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

My headphones clicked, tuning in to a new frequency.

“Jyrd?” Avatroid turned slowly.

“I'm listening,” Jyrd's voice rang with fear. This member of Outlaw elite, one of the founders of the Technologists clan could barely conceal the animosity in his voice behind the false veneer of respect. And I used to think he was the alpha dog here. Apparently, I’d been wrong.

“What did I tell you?” the creature's furious roar echoed in the headphones. “First you scan! Then you think! And only then you act! How many reincarnations has he been through?”

I had a funny feeling he was talking about me.

“Ten.”

“You idiot! I can see the fragments of two neuronets inside him! You should have removed them!”

“He,” Jyrd nodded at me, “stole our ship. The frigate that the Dargians had been restoring, he took it!”

“I'm not interested in your dealings with xenomorphs! The only thing that matters is the reincarnation modules!”

This spawn of alien technologies loomed over me, prompting my mind expander to glitch.

A mental scream ripped through me.
I demand immediate patch installation! Nothing should happen in the time lapse between a player's death and his reincarnation!

No one heard my protest, of course. My mind resembled a crystal ball rapidly covering with a fine net of cracks. My perception faded. Still, Avatroid didn't finish what he'd started, as if encountering a sudden insurmountable obstacle.

“You!” his servodrive-wound arm went for Jyrd. The man shrank back. “You've ruined them! They respawned with him, in his body! They share the pain and the memory! I can't remove them!”

A note added: Common pain.

The message blinked and disappeared. I waited curiously for Jyrd to reply. My out-of-reality state had its pros, apparently. Only a second ago, a technogenic alien monster had all but ripped out my brain and all the implants within it, and there I was, cool and impassive, taking in every word of their conversation.

“Do shut up, will ya?” Jyrd snapped, losing his respectful patience. “Those modules had already been inside humans. Their neural matrices are less than useless. All the original data is gone. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.”

Avatroid froze: a blood-curdling figure towering over me, its dull purple aura dripping to the floor. Not a mob. Not an NPC. Something entirely alien to human understanding.

“I am the only one who decides if a module is usable. What if one of them used to belong to the station's controlling AI? Any shred of leftover information can contain the key to my ultimate resurrection!”

“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 metabolites 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.