Arbido walked over to me. He still hadn't suited up. His eyes were popping out, his green skin blotched with gray: as goblins went, he was pale as a sheet. "Have you seen this?"
My interface flashed with a new incoming message.
I opened it, motioning Arbido to a chair. As in, sit down and stop freaking out.
This was an excerpt from the last Wiki update.
The World's History:
... the destruction of the Argus station by Phantom Raiders caused humans to lose control over the Darg system. The last of the pioneers fell in desperate clashes with the enemy. There were no survivors. Most of them died; a few were taken prisoner and spent miserable years in captivity. Their further fate is unknown. The destroyed station fell into the hands of the Dargians who thus came into possession of all the research results conducted by the Corporations.
Still, the Xenomorphs' rule wasn't meant to last. A year before these tragic developments, the Engineers' Clan had managed to study and restore one of the Founders' hyperspace communication units. They used it to send detailed reports about the loss of the First Colonial Fleet to Earth. It's not clear whether their signal ever reached the Solar system. An answer never came.
The pioneers' death wasn't in vain. Their message that contained unique scientific information was indeed received, decoded and studied from every possible angle. By then, the situation on planet Earth had worsened. A large number of ecological and man-made disasters as well as climate catastrophes followed in quick succession. A new world war was brewing. In that situation, the new knowledge received from deep space granted humanity a chance of survival.
Independently from each other, the governments of the five inhabited continents took the decision to build new colonial fleets.
Two years after the death of Argus' last defenders, enormous starships started leaving the Solar system one by one.
Eurasia was the first to venture into deep space, accompanied by a convoy of two hundred freighters and battleships.
So began the era of Exodus. As the new starships finished completion, humans began leaving the doomed planet Earth to head into the unknown, hoping to retrace the tracks of the First Colonial Fleet and solve the mysteries of the Founders. They wanted to understand the mechanism behind the Raiders' interstellar jumps and finally find the Phantom Server which would allow them to take over the ancient network and populate the Universe.
Holy shit! Talk about a global event!
"Where did you get this?" I glared at him, still not quite grasping the magnitude of the looming predicament.
"It's in the Wiki!"
"Bullshit! It must be somebody's sick joke!"
"This is an official update," Arbido said sullenly. "The patch has just been installed."
The station shuddered with a new impact. What had happened now? I scanned the newsfeed. That's it. The station's framework was crumbling under pressure. A new decompression had just occurred in the Corporations area. The number of casualties was still unknown.
The station was disintegrating. Prices for available spaceships skyrocketed. The depressing news was interspersed with offers,
Will pay any money for a safe respawn point.
"Right," I quickly replaced the life support cartridges in my suit. "Any idea what's going on? Your version?"
He paused, sulking, then shrugged and began, "Don't you understand? The alpha testing is over. They don't need us anymore."
"It's over, so what?" I really couldn't see how this update could be bad news.
Judging by the available information, the beta testing phase was to start with the arrival of the Eurasia Colonial Fleet. A very logical move on the part of the developers. Whatever had happened here during the alpha testing phase would now be filed as the world's epic prehistory. The new players could visit Argus and see for themselves, witnessing their world's past with their own eyes.
The way I saw it, the arrival of Eurasia and its convoy could happen at any moment. In a game, time was relative. Decades of subluminal flight could take hours provided the developers had an update ready.
Both the fleet and the station would just appear at the assigned location, obeying the developers' will.
Arbido sniffed, his glare laced with desperation.
"What's there to worry about?" I tried to reason with him. "A new update, big deal! They're sending us a new station and a new colonial fleet. What's wrong with that? We'll have new safe respawn points and a new guaranteed protection. Trust me, they're going to "rescue" us all and greet us as the heroes of the First Colonial Fleet who'd held the fort until their arriv-"
"Where does it say that?" his voice rose to a scream. "Read it again, Zander! There were no survivors!"
"Stop it," I skimmed the page again and shrugged. "Okay, so we'll log out and log back in. Or create a new account, if it ever comes to that."
"Sorry, Zander. I know I owe you my life and all but your stupidity amazes me sometimes."
"Any proof?"
I was offended, of course. But the familiar tough tone in his voice made me swallow my pride and pay attention.
"When did you last check your Logout button?" he asked.
"It's been a while. I was too busy just lately," I opened the interface and stared at the dead, nameless gray button. "What the f-... Are they raving mad?"
He cracked a gloomy grin. "So now you believe me, don't you?"
I gulped. "How long since your logout button has been off?"
The station shuddered again, convulsing in the grip of another technogenic accident. Arbido's stare grew sharp.
"I never had one in the first place," he admitted.
At this point — no good me playing the hero in front of you — it started to sink in.
"Now we're little more than a bunch of comatose bodies wound with wires," he didn't even try to sugarcoat the news. "It's not the game that's the problem even. It's the way we connect to it. You've already worked out quite a lot, haven't you?"
I nodded. My mind raced trying to come up with a solution. The memory of the mummified avatars flashed through my mind. This time I didn't have to wonder what had happened to their players. They'd all died. The neuroimplant's effect had proved too much for them. I could say the same about the Haash and the few Dargians I'd met — about Jurgen who was absolutely sure he'd arrived here with the First Colonial Fleet! Most of the alpha testers were already dead; and those who'd survived had lost their memory under the influence of their neuroimplants, taking the place of NPCs. How about that vendor I'd met at Myrus? He was one sleazy motherfucker, perfectly believable, and why? Because he was real! Because his avatar was backed up by a deformed human identity!
So what was this, then? This game of the future that was supposed to awe everyone with its authenticity was based not on its unique engine, unforgettable settings and limitless possibilities, but on trapped human beings playing for NPCs?
"Right," I sprung up and began pacing the room. "Let's assume you're right. But why would they want to get rid of us, of all people?"
He screwed his face. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, it's all pretty clear. They're cleaning up after themselves. I provided them with players. I knew too much and guessed even more. And as for you, you didn't have enough time to lose your identity the way Jurgen did. We're still conscious, our memories untouched — which means we present a threat to their project. Nobody needs a scandal. No one wants an eyewitness to come out of the woodwork who can tell everyone exactly how this game was made and how many people had died while the developers fine-tuned their neuroimplants. The Raiders' attack was preplanned by the Admins. Can't you see the station is falling apart? There're no safe respawn points left! The logout doesn't work. We've been condemned!"
I paused, trying to take in what he'd just said. "You're too much, you," I chuckled nervously. "Don't you think you're overcomplicating things? If they wanted to get rid of us, all they had to do was switch off the in-mode. Easy!"
"They still need our neurogra
ms," he snapped back, adding angrily, "The extreme neurograms of a chain of deaths, respawns and new deaths. How many players would they have needed to kill in order to collect the material they're about to get now by recording people's minds dying and respawning in a radioactive vacuum? Why kill us if they can first get all the data they need? It's not every day you lay your hands on the records of the suffering of souls in hell."
His every word cut me to the quick. I'd have loved to object, but I had nothing to say.
Still, I was trying to find a solution. "We've got to contact Jurgen. We need to explain everything to him. We might find a few modules that we can convert into a shelter. We might be able to hold out until the betas arrive."
"Pointless. The developers can read our neurograms, don't you understand? They know perfectly well who is dangerous to them and who isn't. Jurgen might survive, as an NPC. But you and I, they've written us off, man..."
"I have no intention of dying!" I felt fury rising within me. "No one's going to trick me into their respawn purgatory again!"
I checked the batteries charge. "What're you standing there for?" I yelled at Arbido. "Get Charon here now in full combat gear! Same applies to you!"
"But Zander-"
"Do it!"
I have to admit I went off the deep end. I just couldn't understand what had prevented the admins from exercising their power.
Was it that they couldn’t — or they just didn't want to?
Were they sitting there sipping cold beer and smirking as they watched us?
My left hand tingled. Mechanically I pulled off the glove. My fingers were ablaze, enveloped in an aura. My skin had become parchment white, the maze of blood vessels aglow as if I had plasma running through my veins.
I refused to believe it. A game artifact couldn't protect me from anything. How could a piece of binary code deign to defend me?
What was going on, then?
A message popped up in my mental vision,
Neurogram transmission failure. Restoring communication. Neurogram transmission failure. Restoring communication. Neurogram transmission fa-
Was the AI inside me trying to strike back, blocking out the admins' control over me? If so, then how was it done?
I was shaking. So what was it, then? Was the artifact indeed based on an alien AI? Had it found a way to outsmart its developers? How had it done so, by improving part of the program code? Had it indeed managed to block the neurogram transmission, putting the game creators before the dilemma of either leaving me alone or turning off the in-mode?
I expected my breathing to cease, strangling me, but nothing of the kind happened.
* * *
The station kept shuddering. The bulkheads vibrated, the floor buckled underfoot.
The newsfeed brought an update: the Corporations Deck was completely decompressed.
My thoughts raced. What was it the Wiki update had said? The last station defenders had fallen long before the arrival of the colonial fleet? It meant that staying at the station was pointless.
I tried to come up with potential escape scenarios. This enormous world offered a countless number of unexplored locations. But first of all, I had to find a safe respawn point.
The station was by now vibrating non-stop, the bulkheads echoing with the impacts from minor but constant breakdowns.
A new system message popped up,
Neurogram transmission restored
My hand was still enveloped by a purple aura. Still, it looked like the AI had failed. But me, I wasn't going to give up so easily.
The door of the adjacent room opened. Clad in my old pressure suit, Arbido could barely walk, the oversized gear hindering his every movement. Charon followed, looking alarmed. He was holding two helmets, Arbido's and his own.
Arbido stopped, staring at my hand. Naturally, I'd forgotten to put the glove back on. Now he'd pester me with questions.
What we need is a safe respawn point, my thoughts returned to the problem at hand. All the rest is superfluous.
Arbido couldn't take his eyes off the glowing veins of the blood vessels that entwined my hand in their fiery web. I put the glove back on and cast him a meaningful glare to stop any potential questions.
"Put the helmets on," I said. "We're going to try to get to the elevators. Time to leg it, guys," I turned to the Haash. "Charon, I meant to ask you-"
The lock's internal hatch opened.
Liori?
I'd no idea what made her come here. How on earth had she managed to hack the coded lock?
She recognized me. Still, she didn't look too happy to see me. Surprise and displeasure flashed through her face.
"Which one of you is Arbido?" her voice rang with strain and exhaustion.
The goblin shrank back, probably trying to hide behind Charon but only betraying himself.
"No, wait!" I couldn't understand what was going on.
The girl wasn't listening. She grabbed Arbido's throat with one hand, lifting him effortlessly in the air, while whipping out his gun with the other. The muzzle pressed hard into the wrinkled skin between the goblin's eyes.
What a day. Everybody's nerves were playing up.
"The coordinates, now!" she demanded.
Arbido croaked something unintelligible.
I too had already whipped out my gun but I wasn't in a hurry to use it. I liked the girl. I glared warningly at Charon. "Which coordinates?"
She didn't bat an eyelid, but my PM box flashed with an incoming message. I opened it and stared at a screenshot: the station's outer hull illuminated in a dull brown light and the Founders' starship clinging to it with its docking ports. The ship was surrounded by the tiny figures of the Dargians, the drones and the Haash busy restoring this relic of ancient technology.
"Where did you get the pic from?" I asked her.
"A certain Arbido published it on the net! He auctioned it! Demanding three million credits for the exact coordinates of a fully restored Founders' starship," she quoted.
"Let go of him, please. He'd been pestering me for this picture so I was the one who gave it to him."
Her lips quivered. I thought she would dissolve in tears. Her fingers slackened, letting go of Arbido. He slumped to the floor.
Slowly the girl turned to me. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her face was ashen. "Do you know the coordinates? Zander, please help. Please."
Whatever had happened to her aggressive stance? The image of a cold-blooded mercenary girl had melted away and faded in my mind, giving way to a totally different person. I could see she was on edge, driven to the limit. I just couldn't understand why.
"Liori, why on earth would you want this old rust bucket? The ship is worth a lot, I agree, but it's seriously damaged. It's not flightworthy."
"That doesn't matter. Its life support system still works."
"I wouldn't know. I've never been inside it. I'm going to ask Charon about it in a minute. Take a seat. We'll work it out."
"The life support works!" she stared at me in some sort of delirious hope. "The Mercs clan was seriously considering the offer. They analyzed the screenshot. When you study it through a set of filters, you can see the puffs of emissions being discharged."
Her voice was shaking. Tears streaked her face.
"Calm down, Liori. I know that Argus is about to fall apart and-"
"You know nothing!" She turned to the airlock and breathed out, "You can come in now."
If the truth were known, I expected to see a squad of mercenaries armed to the teeth. But — my heart skipped a beat — a shy group of children ventured into the room.
There were five of them. Three girls pale with fear and two boys, all about three or four years old. They flocked around Liori, casting wary glances at Charon.
"Oh," the youngest of them noticed the goblin who'd scrambled out of his restraining pressure suit and was trying to hide behind Charon's back. "He's so funny. Is he real?"
Do you still remember your childhood? It took me two heartbeat
s to remember mine. The happy carefree time when my mind was still free from the void of cyberspace. When I hadn't had to worry about the toxic haze outdoors. When I'd wake up every morning, untroubled and inexperienced, welcoming every new day.
All I had left from those days were a few faded fragmentary flashbacks but that was enough to knock the wind out of me.
For years I'd been trying to ride the wave and stay on top of progress in constant search for authenticity and finally, I'd made it.
Pain had become real pain. A game had become reality. I looked at Liori surrounded by the children — but I wasn't looking at a level 53 merc. All I could see was a pale tearful woman who stared at me in hope and desperation.
In moments like this, your mind snaps. "Arbido."
He peeked from behind Charon's back.
"I want you to take care of the children."
Once again the Founders' neuronet within me kicked in. Neurogram transmission failure messages flashed non-stop. This would force the admins to interfere, and I had no idea what they might do.
I motioned Liori aside for a talk. Arbido didn't seem to have heard my order. He stood there catatonic, black desperation in his stare. Charon saved the moment. Hunching up, he slumped to the floor and tilted his head to one side, assuming the perfectly harmless pose of a huge cuddly toy.
Liori and I stepped aside. "What are the children doing at the station?"
"It's a long story."
I wasn't going to take that for an answer.
"They were born here. Into the families of those who'd arrived with the first wave."
That wasn't true. No one could have actually been born here. There was a real child acting behind each one of those avatars.
"The logout button?" I asked, letting her know I knew what was going on.
She wiped away her tears. "They have nowhere to go back to."
"So they've been condemned just like all of us here?"
She nodded.
"We're gonna sort it out," but I wasn't good at comforting. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. A lump blocked my chest. "The ship is crammed full of Dargians," I gulped and tried to speak dryly and to the point. "If we mop them all up, we'll get both the ship and a relatively safe respawn point. What do you think?"
Edge of Reality Page 20
