by Harper North
The warehouse is lined with other illegal Immersion Boxes, similar to the one I used. I sigh, looking around a moment and gathering my thoughts. Then I remember how I’m wearing a tight bodysuit and two armed guards were posted nearby, who now watch me.
The two sleek Meran males move to guard the doorway’s entry, as if to prevent my escape. Over their shoulders, I spot dark blue water just outside the dome, the very brine hiding this isolated city from the rest of Mera.
I slink out of the Immersion Box, aware of how their orange gazes follow my body. I’m lean, fit, and fast like all Merans, but the males are slightly stronger than the females. And these armed guards won’t let me leave the warehouse until I meet my end of the deal.
Gulp.
“Tyisa.” The one on the left speaks my real name with a curt nod. He has a strange accent from living the past several hundred rotations in a city isolated from the rest of Mera. He’s also paler from lack of sunlight. “Your grace period has ended as of now,” he continues. “As is mandated by Raralin law, a monetary deposit is required to grant you asylum.”
“Of course,” I say, keeping my tone light and cheery. But the stone in my gut churns faster.
When I left home, fleeing from the ICC, I spent most of my credits just to get here. They were credits I meant to take to Earth for beginning a new life. To have when I started my own business, perhaps something to help orphaned children or those who were homeless. Securing secret transport underneath the Primal Lands was easier said than done, and smugglers don’t offer services for cheap. When the people of Raralin learn that I’ve entered their secret city with only fifty-nine credits to my name, they won’t be happy.
CHAPTER 3
MY ATTENTIVE GUARDS walk side by side with me through the city of Raralin. The fashion here still catches me off guard. The treated skins of aquatic creatures are sewn into skirts and tunics. People seem sparse as we pass one nearly empty street after another, though the domed city is huge enough to fit thousands of souls. Everything is lit by Sunlight Lamps, which emit an engineered equivalent of daylight, allowing plants to grow in the otherwise dark blue atmosphere of Raralin.
Far above, water shimmers with strange colors, reflecting the Primal Land’s intense aurora. We pass small farms of actual crops under rows of Sunlight Lamps. Farmers in simple brown-scaled tunics tend the crops. They’re dressed like the pastoral Merans of the times before the ICC brought suits and ties from Earth.
This is a place untouched by the ICC. Where people haven’t been corrupted with raw survival and greed.
Or have they?
I stand out in my polyester clothing, drawing stares from dwellers as I march toward––what the guards tell me––is the Elders’ Tower. It’s located in the center of the city rather than the outskirts where the Immersion Boxes are located. Buildings made from stone and hardened coral brick stand in rings around the tower. The crowd is denser here as people peruse shops. The stare-down continues but I keep my chin high, determined not to let them intimidate me. I have a job to do: stay alive.
The Elders’ Tower isn’t really a tower. It’s a small dome that’s simply taller than the other structures, as if the Elders have a superiority complex. Buildings can’t rise too high in an underwater city. The dome itself is made of a strange, greenish-blue marbled stone that I can’t identify.
I wish my escorts would hurry. The Tenticlas and leveling up waits. It’s my hope that GloryStealer, Vadie and Lucky_Champ can grind and level up a bit more by the time I’m able to log back in—if I’m able to log back in. It’ll give us a better chance against the boss. I’m ready to face the Elders of Raralin, even as I’m driving my thoughts to The Binding.
Since politeness and honor are key in Meran culture, and even more so in this isolated city, the two appointed guards don’t wrench my arms around me. Rather, they stand behind me once we reach the marbled doors of the Elders’ Tower. I’m not to run away, so I open them and enter the large space within. Turns out that the Elders are expecting me.
They sit behind a U-shaped counter and beneath red coral lights. The glow makes the whole area look sickly. I count twelve Elders, six men and six women, and I’m guessing they are each at least fifty rotations old. I’ve never seen so many wrinkles in one room. Of course, the rest of Mera is run by the ICC. Corporate jobs and bad food tend to lead to shorter lifespans topside—although, our shortened lives are still twice as long as those on Earth.
I sense that I’m to await an invitation to speak, so I do.
“Tyisa,” the woman seated near the center of the U says, training her gaze on me. Even with her advanced age, her orange eyes glow with awareness. “We would like to remind you that staying in Raralin requires a large monetary deposit.”
“Yes, Merani,” I say, using the old-fashioned, respectful term for an elderly Meran. This isolated city should be steeped in the older ways, right?
She nods. I’ve guessed correctly.
“As the Lead Elder, it is my duty to inform you of how Raralin must be run,” she continues. “One of our main sources of income are through monetary deposits made by outsiders who wish to join our city and, thus, discover the value of caring for our planet. Without such contributions, we cannot afford to run our operations and exist separately from the ICC. Raralin cannot function completely isolated from the rest of Mera. Over the years, we have needed to take in funding or trade with smugglers to maintain our independence and our cultural purity. It is necessary to acquire the technology we need to make this happen.” She speaks like my former boss at the ICC. Even her last sentence sounds like corporate jargon.
My stomach turns. Again. I arrived at Raralin, expecting a place where old Meran culture still ruled. Instead, I get more of the same. I’m beginning to question the sentiment of every elderly Meran I’ve met. They all told me that the old days were filled with respect for one another and lacked greed. But I see a hunger in this Elder’s eyes. It seems I’ve spent my younger years getting lied to more than I thought.
“I understand,” I say with a little bow, hoping that’s not over the top.
“Then you understand why we must cast you out into the Primal Lands if you are unable to pay,” the Elder continues. “We will also notify the ICC of your location. They will likely find you before the radiation can do permanent harm to your body. Whether they will give you medical care for it will be up to them. Most likely, they will allow you to suffer.”
“You cast people out there?” I ask. “And you tell the ICC where to find them?”
“Surely you’ve wondered how Raralin has remained untouched by them for so long, with smugglers and information going in and out,” the Lead Elder continues. “They know of us so, to stay independent, we signed a treaty with the ICC. We are to return all those who may be a threat to them, at our discretion. And we have decided that those who will not contribute to the prosperity of our city are potential problems to the ICC.”
I stand there, jaw falling open. Until now, I’ve thought of Raralin as a last pocket of safety from the ICC. The Elders have proven me wrong.
“Raralin cannot gamble by taking in those who will not contribute,” she says. Then she nods to the other Elders, who all return the gesture. “We have the lives of thousands to protect. It is a hard decision but, with the ICC overhead, it is the only one.” Regret fills her words. Maybe I was wrong. These aren’t bad people—just people looking to do the best for those in their care. “Only our tough laws ensure that everyone here can live in comfort and prosper.”
Being thrown out into the Primal Lands is a guaranteed death sentence for me. Perhaps I need to dig myself deeper into the hole I’ve found myself in and see what happens.
“Look,” I say, hating that I sound like I’m pleading. “Since I haven’t paid yet, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you double what I originally owed. Instead of ten thousand credits, I’ll give you twenty thousand. Think of what you could do with that. All you have to do is give me more time in the game
.” My thoughts turn to The Hermit. “People there can sell rare Artifacts to those with credits. I’m not sure if you know how it works, but up top, ICC managers and executives like to play The Binding too. They buy rare items to show off. I have ways to find Artifacts and sell them. You just need to give me a little more time”––I bow again––“Merani.”
Behind me, the guards step closer, boots tapping on the aquatic marble.
“Stand down,” the Lead Elder says to them. “We need to discuss your offer.”
I hope that the executives on Earth are just as greedy as the ones on Mera, because I’m still playing on the Earth side of the game. I’m sure Atlas would tell me that yes, people could make a living selling rare items to ICC management.
Now I’m betting my life on it.
The Elders speak with one another, turning in their creaky chairs to do so. My heart races as I wait for their decision. I want to protest with every inch of my body, but the last thing they’ll respect is someone who displays a childish temper compared to their own controlled behavior. This isn’t my new cluster. These people are deciding how long my life will last. There is no respawning in this world.
At last, after several minutes of whispers and creaky chairs, the Lead Elder faces me.
“We will uphold you to your end of the deal,” she says. “You will pay twenty thousand credits to the Raralin Fund before the next two days are up. Failure to contribute will result in banishment and exposure to the ICC. They will not have mercy as we do.”
Trying to hold back my shaking, I bow again. “Thank you, Merani.”
She orders the guards to take me back through the city and escort me to my quarters. They do, walking me down lavish streets. Rivers course down the center of each main road, dotted with plants courtesy of special Starlight Bulbs. I haven’t seen my quarters yet, though the guards who took me in shared that I’d have a place to live so long as I didn’t get cast out. We pass the farms again and toward rows upon rows of egg-shaped structures near the dome’s edge.
“Are those rounded versions of ICC cubes?” I ask, trying to get the guards to say something while studying the sliding doors found on each residential unit.
Neither respond. Perhaps I have somehow overstepped my bounds by speaking. But why hold back? If I do, I’ll look weak. And everyone knows what happens to the weak.
One of the male guards waves me toward an egg-shaped thing and gestures for me enter.
Only then do they leave me alone. I climb inside and turn on a Sunlight Lamp hanging from the wall. Then I realize that the egg I’m inside is split into three compartments: one for sleeping, one for food preparation, and another for waste disposal. It’s a slight improvement over my ICC cube. All this time I had believed that the citizens of Raralin were all living in the lap of luxury.
The waste disposal room has a toilet and a mirror. I step inside and grasp the sink, thinking. Bags have formed under my eyes and my reddish hair has fallen over my face in dingy strands. I look as if I’ve spent weeks inside the Immersion Box. I have, in the past, taking only the most necessary breaks.
It was the period two rotations ago after I found out my parents had sold out my would-be mate, Selesaran, to the ICC in exchange for better quarters and jobs—quarters and jobs that they got.
Selesaran had been working with The Binding’s black market to raise credits to get away from the ICC. We were arranged to be married and, though I only met him a few times at ICC-approved meetings, he had a wonderful smile and hope in his eyes. Selesaran whispered to me that he could get us both away from the ICC forever. He was working in the black market and had an illegal home planned on the island of Yorani.
In my excitement, I told my parents.
Twenty-four hours later, I received a notice on my work computer that Selesaran had died and our marriage was cancelled. My parents became the new managers of their departments soon after.
And this was after my father had shared how holding onto Meran pride was the only thing that would keep our identity in the midst of the ICC takeover. Then he became one of them.
We stopped speaking. I had to get to Earth to escape this pain. Now I’m here, life hanging in the balance, and possibly not in better conditions than the individuals I’m fighting to escape forever.
Winning my Credit offered that way out and now it’s gone again. I’m turning into just another ICC slave, even if they don’t have me anymore.
What am I going to do?
Looking for Artifacts will slow me down from getting to Earth and finding Atlas in real life. The Hermit says I should level up to survive attention from the game’s Main Admin. That will allow The Hermit to hack that entity, infiltrate the ICC, and discover a way to physically get to Earth. Looking for Artifacts is something that Lucky_Champ should do, not me. It won’t get me any closer to rescuing my friend before his captors kill him.
And Lucky_Champ is only a Level 25. Finding the very rare loot often requires higher levels. Depending on how many upgrades he’s allocated to Luck, that will either take a long time or a long time. Two days isn’t going to cut it. I’ll end up forsaking my comrade, which is one of the Ten Dishonors in classical Meran culture. It’s right below murder and betrayal.
But I have The Hermit, and The Hermit might know shortcuts.
I’m already wasting time. But with Coco_Dream21 stuck in her ICC work shift, I have no choice but to wait for her return before taking on the Infernix map again. Still, we’re out-leveled. My cluster will expect me to hatch a plan by the time I get back to defeat the boss. And then I’ll need to explain to them, without revealing my predicament, that we must shift focus to rare Artifacts. At least Lucky_Champ will be happy about that news.
Retreating to the kitchen, I don’t find a Ration Block as I half-expect, but root vegetables, a cooked swimmer of some sort, and a spicy sauce that is delicious on everything. This must be a simple meal delivered to all citizens of Raralin but, to me, it’s an exotic feast. Merans burn a lot of energy and need more calories than Earthans.
Already, my mind clears some. Since dreams and sleep were well regarded in Meran culture of the past, I decide that it might help me as well. I collapse on the small bed, set my alarm for a quarter day from now, and close my eyes, hoping that my subconscious will come up with a solution while I doze.
Unfortunately, I’m too exhausted to dream and, the next thing I know, a loud buzzer is going off, yanking me from blissful darkness. I spring off the bed and check my clothing to ensure they’re still clean. My brows wrinkle. Acceptable. I guess. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m going into the Immersion Box with less than two days before death. I can’t afford to rest again during that time.
Running, I tear across the rural section of the city and back to the warehouse, passing my two guards on the way. One nods to me as if encouraging me to hurry. I wonder how many victims they’ve had to throw out to the ICC and radiation. I’m shocked to see their compassion.
Two of the Immersion Boxes are closed when I enter the warehouse. Raralin may be a nod to Mera’s past, but a few of the citizens still like to partake in virtual reality. At least the other four boxes are free and I don’t have to yank anybody out of one, risking brain damage.
Climbing inside, I allow the gray goo to surround my body and supply me with oxygen, nutrients, and everything else I need. Black entombs me as I close the lid, banishing the gray. With a nod, I log in.
The sensation of lying down vanishes until I find myself standing outside the boss map again, near the jutting gray rocks that sheltered me, and meant to shelter GloryStealer1. No Tenticlas rises out from crater below, but our party will need to venture down to the flat terrain to activate the timer and start the boss fight.
“You’re back,” GloryStealer says.
I eye him. He’s still decked out in his ridiculous animated tattoos but, when I study the text above his username, I see that he’s managed to reach Level 12. That’s better than nothing, but still not enough to do much to
the Tenticlas.
“I see you’ve been doing some work,” I say. “That’s good.”
“Why is leveling up getting so slow?” he asks. “I’ve been working at this for a full in-game day.”
“Because it takes longer to reach each higher level,” I explain, trying to be patient. “It’s always been that way in gaming. Stop grinding low-level enemies. They give less XP the higher you go. You have to move on to enemies around your level if you want to keep getting decent XP.”
“But I keep dying.”
“Learning to snipe properly might be just a little bit helpful,” I say.
“Are we ready to take on this map again?” Vadie asks from behind.
I turn to find him and Lucky_Champ standing there, almost at attention. They’re both at the levels they were at before: 15 for Vadie and 25 for Lucky_Champ. My mind cranks, rejuvenated from sleep and real food. We’re still out-leveled in this fight. The Tenticlas is likely to beat us yet again, driving our time down farther and dimming any hope for saving Atlas. Only Coco_Dream, at Level 31, even stands a ghost of a chance.
“We need a new plan,” I say. Then pieces click in my mind. “GloryStealer, what kinds of enemies were you fighting?”
“Mining Bots,” he says. “The green ones, not the red ones. The red ones are Level 20. Even the green ones were killing me.”
“And the green ones are Level 10,” Lucky_Champ says. “The red ones . . . it’s better to just dodge them. They gang up on you and, even at my level, they’re hard to fight with their population size.”
My mind spins, trying to formulate a plan, but before I can say anything, The Hermit speaks to me.
“Raven, Mining Bots turn aggressive to every entity that breaks crates. They follow those who transport crates as well, but do not strike unless they detect broken crates. Upon meditating, it is clear to me that those who designed this map did not think non-players would do such a thing. There are no other enemies inside the mines and the red Bots are numerous.”
