therefore, the transmitter must be able to withstand any
bombardment and continue its transmission. That is, the best place to install a
transmitter is where the crust is thickest, while the best place to enter the
facility is where it’s thin. But I am assuming here, Cap’n. You should orbit
the moon to make sure. The ship can track the signal and the base might react
to our appearance and open the door itself. There are many possibilities to
consider.”
After thirty minutes of
flying around the moon, it became clear that neither the base nor the ship were
about to enter into an intimate relationship without our encouragement. Zalva’s
second moon proved to be a huge barren rock that was entirely unattractive to
the mining corporations yet highly sought after by the Precian nobility. It was
dotted with pompous palace architecture: The entire moon was like a gated
community for the cream of the Precian Empire. Brainiac kept reporting that we
were being tracked by ground batteries, but no one dared open fire. The Grand
Arbiter Intrepid had guaranteed our
security.
“I have discovered a large
area that contains no settlements or buildings. Flora and fauna are likewise
absent. The signal is reading the strongest from the center of the location.
Transmitting the area to your visors now.” Brainiac modeled an excellent
projection of the moon on the second lap and filled it with as much detail as
possible.
“This is called the
Barrens,” the adviser explained, having carefully studied the map. “It is a bit
of a local natural reserve at the moment. At one time, various attempts were
made to build on this territory, but for various reasons it was not possible to
complete the work.”
“Candidate site number
one,” I reasoned. “We’ll touch down in the center. Brainiac, send the
cryptosaur to scout. We don’t need to run into any strangers right now.”
“Roger. Executing orders.”
The orbship banked sharply and plummeted to the moon’s surface. A slight
vibration of the floor indicated that the rhino had disembarked. One of the
screens began to broadcast the surface through the eyes of a cryptosaur. Gray
stone and dust as far as the eye could see. The atmosphere analysis showed a
complete absence of oxygen. Nothing extraordinary or unusual.
“Landing zone is clear.” Brainiac
reported after a minute. The marine was running around the wasteland in
circles, looking for potential enemies. There was no one.
“Let’s go. Adviser, will
you be joining us?”
“Indubitably! I would be
happy to show you the places where I spent my youth. Every rock here is an old
friend.” The desire to be useful vied with the Precian’s excitement and
eagerness.
There was no particular
reason to leave the ship, but I was impatient to try out the new armor suit.
Brainiac did not land Warlock
entirely, allowing me to glide down to the surface from a five-meter height.
The adviser did not lag behind, but it was evident that he had a hard time, and
this was alarming.
Recalling the pretentious
castles of the local rich, I asked for the sake of interest:
“Do you have a ‘Xanadu’
here too?”
“Sorry, what?” the adviser
did not understand my terrene vocabulary.
“I mean, a place to rest.
A palace,” I explained, feeling uncomfortable.
“If you mean…an extra-planetary…residence,
then…yes.” The adviser sounded short of breath. “But for the most part…only my
mother lives here at the moment. She is…she is always throwing parties…living
the high…life.”
“That is exactly what I
meant,” I grunted, wishing to get away from the topic of someone else’s wealth.
It seemed the Precian picked up on my embarrassment because a guffaw cut
through his panting.
“You, Surgeon, are a
human…and you see things from a human point of view. Humans boast and show
off…their wealth, so you think…that this place is just a bunch of creatures
competing in luxury. This is not true. The emperor cares…about the welfare of
his people. For us to build a manor…and equip it with advanced innovations is
not so expensive…Consequently, there is nothing to be proud of…The other factor
is that not everyone is…allowed…to settle here. This…is a privilege that must
be earned…Only the Precian…who can climb…to that point on his own, earns the…right
to live on the moon…” The adviser nodded to the top of a nearby hill, catching
his breath. “That is the ‘Peak of Valor,’ the central point of the Barrens…You
need to climb up there…alone, using a lowly D-class suit. Do not think that it
is easy for us…Even three hundred years ago…quite a few Precians would
die…here…Now the test of valor takes place once a month…It is monitored and
insured…Yet still, some…die. Those who are weak in spirit feel death…almost
immediately…The strong have time to reach the peak.”
“Why?” I asked surprised. “What’s
so deadly here?”
“No one knows.” The
adviser was pausing ever more frequently, his movements slowing down. “The
barrens…have an op…pressive effect on all the races. A team of our scientists surveyed
the crust…throughout the territory at a depth of one…kilometer but never found
anything. No…radiation, no emissions…no mys…terious fields. The Barrens do not
tolerate the weak. They checked using members of other races…as well. Qualians,
Vraxis, and even Anorxian synthoids all…experience the same symptoms—shortness
of breath…dizziness, loss of consciousness and death. However, Pyrrhenians…Delvians
and all the others are completely unaffected by the Barrens…Like humans…Such is
the phen…ome..non…”
“Are you okay?” I grew
worried. “Maybe you should return to the ship…” The last thing I needed was to
have an Imperial Adviser die on my watch.
“Do not worry,” the
adviser grinned with exertion. “I am here…because of my job. An imperial order:
The weak…have no place in the management of the empire, all the advisers…are
tested three…times a year. I can’t boast that I’m used to it—it is difficult
every time…like the first…but there’s no cause for concern.”
“Your scientists are a
bunch of lazy nerds!” Warlock’s
engineer came on the comms. “There can be no enlightenment without sweat and
perseverance! There is a void at a depth of 1.5 kilometers below the surface.
My scanner’s power is not enough to establish its full dimensions but the area seems
to have active protection. Nature is extremely creative, but it could not
create this without sentient help.”
“Your ship and crew are…a true
treasure,” the adviser almost whispered. “How lucky you are! The empire…thanks you
for this vital information. We will…survey this area further.”
“Let’s go to the ‘Peak of
Valor.’” I pointed to the hill. “We’ll see what’s up there.”
I was forced to help the
adviser. The Precian tried his hardest, but the closer we came to the top of
the hill the more jumbled his movements became and the more his step faltered.
The cryptosaur kept watch over the perimeter of the Barrens, scaring away any
real or potential witnesses, so I decided to solve the problem on my own.
Despite the proud Precian’s objections, I grabbed him by his slender armpits
and activated my thrusters hauling him straight to the top. As soon as I
landed, my companion went limp, fainting. This was the last thing I needed!
“Brainiac, extract him!” I
ordered, activating the recovery mode on the Precian’s armor. In the blink of
an eye, Warlock appeared above our
heads. The orbship descended smoothly and gradually until instead of setting
down on the stony surface…it passed straight through and went on descending! Before
my eyes, the vessel was submerging into the stone, as if there was nothing
there! I stood gaping from a distance of one meter, the ground beneath my feet
quite firm…
“Brainiac, ascend two
meters and hover in position. Open the hatch!”
Grabbing the unconscious
adviser in my arms, I jumped inside the orbship in one leap, having noticed
that the stones under the ship did not differ from those anywhere else in the
Barrens. Either this was some high-quality camouflage or this is what Brainiac
was talking about when he said that the orbship was the key to entering the
base. But there was no time to test this theory right now. We had to save the
Precian. The last thing my pirate’s status needed was having a Precian adviser
die while in my care. No one would bother one bit about the reasons he’d kicked
the bucket on my ship. The hatch closed, and before I could even give the order
to leave, the health indicator on the adviser’s suit changed from red to green…and
after a few seconds went out completely. The Precian regained consciousness; he
seemed perfectly fine. It did not take him much time to understand what had
happened.
“It is time to tender my
resignation,” the adviser remarked wryly and with an effort threw back his
helmet. He was unable to move. Dark blue circles had formed under the eyes so
that, with the rest of his Precian appearance, he looked a bit like a plucked
turkey that had managed to escape death at the last moment. Brainiac took pity
on our guest and without being ordered to, applied a restorative injection to
the adviser’s neck. His eyes brightened, the dark circles disappeared, and his
skin regained its healthy bluish tint.
“Warlock’s hull insulates from the effects of this place,” I guessed
the reason for the Precian’s quick recovery. “Brainiac, extract the cryptosaur.
It is time for us to visit the Uldans. A kilogram of Raq to anyone who guesses
where the entrance to the base is.”
“Cap’n, did you see how we
passed through the stone?” The engineer dangled his head into the deck. “Wasn’t
that a thing, eh?”
“I am being asked this
question by a talking two-handed snake-engineer who works alongside a
four-handed orangutan and transforming rhino onboard a flying balloon ship?” I
asked sarcastically. “And yet, it’s not a bad question at all. The Uldans are a
real fairy tale!”
“We are also Uldans,”
Brainiac spoke up for his crew. “But the information available to us is not
enough to scientifically explain how one solid body can pass through another
without breaking the bonds of the molecular lattice. This cannot be camouflage
either. I already ran a soil analysis.”
“You spent a hundred
thousand years with Warlock on Blood Island. Much has changed during that time.
Is the cryptosaur back on board? Excellent. Begin the descent. Start with a
meter per second, then gradually increase the speed. Let’s see what these space
fairies have in store for us.”
There was no objection. Warlock’s contact with the Peak of Valor
went unnoticed in the ship. All of the systems went on functioning as usual and
the hull sensors reported no pressure. Brainiac plunged the orbship halfway in,
waited a few seconds, as if gathering his courage, and then plunged us into the
stone completely. Descending the first hundred meters caused no problems
whatsoever. It was as if the ship were moving through empty space. The only
downside was that we were blind—the screens showed nothing but solid stone all
around us.
We moved on in complete
silence, afraid that a single word would jinx our luck. This game is a game and
all, but my adrenaline and excitement from the descent into uncertainty grew
steadily so that when a system notification popped up before me, I started from
the tension…
Mission completed: Treasure
Hunter. Reward: Next quest in chain.
New mission: Treasure
Hunter. Part 2. Enter the base’s
command center and gain access to the mainframe.
Our internment in the moon’s
crust ended unexpectedly and was accompanied by a loud exhalation from the
adviser. Before and below us stretched the Uldan base in all its glory. The
lights had gone on working without a hitch during the intervening hundred millennia,
so we could regard the panorama before us in full. From above, the base
resembled an integrated circuit, beautifully precise in its layout, but as soon
as we descended some more, the flat grid acquired an unimaginable verticality.
Intricate designs intertwined, penetrating the space in all directions. The
tall spires and steeples resembled the Zatrathi ships I had seen. They were
just as ungainly, spiky and odd to the modern eye. Brainiac made several
attempts to chart a route through the architectural jumble of glass and shiny
metal, but was forced to give up. It would be impossible to navigate through
this thicket.
“There is a dock a hundred
meters below us. We’ll land there.” I ordered, deciding to act. I had already
understood the most important thing—the base’s command center was located
diametrically across from where we had entered. I imagine this was done to force
the player to take in the designers’ work. My hunch was that it wouldn’t take
more than 2–3 minutes to fly there in my armor suit—assuming I could pilot it
well. And since I wasn’t sure I could pilot it that well, I decided to try and
render a 3D map of the base first.
“Brainiac, is there a way
to survey the full base? I’d like to have all the info we can get. If we can
generate a map that includes as much detail as possible, our job will be a lot
easier.”
“The orbship is equipped
with four reconnaissance drones. They can fly around the base and survey it. We
can use their data to render a 3D map. Shall I activate them?”
“Send two. Have them fly
in a circle. Adviser, I’m afraid you will have to remain aboard Warlock. The local radiation can kill
you.”
The Precian’s sour face
was so eloquent that I felt like cheering him up:
“I will stream to the
ship, so you will see everything that I see. The base will be studied.”
“Drones have been
launched. Estimated time of flight…Warning! Attack detected!”
Warlock immediately readied her entire arsenal of beam cannons, but
there were no targets to be found. The Uldan base remained below us in a deep
slumber.
“Brainiac, project the
drones’ video recordings to the screen,” I ordered. The two recordings were
almost equally useless because they had been recorded from the drones
themselves. They emerged from the orbship, made a pass around the ship calibrating
their flight modes to the local environmental conditions, traveled a few meters
from the ship and then the recordings broke off. One more recording was
available from Warlock herself. Both
drones were visible on the screen. After calibration, they scattered in
different directions and crossed a trigger field that had remained utterly
undetected until that point. The trigger field flickered, revealing its
existence, and then went out having done its bit. Two plasma shots were fired
from opposite sides of the base, aimed directly at the drones. The explosions
that followed didn’t leave so much as a piece of plastic. Brainiac figured out
where the fire came from and highlighted cannons all over the base. I couldn’t
help but whistle—the chances of crossing the base and not catching several
dozen salvos from those guns was about zero point zero.
“Cap’n, I have some bad
news for you,” the engineer said pensively, assuming the role of Captain
Obvious. “We can’t fly here.”
My frustrated sigh was
also my answer to this. It looked like we had a fight ahead of us, and to say
no would be equivalent to losing my reward.
“We have landed.
Attention! The docking module has sent a connection request.”
“Accept it. Set the
cryptosaur to battle readiness. Activate the droids. We’ll have to fight our
way to the control center.”
“You are going to fight
the Uldans?” the adviser gasped with surprise.
“No. I’m going to fight
the ones who captured the base and have managed to survive here for the last
hundred thousand years in hibernation. I assume they will be the best warriors
that the Vraxis have.”
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