“So who were you then, before you became who you are now?”
I hesitate. The green flames crackle and pop as Sam takes a seat on a large rock.
“Eric,” I finally tell her. “That’s my real name.”
“Eric what?”
“Eric Renfro.”
“Oric Rune,” she muses. “Have all your handles been similar to your real name?”
“I’ve more or less stuck with Oric Rune through my various incarnations. I tried Runestar once, but I thought it sounded too douche-y.” I don’t know why I’m telling her any of this, but suddenly it feels right, normal even. Hell, it’s a relief to admit who I once was, with an emphasis on was.
“And you?” I ask her. “Surely you aren’t Sam Raid up there. It sounds like a name for someone who deals in pest control.”
Zing! That settles it. I have got to put more points in MIND.
“Pest control?”
“Sorry, I’ve just recently become funny. I’m still getting used to it.”
She turns away from me and stares over the cliffside for a moment. A sudden zephyr from the south perforates the green smoke, stopping as quickly as it began.
“My real name is Cyn Oneida,” she finally says, her back still to me. “Unlike you, I’m not permalogged in. I have, however, been logged in for the last two days straight to deal with the Tagvornins. The fuckers. Tangka is the place I call home when I dive to Unigaea, and I’ll be damned if these assclowns take over the city.”
“And your background?”
“My background?” She laughs. “Are you looking for a backstory or something?”
“A little bit.”
“Well, you didn’t share yours.”
“I told you more than I’ve told anyone in a year.”
She considers this for a moment. “Fair enough. I’ve been logging into the Proxima Galaxy since I was legally old enough to dive. I spent a lot of my time in Steam, the famous steampunk world. Other places too. Ever heard of Steam?”
I nod. “I checked out Steam for a week, a couple years back. There were too many rules for me.”
“I found they added to the authenticity. But anyway, that was back in like 2058, 2059.”
“A decade ago.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Don’t remind me that I age out there but not in here. Can you believe it’s 2069?”
“I can’t, and my mistake.”
“I started diving to Unigaea a year ago, for something different. Lots of quests here and the action, fuck if it isn’t exhilarating. I thought about diving to Tritania, but everyone goes there.”
“They do.”
“And after a few avatars to get a solid understanding of the mechanics, here I am.”
“And are you on UBI up there too?”
She scoffs. “Universal Basic Income? That’s only offered in some States, mostly in the north. Is that what you’re on?”
I nod. “It’s cheaper to stay permalogged in than it is to find affordable housing in Chicago.”
“So that’s your backstory?”
“It is for now.”
“You like playing the mysterious role?”
I shrug. “It’s a coping mechanism. What do you do?”
“You mean for work?”
“Yeah, if you aren’t on UBI, what do you do?”
“I collect rare items and sell them in other Proxima worlds,” she says.
“That’s cool! You’re a Proxima smuggler?”
“It’s not as risky or crazy as it seems. Actually, it’s really good money, but long hours, and sometimes I have to go to some shit online worlds. I recently spent a solid two days in a racecar world. Talk about – ” She shudders. “Vroom vroom nightmares for a week.”
“Why do you come here? Are you searching for a rare item?”
“Two reasons. I come to Unigaea to blow off steam. I love fighting me a bandit. Plus, there are some rare items here too. My only complaint is that it takes a lot of grinding to level up here and of course, there are the risks of accidently dying.” She laughs at this last statement. “Weird way to put it, but you know what I mean.”
I nod. “I was about to say that. Where are you from exactly?”
“New Mexico, Santé Fe, but now I live in Indianapolis.”
“That’s like three hours away from me!”
Sam crosses her arms over her chest. “And?”
“Nothing. Um, tell me what you’ve heard about the Red Plague.”
She looks at me incredulously. “The Red Plague? Are you telling me you don’t already know?”
“I just know what I’ve heard from fishermen and from Governor Talonas.”
“You really have gone full immersion, haven’t you?” That incredulous look returns to her face.
I gulp. “Guilty as charged.”
“It’s a source code bomb,” she says with a wave of her hand.
“A what?”
“An SCB is a bomb that infects the very algorithm behind the scenes of Unigaea. It is … ” She considers her next sentence carefully. “Think of it like a virus that attacks the NVA Seed, the world’s AI, and destroys the online world from within, disrupting the D-NAS of anyone it comes into contact with. D-NAS, digital neuronal autoconstruct system.”
I feel my heart skip a beat as I consider the implications. “Are you saying … ?”
She nods. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Unigaea is slowly being destroyed.”
Chapter Twenty-four: Source Code Bomb
“You said it was a source code bomb that is doing this, right?” I rack my brain as I try to recall what I’ve heard about these bombs and come up with nothing. I’ve never been one to get into the nitty gritty of how or why a Proxima world such as Unigaea works. There are those that spend years studying the game mechanics. Hell, elite universities even offer degrees in neuronal physics.
Me? I’m not a Proxima-head.
Sam Raid places her arms behind her back and looks up at the deep-red sky. “Yes, but from what people are saying over at iNet, it is a variant of a source code bomb. A source code bomb would have, for lack of a better term, fucked everything up. You and I wouldn’t be standing here right now if this were a traditional source code bomb.”
“What do you mean by a variant?” I too glance up at the sky, as if staring at it will help me better understand what’s going on.
“There haven’t been many source code bombs detonated in the Proxima Galaxy,” she explains. “There was an attempt to detonate one in Tritania in the late 2050s, and a source code bomb all but destroyed a world known as Cyber Noir around that same time. Ever heard of it?”
I shake my head and something flashes across her eyes.
“What?”
“Odd to encounter someone who has never heard of Cyber Noir, or the Reapers, or Quantum Hughes, or, well, anyone from that era. They’re legends.”
“I’ve never been one to follow legends, unless there’s some rare loot involved.”
She cracks a grin. “I can appreciate that. My point is: this one is different. This SCB, what the locals are calling the Red Plague, is slow moving, destroying as it goes.” She mimics this statement by pressing her hands forward. “The Proxima Company is trying to stop it at its source, but as usual, they’ve been hush hush about it and are staying as unobtrusive as possible.”
“Does this bomb have anything to do with the meteor attack on Solidus a few days back? I was there when that happened, you know.”
Sam shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. I wasn’t there, only heard about it.”
The image of the meteor crashing down flashes across my mind’s eye. It seems so long ago that Deathdale took to the sky as she blasted the meteor out of the air. It’s an image I’ll never forget.
“Well, I’m glad we could have this little talk. Now that we’re buds, and we know intimate details about each other, can I have my weapons back?”
Sam smirks. “How do I know you aren’t here to slay u
s all?”
“What? Me versus like thirty militia members?” I consider this for a moment. “Actually, I’m flattered you think I could take all of you on.”
“Your wolf would help you, and it doesn’t hurt that the men are scared of it.”
I approach her and we both look down from the cliffside to the makeshift entrance of camp. Wolf paces back and forth and the men keep their distance.
“He’s a damn good dog,” I tell her, “except if you get him around water. Sure, he looks big and menacing now, but you should see how he gets when he’s on a boat.”
She laughs. “You’re serious?”
“A few days back our raft was attacked by a sea dragon. It was a shitshow, plain and simple, and I’m lucky both of us aren’t in that sea dragon’s stomach right about now.”
“You’d be digested by now,” she says.
“We’d be dragon shit floating around in the sea being consumed by, well, whatever eats poop in the ocean.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Plankton?”
“No idea, Eric.”
“It’s Oric, unless you want me calling you Cyn in front of your, well … ‘troops’ isn’t the right word for the motley crew you’ve put together, but you get my point. Please call me by my handle.”
She stares me down for a moment. “Fine, Oric it is.”
We’re both silent for the next minute, as the flame flickers and green-tinged smoke fills the air. There’s something bold and defiant about Sam Raid that I like, her tiny stature utterly giant, and as large as any warrior I’ve yet to face in Unigaea.
“Anything else you’d like to say?” she finally asks. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”
“Actually, I was thinking about our overall strategy.”
“Our strategy?”
“Yes, did you think I was outfitting your militia just so they’d look better for the next photo op?”
She chuckles. “I suppose not.”
“Here’s what I think we should do … ” I lower my voice as I lay out the plan that has been at the back of my mind since I first arrived. Sam listens intently, her expression suddenly serious and focused.
Finally, after I’ve finished, her brow furrows and she bites her lip.
“What? Good idea, right?”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Ah, come on!” I place my hand across my chest and she laughs. “That’s … that’s the best idea I’ve had all week!”
Sam shakes her head. “So let me get this straight. You’re going to do the most cliché thing possible: disguise yourself as a Tagvornin, gain entry, and stir up trouble only to be rescued by us? Did I follow that right? Any more tropes you’d like to share now, aside from the man’s best friend thing you have going on with your wolf?”
“Did you say rescued? Yeah, maybe by you, but I don’t know if your Tangka trashcan militia is going to be doing much rescuing.”
“Tangka trashcan militia?” She puts her hand on the hilt of her tiny rapier.
“You heard me.” I wave my arm down at a few militiamen, who are currently pissing onto a rock and laughing as they cross streams. “More evidence?” I point to a guy with two peg legs and a tree branch sheathed at his side. “What the hell is going on there?”
“Jeff of Hays is tougher than he looks.”
“Hays? Where the hell is that?”
She shrugs. “I really have no idea. That’s just what people call him.”
“What about that guy?” I point at a guy climbing a branch hanging off a tree to get to a crossbow bolt stuck in its trunk.
“Jay is our best climber.”
He reaches for the bolt, loses his footing, and falls backwards out of the tree. He lands hard, pushes himself to his feet, and shoots anyone who’ll look at him a thumbs up. I crack a grin. “If you say so. And yes, I saw your one, obligatory big guy. You know, the one who led me to you.”
“His name is Ralph, and he doesn’t like to talk about his size. Enough teasing me about my militia! They may look a bit … unorthodox … but they’ll fight until all the blood has been drained from their bodies.” She grows serious again. “That crew down there is one of the best, if not the best, I’ve ever assembled in a Proxima world.”
“Fine, fine.” I place both palms in the air, aware that she’s ready to change the subject. “So if my plan won’t work for you, what will?”
“I suggest that we surround Tangka as best we can. You and I go in first and take out as many as possible, only to be followed by the rest of the militia.”
“So a suicide squad of two?”
“You have a wolf too, remember.”
“He counts as me.”
“So he’s a familiar then?”
“Not fully. He doesn’t talk to me; I can’t really control him or communicate with him in any way. That said, he does seem to know what I’m thinking at times and he takes verbal commands well. What about your transportation into Tangka? You have a horse?”
“No, but you have a wolf. We can both ride him.” She notices the way I’m looking at her tiny rapier and says, “Big things come in small packages. Familiar with the phrase? I thought so. All we need is gear for the rest of the militia. The Tagvornins won’t stand a chance. You and I will go in first, and once we get ourselves properly surrounded, the troops will come to our rescue.”
“It’s unorthodox, I’ll give you that.”
“My best battle strategies have always been a bit unorthodox. Call me the Sun Tzu of the Proxima Galaxy.”
“All right, Sun.”
As if on cue, we hear a loud screech above us. We look up to see two great birds fly towards the encampment, sharing the weight of a large wooden box.
“It’s his griffins,” I say, cutting our banter short. “Governor Talonas said he would deliver and he meant it.”
(^_^)
The griffins carry the crate of armor and weapons through a series of ropes gripped tightly in their talons. Predictably, the militiamen clear the hell out when they see the griffins coming in for a landing. The magnificent beasts are a pleasure to see, the deep blue feathers on their necks glistening and their lion tails slowly flickering as they lower.
They set the crate down and drop the ropes. The crate itself is about the size of a shipping container, the top hammered shut by large nails no smaller than a fist.
One of the feline terror birds cries out as a militiaman gets too close, which sends the tin-pan soldier scrambling over a chair only to eat dirt.
At the back, near the eating area, a granny in a headscarf drops to her knees to offer praise. Her daughter runs to help her to her feet, but the granny shoos her away. She keeps praying, her face suddenly filled with light.
“Sam?” I turn to find that the odd leader of the group has already scaled down the cliffside and is in the process of running over to the griffins. I quickly follow her down.
The griffin on the right takes a few steps forward, its paws digging into the dirt. The mythological creatures are much larger than Wolf, close to the size of African Bush Elephants – which I’ve only seen in Proxima zoo worlds due to extinction.
Sam approaches the griffin, her hand outstretched. The great beast slowly lowers its beak, its sharp features trained on her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say to myself as she reaches her hand even higher.
The creature’s eyes flare and settle. It lowers its head and finally, it lets her stroke its beak. It snorts after she’s finished, presses away, and lifts its enormous wings. It starts flapping them and as if a helicopter were taking off, dirt and debris swirls in the air.
The other griffin lifts to meet its companion. They screech, lift even higher, and soon the two legendary creatures are gone as quickly as they came.
Once they’ve cleared out, the militiamen go about unpacking the armor. Their armor is typical Stater grunt gear, blue with silver embellishments featuring griffins. It is by no means in the same
league as the armor given to me, but it is light years ahead of the dumpster armor these men were outfitted in just moments ago.
I take the ladder to the ground, move around the men putting on their armor, and approach Sam Raid. “What about you?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to indulge?”
“My armor will suffice.” She flicks her epaulet as if to make a point. “It may not look that great, but it is made from case-hardened Hashmonean iron.”
“Damn. Nice.”
The big man from earlier approaches carrying my weapons. He hands me my gear and I sheathe the St. Lucia Buster Sword across my back. The crossbow pistol goes in my list and once I’m geared up, I whistle for Wolf, who comes tearing through the crowd.
“So this is your Tagvornin wolf?” Sam opens her arms wide and Wolf approaches her cautiously. He sniffs at her, instantly lets his guard down, and runs up to her so she can give him a big hug. “He smells great! Like seafruit!” she says as his tail beats back and forth.
Chapter Twenty-five: En Garde
“I want to commend you for your professionalism and maturity back there,” Sam Raid says as we move through the brush towards the town of Tangka.
After traveling together for nearly two hours on Wolf, we’re now on our feet keeping as low to the ground as possible. It’s night, and the rest of the militia are about a quarter mile behind us. Our surroundings are relatively quiet, aside from the loud screech of crickets and the thunder overhead.
Rain is imminent.
“You aren’t the first lady I’ve ridden Wolf with,” I say before processing just how terrible the sentence sounds.
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“I stand by what I’ve said.”
Ahead, about thirty feet away, I see the same damn jerky shed that keeps making its way into my narrative. I get the notion to beat the door down, which has been covered by poorly placed pieces of wood, and again partake in the excellent dried meat, or at least what’s left of it.
I glance to Sam and from there to Wolf, who licks his lips.
“You’ve got it, pal. Hold on, Sam.”
“Where are you going?” she hisses.
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