Edge of Reality

by Andrei Livadny

  I waited.

  I couldn't stick my neck out. This world obeyed the real-life laws of physics. In the absence of gravity, you couldn't run from one hidey hole to the next, shooting at those "stupid pieces of junk".

  And they weren't in a hurry to provoke me. They circled outside, scanning the area. I felt as if I'd lose my patience any moment. I kept seeing spots of reddish light amid the swirls of gas, reflected from their spherical bodies. My cheeks were twitching with the urge to shoot.

  Too early, I kept telling myself. Let them try to get inside first.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, instead of the drones an assault group turned up.

  The robots stayed outside. Suddenly the oblong widows were swarming with Dargians.

  I gunned two of them down. A long scream froze in my earphones as the shot breached the armor of one of my erstwhile attackers. Mind you, I couldn't tell whether he was screaming with pain or with fear. The others took cover.

  This was when I knew: this was it. This was the end of me. I stood with my back to a blind wall, cornered between some towering equipment. I'd been caught in my own trap. All I could do now was fight back to the full extent of my strength, skill and ammo.

  The whole structure was vibrating even though no one was shooting. The Dargians lay low as if they suddenly had more important things to do.

  Charon?

  There was an explosion outside. Lasers sliced across the gloom. Another flash; then an enormous shadow slid past, taking the shape of a fighter craft.

  Charon was one hell of a pilot. His attack on the drones was swift, graceful and deadly. You'd think the enormous ship would be hard to maneuver but in fact, it was remarkably responsive. Before I could come to my senses, the Haash had already disposed of his enemies, leveled off his machine, pointed it at the domed structure and had begun moving sideways around it, masterfully using the attitude thrusters. The ship's sleek predatory outline slid from one window to the next, illuminated by the short flashes of laser charges.

  The Dargians lost it. Those who were still alive fled their cover, but I didn't give them half a chance and smoked at least three of them. Charon did away with the rest.

  The communication system clicked on. "Jump inside, quick!"

  The ship turned its back to the window, killed its speed and stopped its drift dead. A hatch opened, protected by the iridescent glow of a force field.

  "Wait!" I hurried to collect the loot while ripping gear off the Dargians' bodies, pulling out whatever implants I noticed indiscriminately.

  Soon I was floating toward the lock. Had it not been for the zero Gs, I'd have been deep in overload by now.

  The inside of the fighter glowed with the subdued flickering lights of many machines and holographic screens. A massive chair with a high back towered in the middle of the cockpit, resting on the foundation of gravity absorbers and surrounded by clusters of control consoles.

  Charon's lanky hands clutched the controls: two complicated devices that rose from somewhere below, wound with servodrives and equipped with a multitude of firing buttons.

  The hatch closed shut behind my back.

  Charon craned his neck and twisted his head at an impossible angle to steal a glance at me. "Haaram utaashgort!"

  I didn't understand a word but grasped at the back of his seat. The semantic processor stalled, trying to interpret the phrase apparently addressed to me. Smoothly the ship turned round and began gaining speed very slowly, heading for the far-off glimmer of the station.

  Alone: Quest failed!

  A Prison Break: Quest completed!

  You've received a new level!

  * * *

  We weren't talking.

  Charon was in his element. The ship obeyed him eagerly, filling the many screens with data.

  The most I could understand peeking over his shoulder was the search radar screen. It showed all objects around us within a sphere with our ship as its center. Every marker sported lines of symbols in an unknown language.

  Finally the semantic processor jumped back to life, unfolding a long sheet of fine print before my inner vision.

  So this was the meaning of the two words he'd said? Can't be. The wretched thing mush have glitched.

  I started reading.

  It turned out to be a modest list of my merits. According to the Haash, I was a monster of virtue. It felt embarrassing and funny and also a little bit sad. They probably stuck to the age-old philosophy that you couldn't do good without using your fists — preferably heavy ones, too.

  Apparently, I had spilled my blood for the sake of other creatures.

  I had ripped apart two heavily armed enemies — the word which, according to the semantic processor, played a very special role in the Haash language. According to them, there are opponents and there are enemies. You could make peace with the former, living happily ever after. But not with the latter.

  I had broken the shackles.

  I had shown them the way to freedom.

  I had willingly drawn the enemy's fire to myself, allowing Charon to flee.

  And finally, I had (again) killed the Enemy. In this particular context the capitalized word was supposed to signify Rash.

  I had a funny feeling that most of the text was the semantic processor's very own conjecture. Had Charon known that my exploits had been driven exclusively by my desire to escape captivity, he'd have been quite upset.

  Still, I wasn't going to be the one to disappoint him. Especially because, once I'd finished reading, another message popped up,

  You've received a unique ability: Friend of the Haash.

  Bonus: every time you fight alongside the Haash, you will receive +1 to all characteristics.

  That was great but the timing couldn't have been worse. I wondered if I could hide this information from prying eyes. At the moment, we were heading for the station which wasn't known for its inhabitants' friendly feelings toward all xenomorphs.

  As it turned out, I could indeed hide it. I only wished I could say the same about Charon. Somehow I didn't think they were going to offer him a warm welcome.

  Actually, I'd already come up with a solution to this problem but I had no idea how Charon would react to my suggestion. He might just change his rosy opinion of me.

  In the meantime, the station had grown to the size of a bright pea.

  Ships were swarming around. I didn't think I could classify or even describe them, so various were they in their design principles. I had the impression that most of them had been put together by hand using various standard modules and sporting a certain degree of uniqueness and creativity.

  We were given a wide berth, everyone apparently wary of a Haash fighter.

  Soon the station filled the entire front of the spherical observation blister. It was a pumpkin-shaped spheroid, its monolith hull bristling with a technoscape of outer structures — mainly space defense systems and vacuum docks; I also saw two large ships in the hangars and a cluster of launch pads that looked like bits of honeycomb.

  The center of the structure bulged with round openings at regular intervals. They looked very much like tunnel exits, currently shut with diaphragm hatches.

  I had to cut my observations short as the communication system clicked on,

  "Attention unidentified ship. You're about to enter the space of the Independent Station Argus. Identify yourself or change your course. Failing to do so will force us to open fire."

  Seeing as Charon preserved a gloomy silence, I took the initiative and tuned into the channel. "Argus, what is the required identification procedure?"

  "You must report your login over a protected channel."

  "Charon? Kill the speed, will you?"

  Gracefully the ship slowed down. I'd be lying if I said it felt good, but at least I didn't have to scrape myself off the wall.

  I buried myself in the help pages trying to work out how to open this protected channel of theirs. Finally I asked Charon to help. For a few seconds he pond
ered over it, then nodded and flipped a few switches on one of the consoles.

  I sent them my login.

  Apparently, that wasn't all.

  "You're not on our pilot list," the voice stated politely. "You can't fly a ship. Do you have a pilot? Would you be so kind as to identify him?"

  Back to the help pages. Just as I suspected, there was only one way around it.

  I offered the slave collar to Charon. He stared at it with understandable disgust, then looked up at me. "Why, Human?"

  "I'm a friend. Trust me. It's only for a short while."

  His eyes filled with fury replaced by agonizing amazement.

  "Charon, we can't do it any other way," I tried to explain the situation to him. "I'll set you free at the first opportunity, I promise!"

  No idea whether he believed me or not. Still, he took the collar from me and clicked it shut on himself, his fingers shaking.

  I switched on the collar controller in the relaxed mode which meant that he had to stay within sixty feet from me.

  "This is only a trick," I tried to impress upon him while uploading new information through the channel, The pilot is my property. I intend to declare him as "personal possessions".

  Unexpectedly enough, they green-flagged us. The return message contained docking pad coordinates and a reminder that I had two hours to pay for the docking space.

  * * *

  The ship clanged and vibrated. Then the whining of the servomotors was replaced by a hissing sound as the craft entered the outer docking pad. The service mechanisms latched on to our long-suffering traveler, turning it around and locking it into place with its stern facing the station.

  "Won't we burn the outer hull on takeoff?" I tried to break the awkward silence. Charon hunched moodily in his pilot's seat.

  "Nowr," he answered curtly in his language, pointing at two symmetrical V-shaped ribbed structures. They must have been the launching boosters. There were lots of things there whose purpose I could only guess at.

  Diaphragm hatches opened in the sides of the docking pad, revealing bundles of cables and pipes that reached out to our ship, connecting themselves to the on-board systems. Could it be a power feed?

  Charon still hadn't said a word. And I was restless. In a moment, they were going to open the lock, letting us into an incredible new world. A world of limitless opportunities. I so wanted to believe it.

  More system messages flashed in the foreground of reality as the station's interface desperately tried to connect to my neuroimplant. Same old story: I needed to have a mind expander installed.

  In the meantime, the sealing process was complete. The force field separating the docking pad from outer space had thickened. I watched through the viewing ports as hundreds of jets of murky white liquid sprayed the ship. I could only guess at the purpose of this, but chose not to ask questions.

  "Come on, then!" I said.

  Slowly Charon unbuckled and rose. I could see he really didn't want to leave the ship. Here he felt relatively safe, but I just couldn't afford this scenario. At the moment, he was my property, period. My leaving the ship alone could raise quite a few unpleasant questions.

  The hatch opened, revealing a sealed sleeve between the station's hull and our ship. Having passed it, we found ourselves in a tiny chamber where we were showered with more of the murky liquid. Was it some kind of disinfectant?

  More clanging and vibrating followed as the massive hatch retracted slowly, then rose.

  I was the first to walk out. My first impressions were mixed. I'd imagined an enormous hangar bustling with activity. Instead, I was looking at an empty A-shaped corridor, dimly lit and rather dirty. Reinforcement ribs protruded at equal intervals from its walls. Darkness lurked in the service niches between them amid bundles of pipes and cables. The niches must have been cased in plastic which at some point had been ripped off, leaving bare fixtures on the walls.

  As I took in the scene, two seedy types stepped from the shadows. Both were burly, dressed in identical dark-grey uniforms, their assault vests equipped with various-sized pockets stuffed with tools.

  The Mechanics Clan, a message popped up helpfully.

  I must have been the reason they were there.

  My gut feeling proved right. The two exuded confidence as they sneered at me. Little wonder. Both were level fifty and, judging by their behavior, this was their stomping ground.

  "Hey you, shnoob. How about you pay for the docking?"

  The word sounded offensive but I'd look into that later. Apparently, this wasn't the first time they were doing it. There was no one around. I hadn't noticed any surveillance cameras or defense turrets that could serve as makeshift law enforcement facilities.

  "I have two hours to pay, don't I?" I said firmly just to show them I was familiar with the rules.

  "We accept loot," one of them grinned. "On the spot."

  "Thanks," I said as neutrally as I could. "I'll sort it out."

  A punchup was the last thing I needed. But I knew this type. They weren't the kind who would leave you alone.

  The other mechanic immediately moved on to threats. "And what if I accidentally confuse the cables as I service your rust bucket? Imagine how much you'll have to pay to get it fixed."

  "I didn't order any servicing."

  "It's compulsory," the first goon guffawed.

  Reaching for my gun wasn't worth it. I needed them to attack me first. That would justify my right to protect myself in any court.

  "You can try," I sneered back which puzzled them a lot. "Or you can use your brain for a change. How could I come across this kind of ship?" I meaningfully played with the activation key that Charon had given me. It resembled a fancy key ring. "Think."

  At that moment, Charon exited the dock. He looked sad — which to an uninformed onlooker must have appeared rageful. A dull growl was escaping his half-open sharp-toothed mouth. He stood up, revealing his slave collar to the dumbfounded mechanics, and froze expectantly in a well-practiced high guard.

  Both men backed off. Apparently Charon wasn't the first Haash at the station.

  So they got the answer to their questions, after all. A level-five noob who owned his own fighter with a xenomorph pilot simply had to be some millionaire daddy's son. They didn't know any other alternatives.

  My first impression of the station wasn't rosy. The two mechanics seemed to be racking their brains searching for a way to fold their encounter without losing face. I was happy to oblige them.

  "Where's the nearest gravity elevator?"

  "Depends where you wanna go."

  "Just want to get rid of the loot and have a bit of fun. And buy some implants, maybe, provided they're authentic. I don't need no fakes."

  "Shaft seven, then three hundred feet down the corridor."

  "Thanks," I calmly turned my back on them knowing they weren't going to do anything stupid anymore. Apart from Charon covering my back they must have realized the repercussions of upsetting anyone of my apparent caliber. So far, this particular incident was over, but I had to keep my eyes peeled.

  If the truth were known, I was on my last legs. And still I couldn't yet afford to take a break. My initial resolve to slam the Logout button at the first opportunity had already lost its manic urgency. I had to have a look around, get rid of the loot, pay for the docking and find a place to stay, even if for one night. Then we'd see.

  Thus thinking, I stopped by the elevator doors.

  * * *

  Our transfer between the station levels proved fast and unpleasant. The moment we stepped into the shimmering energy torrent, its invisible force lifted us and swirled us away. Personally, I felt like a twig caught in rapids. I froze inside as the shaft's walls turned into stripes of light. Several times the tunnel turned smoothly, changing direction, before we were finally nudged out onto a small platform enclosed by a low railing.

  I barely stood on my feet. The momentum made me take a few more steps until I clenched the railing.

  My
vertigo soon subsided. Every now and then I could hear the popping sound and feel cold air rush over me as new people appeared out of nowhere and headed toward the wide staircase leading down.

  Charon and I stepped aside.

  Argus. The Market Deck, my interface informed me.

  The hall was enormous. I couldn't even see its opposite walls lost in a far-off haze. The round arrivals' platform encircled a clutch of twenty elevators. Below lay an entire city of squat one-story houses, wide streets dividing them into blocks.

  I cast a wary glance around. This wasn't how I'd imagined a space station's living quarters. The opening panorama was weird to say the least. My helmet's sniper sights system reacted to my confused state immediately, transforming the nearest buildings to show me how the city had been built. Red ink traced the original jagged remains of walls. All that the first settlers had seen at the station was ruins. They had cleared away the debris and cut away everything they didn't need, turning the tunnels into streets and building those squat houses in place of the once-destroyed personnel modules.

  The place could use a bit of light. The enormous vaulted ceiling that had appeared as a result of an ancient technogenic disaster was lost in a vaporous haze that formed about sixty feet up, condensing in places into a cloud-like mist. A few remaining pieces of the framework reached up asymmetrically here and there.

  Everything was new to me, everything piqued my curiosity. I could see a few serves as their cyber bodies scampered across the roofs and shinnied up the columns, servicing life support systems and fixing various bits, judging by the far-off flashing of welding torches.

  The Market Deck was packed with people. It didn't look as if this bustle ever stopped here. The Haash and I were attracting quite a few unkind sideways glances, suspicious and hostile.

  I noticed quite a few androids among the crowd. After having watched them for a while, I realized that they performed some kind of police function. They were armed; some of them guarded shop entrances while others patrolled the busy streets.