If I wanted to survive, I had to get the implants. As Serge had so insightfully said, I'd be forever stuck at the shnoob stage. I had to bring Charon out of his coma somehow, too. So basically, everywhere you turned it was all about money. I couldn't see how I could earn enough by farming the station's ruins. It would take me all year to do that.
There was only one solution to all this. Sell the ship. I just couldn't see any other option.
The room was dark, its air thick with a sickly sweet smell. Arbido was still hunched behind his terminal. He wasn't shaking any more — in fact, he was so lost in the network he hadn't even acknowledged my arrival.
Whatever. I removed my gear and collapsed onto the bunk bed. Then I connected to the station network.
After all my escapades, I was level 10. It was decision-making time and I'd better take it seriously.
Once again I perused all the information regarding the implants and not only them. This time I also needed to know more about their character classes.
I ignored all the scientists, vendors, technologists, mechanics and engineers. This wasn't my thing.
Which left me with three specializations.
Two of which were the most dangerous but also the most lucrative: techno archeologist and xenobiologist. You could tell by their names that the former searched for the Founders' ancient technologies while the latter studied all sorts of alien beings.
The archeology bit was more or less clear. This stellar system had never been properly studied yet. Its outskirts (about thirty astronomical units from the station — that is, about three billion miles away) were jam-packed with all sorts of drifting junk: asteroids, clouds of gas and dust, various debris left of ancient disasters and most importantly, lots of artifacts of the Founders' era. Getting there was a job and a half. I couldn't just jump onto my ship and do a quick run there and back, filling its holds with pricey techno artifacts. Its fuel tanks and life support system just wouldn't make it. It meant I had to call up an expedition or a raid complete with a mothership, a convoy and several recon stations, plus a few mining facilities which luckily could be set up anywhere, including dwarf planets, their satellites and even asteroids.
A lone player would never be able to pull it off. This was a niche reserved for clans and corporations. I did find a mention of a group of legendary pilots who raided the area in converted freighters backed-up by some very pricey drones — but this was more of an inspiring urban legend than fact.
The players who chose to specialize in archeology normally studied either the two nearest of the Founders' stations or the asteroid belt located two light minutes away from Argus — a very unhealthy practice considering the area was swarming with Outlaws.
The techno archeologists leveled four main skills: Piloting of Small Spacecraft, Repairs, Alien Technologies and Combat Skills. In other words, they were jacks of all trades and masters of none. They could pilot all kinds of ships, fix them when necessary, take over the enemy's defense systems, mop up the landing zones and defend themselves with weapons in their hands. They were capable of procuring technical artifacts but not of studying them.
The Exobiologists were a much tougher bunch. They leveled Piloting of Small and Medium Spacecraft, Atmospheric Maneuvering, Science, Medicine, Exobiology and predictably, Combat Skills.
Compared to them, slave traders were cute. The Phantom Server version of exobiologists hunted xenomorphs and studied them, taking them apart and creating bio implants, symbionts and various drugs with both temporary and permanent characteristic bonuses.
This was one dirty job in all respects. When I tried to look into it further, I realized that although bio implants and symbiont creatures offered a number of unique abilities, they weren't crucial survival-wise. A good metabolic corrector and a wise choice of gear could protect you much better than any exo could.
The Pilots were the next on my list.
This was a dangerous profession surrounded by an aura of romantic valor — which however faded a lot once you browsed through the raid reports.
I had no idea that deep space exploration — as well as the humans' survival away from their home solar system — would obliterate their ethics and demand so much blood.
But I digress.
So, the Pilots. Undoubtedly with a capital P. They studied Piloting of Small and Medium Spacecraft as well as all types of Maneuvering and Repairs. Strength, Stamina and Agility all maxed out. If a player planned to make a career of it, he or she had to also level up Intellect and Willpower which allowed you to control groups of ships and study tactics, navigation and strategic planning.
Normally, pilots chose to disregard these vital characteristics. As a result, they either got stuck in their development or were forced to risk implanting extra symbionts and neural networks.
Apart from those above, there were plenty of little hybrid classes whose advantages were more than questionable. Badly configured and slow to level up, they made up, however, the bulk of the station's population. I understood of course how easy it was to overindulge once you started checking all those talent branches, but you still had to limit yourself somehow, for this was a shortcut to mediocrity.
So what should I choose?
Without a doubt, I wanted to be a pilot and a techno archeologist. I would like to go on long-range expeditions, discovering and collecting the Founders' artifacts.
Which meant that my current priorities were:
A SynapsZ mind expander, a Neurus Universal reflex enhancer and a top-of-the-range Xenus metabolic implant. I would also need some good armor and weapons, and also a Raptor-class ship. Unlike the fast Condors, this type of craft was equipped with powerful weapons and a capacious cargo hold which was crucial on long-range raids.
It looked like I knew what I needed now.
Next thing I had to check was my financial situation.
Arbido fidgeted in his chair, still busy online. I started counting.
The implants worked out to be about three hundred grand. A Raptor, half a million. Half-decent gear, a hundred grand. Plus Charon's metabolite. I hadn't decided what to do with Arbido yet.
All in all, I needed a million. Nothing more, nothing less.
I heaved a sigh. Apparently, I'd have to risk auctioning the Haash ship. Its stats placed it somewhere in between a Condor and a Raptor. Which meant the starting price should be somewhere around four hundred grand. Plus a faint hope that the ship's rarity would spark a lot of interest amid top-level pilots.
"Zander," Arbido turned in his chair, shaking his head with disapproval. He scrambled down and pattered toward me. "Are you stupid or something?"
I slumped down, staring at him. "You've got a cheek! So you've come round, then?"
"Sorry," his face fell but immediately he looked back up at me. "Don't you understand you're walking on money? Why the fuck would you want to sell the ship?"
"Pardon me? Are you monitoring my searches?"
His face fell again. "I only want to help," he finally offered.
"Does that mean there's nothing wrong with your memory?"
"No, it doesn't! But you're about to make some stupid mistakes."
"I'm trying to find some ways to level my char! I need to get some implants! I need to bring Charon out of his coma! And-"
"Zand, just listen to me!" he begged.
"Go ahead, then. What's your big plan?"
Arbido's business hunches rarely proved wrong. Once he set his sights on a money-making opportunity, he'd go after it with a pitbull's tenacity.
"I heard you talk to Jurgen this morning."
"And? What's that got to do with it?"
"You're in possession of some unexplored alien technologies. Jurgen's mistaken about the ship's origins, isn't he? Isn't the ship Haash and not Dargian?"
"So what if it is?"
"How many subsystems does it have on board?"
I shrugged. "Search me."
"Have a look," Arbido walked back to the terminal, activated a backup hol
ographic screen and transferred to it an offer posted by the Technologists clan.
We offer 100,000 credits for the right to study and copy any one of the yet unknown Founders' devices. The sample's integrity is guaranteed.
We offer 50,000 credits for the right to study and copy any one of the yet unknown alien devices. The sample's integrity is guaranteed.
My jaw dropped. Talk about business hunches. It hadn't taken him long to suss this one out, had it?
Now. I had to play it cool and think it over. How many subsystems would a fighter ship like this have on board? Had to be at least a hundred. What a shame I couldn't ask Charon.
I glanced at Arbido. "Well done."
"I told you I might be useful," he grumbled. "No one has studied the Haash fighter ships before. I suggest you contact Jurgen. I'm pretty sure he won't miss such an opportunity. He has to restore his authority now, and alien technologies are the most valued thing here. Jurgen will earn their gratitude and you, money and some quality implants. Promise you won't forget about me, will you?"
If the truth were known, I felt a bit lost among all these prospects. "What is it you want, then?" I cast him a suspicious look.
"To begin with, I'd like a room of my own," he glanced at Charon. "And I'd like to get access to your logs."
"Why?"
"It's true that I really can't remember how I got here. So I'm not in a hurry to go back to real life. I don't think it's a good idea. So I'd like to stick around you. I won't be able to survive on my own."
"What have my logs got to do with it?"
"Didn't I tell you? You walk on money and you don't even notice it! Just think how much anyone would be prepared to pay for some information about an unexplored station? So please allow me to work for you. You won't regret it, I promise."
I stood up and began pacing the room. I had a funny feeling he hadn't told me everything.
"You'll have to wear the slave collar," I said.
"I know."
"The locals won't be less xenophobic."
"I don't even count on that. But with money you can live anywhere," he added cynically.
Yes, this was my old Arbido. "Very well, then. You may stay. Just remember I'll be keeping an eye on you. Understood?"
He heaved a sigh. "I should get on with it if I were you," he scrambled back into the chair in front of the terminal. "Get to Jurgen before his enemies do. That way you'll help him and will have something to show for it."
Okay. The advice was good. I went online and PM'd Jurgen.
It took him some time to answer. "What is it? Just keep it short. What's the problem?"
"I have a proposal for you that you might find hard to refuse."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean alien technologies. For about two or three million in total. Are you interested?"
Arbido looked triumphant. Pleased as a pig in shit. He wasn't shaking any more.
"Wait up. I'm coming."
He didn't say much. Still, I was damn sure he was interested.
Chapter Five
Phantom Server. Ten days later
I was a Pilot!
Jurgen had proved true to his word. The deal suggested by Arbido had worked fast. While I'd been recovering from progressive implantation, the Technologists had studied the Haash ship and even improved it. Now the pilot's antigravity seat could easily transform to accommodate a human body. They'd done the same to the navigational controls, adding another segment to the control columns which allowed them to fold, making them shorter.
The rest of the cockpit equipment was the same, apart from the addition of a new cyber module mounted behind the pilot's seat. I was the only person who could activate it with my own personal access code. This additional subsystem adapted the scanners' data to human perception.
In fact, this was nothing that a mind expander couldn't do. It had been Jurgen who'd insisted I invest in it. According to him, the first solo flights were also the most dangerous. The slightest delay in the data stream interpretation or a glitch in my mnemonic connection to the ship could prove fatal.
I just couldn't wait. According to the statistics, it took three to four months to turn a newb into a half-decent pilot but in my case, the process would be affected by some of the highest-end technologies.
The Founders' neuronet that had invaded my body had produced a sensation among researchers. Had it not been for Jurgen's putting his authoritative foot down, I'm sure they'd have vivisected me there and then. Luckily, we'd managed to come to a compromise. I agreed to participate in another dangerous experiment which offered the Technologists the opportunity to study my unique nervous system upgrade in action. In return, they offered to install me with the latest reflex enhancer type which hadn't yet been tested. Its main difference from the old ones was in that its nanites contained prerecorded neurograms of a pilot's typical reactions. That didn't make me an ace of course but endowed me with all the basic reflexes necessary to fly small craft. Whether I'd be able to use them, no one could tell yet. The Technologists were curious to see the results of this impromptu field trial. If my mind proved up to the pressure assimilating these new skills, it could become a revolution in neurocybernetics and mnemotechnics, shooting the clan to the top.
The risk was great but so were the prospects it offered.
Behind my back, the hatch slid shut. I activated the seat adjustment memory and slid into it. My heart was fluttering. Immediately the metabolic implant kicked in, trying to curb my anxiety. But still the pressure of the moment was almost too great to bear.
The servomotors whined, transforming the controls. The armrests shifted closer; the joysticks shrank, the seat's back changed its rake angle. Feeders lashed around, snaking out of the seat's base, then bit into the helmet's sockets. Activation codes flashed before my eyes.
And then-
A surge of information flooded my brain, crushing it, sweeping my consciousness away like a twig.
I lost all sense of direction. The simulation training had been nothing like it. My vision blurred; a wave of heat rolled over my body. My perception shifted. The cockpit's outline distorted; then it thinned out and disappeared in the cosmic void.
I broke out in a freezing cold sweat.
I tried to find my bearings but immediately suffered a fierce bout of vertigo as if I were spun around at an inhuman speed. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. Instinctively I tried to jump up but my armored suit was already securely locked into the seat. I couldn't focus. Everything around me kept flashing past, blurring into streaks.
Enough!
My inner scream stopped the maddening spin. The streaks disappeared. I was enveloped by a gray mist. Then a convex wall began looming up out of the haze. What the hell was that?
Gradually I took in the details of a new technoscape. I could see the docking pads and structures next to them from a very different angle.
Was this data from the external sensors?
The ship and I, we were one in a cyber symbiosis. The ship's hull had become my skin.
The mind shift was shattering. The new sensations that a human being simply couldn't have were surging through my brain. A silent scream froze on my lips. I could feel the reactor's burning heat; I was awash with space radiation. It was happening too fast, way beyond human adaptivity levels. I was on the brink of insanity, losing my identity and purpose.
The informational pressure kept growing, surging through me, submerging me into the dark depths of a mind being reborn.
Then it receded.
The cockpit hoved back into view.
Thin holographic screens covered its walls and ceiling, forming my new digital environment. Their deceptive depths held the dark void of space, showing a corner of the station and the pea-sized distant planet.
Interface messages glowed over them, the screens crowded with icons I could move or activate simply by focusing on them.
The mind expander must have connected to my optic nerve, using it as the main data communicati
on channel.
My heart beat slowly. The reactor glowed next to it. Breath in. Breath out. I could feel the joysticks' porous substance lumpy with trigger buttons, sensing the controls through the armored gloves as another edge of altered reality was opening up to my mind.
I sensed myself now human, now the ship. The two identities weren't in a hurry to merge.
Never mind. This was only the beginning.
* * *
The ship was still docked. I painstakingly studied the interface, sorting through the icons and shifting them in an easily accessible order even though I had no idea of their priority yet.
The hours of draining tension began to show some results. I had preserved my sanity. I was more or less comfortable now switching between the various perception modes. It felt so weird to sense the station's docking clamps holding on to you.
No one was rushing me or trying to intervene. I knew that the Technologists' top mnemotechs were busy now monitoring the process, adjusting certain details as I went, helping me inconspicuously. For them this was a wealth of priceless experience. The dawn of a new day.
Once again I'd found myself at the cutting edge of progress. The risks were enormous, but was I supposed to lag behind? Now I could understand why the Outlaws with their neural AIs were so superior to regular pilots. But this was nothing compared to what was yet to come. I'd already been warned that every impact hitting the ship would hurt me.
The ship would react to my instincts, the hybrid perception making us as one for the duration of the sortie.
I seemed to be all right. All the stress and anxiety was over. I was hungry as hell. Did that mean that the metabolic implant had already drained its own batteries trying to help me overcome the shock and was now syphoning energy from my own body?
I'd had enough for today, sure. Still I couldn't stop.
I needed to feel it.
"Argus? This is 2017. Request permission to launch."
There were loads of ships bustling around. Before I could commence accelerating, I needed their course data.
Edge of Reality Page 17
