by G. R. Cooper
“Sir, we’re receiving a hail from the mining ship. In text.”
“Please don’t shoot me.”
Chapter 19
Duncan slewed the view from the space station control room. It had been focused directly outward from the main hangar door, toward the system jump point and the HMS Westy, suddenly accelerating toward the station at full speed. Now he pointed the view in the opposite direction, through the view from the hangar door on the other side of the station. Centered in the screen, nestled in a crater on the shepherd moon, was a tiny, forlorn mining ship, its lone mining drone just arriving to dock on the small, generic space ship.
Another message came through, the text scrolling across the screen.
“Please, sir, don’t shoot me.”
“Clive,” said Duncan, “how long until the Westy is in range?”
“A few minutes.”
“And can the miner escape?”
“Unlikely, sir. Extremely unlikely.”
“Shit,” hissed Duncan.
Duncan didn’t know why he was concerned. He didn’t know this guy, whoever he was. And he was a pirate. Surely he knew the risks. Most of all, he reasoned, it was only a game. So what if this guy got ‘killed’. He would just resurrect at the last space station he’d checked in at. Not a big deal at all.
Then Duncan realized. It wasn’t about this guy, this little miner. It was about Eric West and his bullshit HMS Westy fantasy. About all of the bullies. All of the ‘alpha males’. All of the assholes. All of the guys, sure in their usually misguided opinions, that stomped all over everyone else in order to get their way. He didn’t want them to win. Ever.
Fuck them. Fuck the Westy’s of the world.
“Shit,” repeated Duncan, “shit, shit, shit, shitshitshit.”
He paused, thought, decided.
“Clive, open the rear hangar doors, and open a hail to the miner.”
He leaned forward in the chair.
“There is a hangar door opening next to you. Go through it and dock. Do not send any more hails.”
He watched for a second as the miner began to comply.
“Clive, close the hangar doors as soon as he’s through.”
Duncan stood.
“What the fuck am I doing?” he muttered to himself, then turned and left the control room.
Duncan stormed into the mining ship. A generic looking player, still clad in the same newby clothes that Duncan was wearing, sat, facing forward, in the pilot’s seat. Duncan assumed, from the text based hails and the lack of movement from the character, that the player was likely on an old, basic, computer and monitor setup. No microphone, no VR. Duncan walked to the front of the cockpit, in front of the pilot’s seat, in order to ensure that this guy had a view of him while he talked. He looked the player in the face.
“First, welcome aboard my space station. I’d appreciate it if you told nobody about it.” Duncan didn’t think that likely, but he could hope.
“Second, I assume from your hails that you aren’t capable of communicating by voice, so I’ll go ahead and do all of the …”
“Yes.”
Duncan assumed that was a confirmation that the guy only had a keyboard to communicate with, “ … talking for now.”
He looked at the miner, or the miner’s character. It was the perfect poker face, unmoving, unchanging. He was surprised to realize how much more realistic his friend’s looked in game. Not just that their characters were modeled on their real looks, but nuances like subtle movements that were reflected from the way that the VR helmet translated player movement into character movement. This guy, whoever he was, was just a mannequin.
“Clive, turn on player names.”
Phani.
“Well, Phani,” Duncan said, “you might as well get the grand tour. Follow me.”
Duncan walked from the bridge of the little ship, pausing to make sure that Phani was following him, through the airlock and back into the station. They walked up the stairs, looked out into the bay. The mining ship had disappeared, returning to wherever such single use ships went after player missions were accomplished.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Duncan. He looked at Phani, “I just need to know if I can expect you to keep this place a secret. As of now, you’re the only person, apart from me, who knows about this station. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I will.”
A dialog box appeared in Duncan’s view. Phani was giving him something.
“What I got from ship. I want you to have.”
Duncan read the description.
It was a terraforming kit.
Duncan watched the HMS Westy circle the station, still trying to run down the prey he must think was leading him on a chase around the moon. Phani had come with him to the control room and haltingly told Duncan his situation. As many times as Duncan tried, however, Phani would not accept the return of the terraforming kit. He had, however, accepted the idea of a business partnership based, in part, around the purchase of the kit.
Duncan had proposed that instead of making the kit a gift, repayment for saving Phani, he would purchase the kit for four million credits, a million credits below retail cost, with payment spread over four months. He had only been able to get Phani to agree to this by convincing him that if he were to give Duncan the kit free and clear, there would have been no difference than if Duncan had let Phani die. He still would have been out the kit. Duncan’s honor, he’d said, prevented him from accepting that sort of equivalency.
Duncan had transferred the first payment, one million credits, to Phani, and then laid out the rest of his plan.
Phani would receive a ten percent share in any profits derived from the planet’s colonization, though Duncan pointed out that any such profits were likely to be years away. In addition, Phani’s partnership would include the use of the space station and facilities, including the ship, Shepherd Moon. In exchange for ferrying at least one load of resources between Eta Bootis and the station per day, Phani could use the Shepherd Moon to explore and mine as he saw fit, keeping any profits. He had the run of the facilities between midnight and noon, Eastern time. As long as the Shepherd Moon was docked, with a full tank of gas, when Duncan got home from work every night, or by noon on weekends, Phani could do what he liked with it.
Their respective locations, one in India one on the US east coast, made this time sharing not only viable, but productive; the station and its facilities would be working day and night. Phani’s share in the planet would incent him to provide resources to speed the terraformation, and his stake in the station would, Duncan thought, be reason enough for him to keep its existence a secret. It also solved Duncan’s delivery problem; one load a day, at up to a twenty percent profit, to and from the werewolves would increase his fortune, rather quickly. He didn’t see any problem, at all, being able to raise much more than the million per month he’d have to pay Phani for the next four months.
Phani had left, logged out of the game, leaving Duncan alone in the control room. Duncan was satisfied with the way the day had gone. He felt relieved not only to have helped someone, but to actually be able to share the secret of the shepherd moon. It removed a weight he didn’t realize he’d been carrying.
He looked at the terraforming kit blueprint in his inventory. Soon, maybe this weekend, he’d fly down to the third planet and look around for a likely spot to begin the process of changing the barren rock into a thriving, Earth-like colony.
Duncan sat back in the control room chair, watching the Westy’s relentless pursuit of a target long gone.
“Chalk that up as another reason this is a good day,” he muttered. Though Eric would probably never know it, Duncan had screwed him over. He smiled. As if in response, the Westy turned, made course for the jump point, and accelerated toward it at highest speed, its engines glowing white hot as though in a fury.
His phone rang, Matt was calling. He answered through the helmet.
&
nbsp; “Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Just got home from work,” said Matt, “and thought we’d gather up the crew to go hunt some little green men. Get some excitement into your life. Try to show you what this game is all about. You in?”
“Sure,” said Duncan, “sounds like fun.”
“Meet you at my place. Ten minutes.”
“On my way,” said Duncan.
meta 3
who gave him the terraforming kit?
nobody
fate.
interesting.
that doesn’t seem to have altered his plan
only accelerated it.
his candidacy seems most promising.
we agree, clive.
Epilog
Pune, Maharashra. India
Phani Mutha breathed, for at least the twentieth time in an hour, a long sigh of relief. After he’d made leave taking from his savior, too quickly for politeness sake, he had rushed through the process of transferring the million credits to an in game broker who would, for a fee, translate that money into currency placed directly into his bank account. As soon as that had cleared, he had paid his Omegaverse subscription and electric bill. When the bank opened in the morning, he’d be first in line to withdraw enough to pay his rent; it was far too late to do it tonight, but it was also far too late to fear a landlord’s knock, so Phani could sleep easily. For the first time in months.
He lay on his mat, leisurely luxuriating through a cigarette, blowing smoke straight up into the dank humid air of his flat. His shock at the turn of the day’s events, at being saved from virtual and real ruin, hadn’t left him in the proper frame of mind to reflect on the long term change that had been effected upon him.
He had a ship. A first class mining ship. He revelled. True, it wasn’t his, but it was as good as. For now. He could maximize his loads, maximize his profits. He was no longer bound to the luck of the mission control draw. He could chart his own future. A future that held a ten percent control of a planet!
That had been a shock; a scare. He’d refused the return of the terraforming kit twice, as any person would expect him to, preparing to, reluctantly, accept its return on the third offer, when the American had accepted it. He’d almost died. He had already prepared the auction, all he needed was the American to offer its return for the third time and propriety would have been satisfied; he could have accepted it and auctioned it off. He would have had to set a low ‘buy it now’ price in order to ensure a quick sale; he’d have been lucky to get half its value.
But this was better. Rather than having to wait, to worry about the auction, he’d been offered a deal out of a dream. Four million, probably as much as he could have expected to get from a longer auction than he had time for, spread over four months, with the first installment paid then. A million credits. That was enough, after transfer fees, to live for months. Four million would see him through a year. And that was without considering his now much greater earning potential through the use of the ship, the Shepherd Moon.
It was too much, he thought. I remain in the American’s debt. He sat, put out the stub of the cigarette and returned to his computer. He brought up a webmail site and created three email accounts. Then he opened the game and composed a message for Taipan.
Sir,
Thank you again for all you have done for me. I cannot express how much this day has meant to my life. I remain in your debt. As such, I have created the enclosed email accounts. If, at any time in the future, you have need of a favor that I can fulfill, you have but to write the request to one of the email accounts. That request will be completed, to the best of my ability. No questions asked. I pledge myself and my descendants to this task.
As each request is filled, the associated account will be deleted.
These three favors I give in an attempt to repay your kind services.
I thank you.
Phani Mutha
The End of Book One
Acknowledgements
Every writer always complains about how hard these are to write. I now understand why. You don’t want to forget anyone who has contributed to the success of the book in any way, and you want to ensure that any failures are completely owned up to by the author as their sole responsibility.
Please take the second factor as a given.
First, I need to thank my parents for making me a reader and always, always, reaffirming that I could be or do whatever I wanted. That support was reinforced by my sister and brother, who I love (but would never admit to such a thing, at least to their faces.)
My brother, again, for getting me one of the coolest birthday presents I’ve ever received - a chromebook. It’s the perfect writer’s tool. The entirety of the novel was written on it. It never failed me.
Thirdly, my friends. Many of whom are characters in this series. Some you have yet to meet. Many of those characters are caricatures, at least in part. I hope you laugh - that was the intention. All have helped to read and re-read parts or all of this book and every bit of their advice has gone to making this a better story.
I’d also be remiss if I didn’t thank D. Rus for his engaging AlterWorld series. As I was reading, and enjoying, the first book, “AlterWorld” I thought “Hey, a lot of this reads a bit like a Game Design Use Case!”.
I’ve been a game designer for about twenty years, much of that working in MMO’s, and a lot of my job is trying to work through how players will interact with the game environment and each other. One tool that we use to do that is to write a ‘use case’ (or ‘user story’).
Describing what the player sees, hears, and otherwise experiences gives us a good idea of what works, what doesn’t, and what needs to be added.
What a lot of LitRPG seems to be, to this game designer anyway, is a lot of solid game design work - with a larger story added on top of it.
So, after realizing that, I thought, maybe arrogantly, “I’ve been doing this kind of stuff for a long time - all I need to do is come up with a story and I’m set!”
Easier said than done.
In any case, I hope you enjoy the story so far, and want to return to see the further adventures of Duncan and his friends in the Omegaverse in “Shepherd’s Crook”.
