A Check for a Billion

by Vasily Mahanenko

  “Oh sure,” I snorted, hearing his motives. “You’ve really explained yourself there.”

  “Excellent. Then tell Aalor he can come on back.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean ‘no?’”

  “I’ve hired him for the next twelve hours.”

  Again there was a pause, after which Vargen exhaled noisily into the mic.

  “As you like. I hope you won’t mind it if I show your raid to some of my friends here? We will assume that this is your finest hour! The leaders of all the top guilds will watch your attempt. We’re already making bets about how long you’ll last. Want me to put in a wager for you?”

  “What’re the odds?”

  “Eight to one. Ash himself is the bankroll. He’s guaranteeing the payoff. And the bettors are all our friends, so there won’t be any leaks. Fighting Breed won’t know you’re coming.”

  “In that case, bet a billion for me. On me succeeding, obviously.”

  “Are you sure?” Vargen grunted. “Transfer the money, since you have it to spare. I’ll make the wager for you.”

  “One billion, Vargen. And another thing. I won’t need the three cruisers we’ll capture, so you can have them at market value in honor of our partnership.”

  Vargen burst out laughing in response.

  “I’ll take them, I’ll take them,” he agreed and disconnected.

  My entire body was trembling as if I was freezing cold, even though my armor suit maintained a steady temperature. The medical monitor indicated that everything was nominal, so my state was not caused by any debuffs. The problem were my nerves. I was angry. And not only with Vargen, who had turned me into an object of mockery, but also at myself for allowing it to happen.

  On my suit’s external camera screen, I could see that Aalor was offering me something. I turned on the external microphones and heard:

  “Vargen told me that you placed a bet. Transfer the money to my account.”

  Without further ado, I transferred the required amount, causing my PDA to squeak, informing me that my bet had been accepted and fixed.

  “General meeting in twenty minutes!” I said, heading to the orbship. I needed to thoroughly assess the situation. I had bet on myself based on nothing but my feelings and my desire to throw a counterpunch at Vargen.

  Meanwhile, my mind whirred, frantically searching for a way out of the situation. I had no choice but to spend some real credits on intel about how the guilds arranged their naval bases. It turned out there really was a no-fly zone and special security agreements with the locals delimiting a high-security area around the guild’s fleet. You’d have to be a damn fool to try to sneak into such a Fort Knox.

  “Lex, what if we try the cruise ploy again? We’ll distract the Grand Arbiter and zip over to the cruisers and land our marines. Then, once we’ve captured the ships, we can distract the Arbiter one more time and get out.” Wisely, Eunice did not share her thoughts about my decision — whether by word or hint. Instead, she focused on helping me forward by offering the various options she could think of. I was very grateful to her for this support.

  “It won’t work. The Arbiter is capable of doing several tasks at once. She controls the entire system and this jumble of ships too.”

  “Damn …If we could only sink that tub…”

  “Not an option. The Precians would flip their lid. And we just barely reestablished relations with them. There is no way to destroy the Arbiter,” I said and shook my head. And yet an interesting idea took root in the back of my mind and began to grow, gradually coming to resemble a complete solution.

  “Okay, I see.” Here, Eunice noticed that I was thinking of something and went on: “We have to sneak into the no-fly zone without anyone knowing about it. What if we somehow obtain ‘friendly’ status with Fighting Breed?”

  ‘Friendly’ status. There was something in this. I nodded. The plan was almost ready.

  “And importantly, it’s not just the assault team that needs ‘Friendly’ status but the cruisers too, once Brainiac steals them and they become ours. Damn! Anyway you spin it, everything comes down to that damn Arbiter!”

  The Precian cruise cruiser…A friendly status, but only with the Arbiter instead of the guild…That’s it!

  “Eunice, you’re the best!” I couldn’t resist and pulled my wife to me, kissing her deeply. “Brainiac, you’re our only hope! I need you to retrieve everything you have about the Arbiter from your memory banks — the comm nodes’ locations, the hull dimensions, and any other specifications. I need a good place to infiltrate it safely and, most importantly, undetected by the Precians. Our ships will receive ‘friendly’ status!”

  During my short time in Galactogon, I had managed to get onboard an Arbiter twice. Once as a guest of the adviser, another after the Arbiter had fallen on the imperial palace of the Delvians. The time had come to take advantage of the knowledge I had acquired.

  Twenty minutes later, a final meeting took place on board Cruiser Inevitable. I was in charge.

  “We have everything we need.” I collected my thoughts, reigning in their chaotic scurrying. “How many marines can we fit into a frigate?”

  “If we don’t have to land on a planet or jumping into hyperspace, about a hundred.”

  “Wonderful! We’re changing our plans a bit. I’m not going with you. Everything else remains as before. Load up into frigates, wait for my command and fly to your objectives. Send the frigates back as soon as you board the cruisers. They can’t be seen loitering around the system. Make your way to the cruisers’ bridge decks, connect the remote terminal and give Brainiac a minute to work his magic. The problem of accessing the no-fly zone is my job. I will ensure that you can pass freely. Aalor, can I count on your help?”

  My question was met with a cool, steady gaze and his customary silence. Assuming that he wanted me to qualify exactly what kind of help I needed, I explained:

  “I need a fighter with a pilot.”

  “They’re all busy,” came the immediate response from the captain. “I have none to spare.”

  “So then I can’t count on you. No problem. Graykill, do you know a daring pilot who has access to this system?”

  “How daring?”

  “About as daring as you were right before you killed those Zatrathi guards back on the flying fortress.”

  A pleased smile appeared on the marine’s face.

  “I do know one. Let me just see if he has the access. I should warn you, his services don’t come cheap.”

  “Well, I didn’t find you in the bargain bin either,” I muttered, but Graykill did not hear me. He had already made the call.

  “He’ll be here in ten minutes. His name is Valmont. You can discuss the price with him.”

  “Got a space in your hangar?” I turned back to Aalor. Checkmate jerkface! Even a mangy sheep’s good for a little wool, as they say. Either he has room and he’ll have to help, or he doesn’t have room and everyone will see his true nature. I don’t think that Vargen instructed him to obstruct me. The twitching jowl on the captain’s otherwise stony face spoke volumes. At last he replied:

  “Hangar two. Portside. I will make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Spectacular! In that case, start loading up into the frigates and wait for my orders. And oh yeah, be careful with these things. They are fragile and expensive.” I placed three remote terminals on the table.

  Valmont turned out to be a pretty extravagant character. In a game rated 12+, he still somehow managed to get a cigar. Valmont smoked like a good old fashioned train, flouting all social norms, municipal ordinances and naval regulations. Instead of the customary pilot’s jacket, he wore a ragged vest, which revealed his weightlifter’s arms. His three-day stubble, which was supposed to be impossible in Galactogon, suggested that Valmont had carefully worked on his avatar’s appearance and foregone the default transfer of his real appearance into the game. He generally stood out from everyone around him, like a feral cat on a space
station — uncaged and grappling with zero gravity, naturally.

  “What’s up, doc?” He asked, taking a drag and billowing the smoke in my face.

  I wasn’t about to indulge such a childish provocation, so I stepped around Valmont and went to his fighter. A standard triangular design with three retractable landing gear. The only way I could ride externally was to hug one of the landing struts.

  “We have to sneak up to a Grand Arbiter, without starting a fight.”

  “Each Arbiter is surrounded by a no-fly perimeter that’s one click in radius. The flight instruments go haywire as soon as you enter it.” This was punctuated by a new column of smoke.

  “And that’s why I called you. Only this isn’t all. You’ll need to fly with the landing gear down.”

  “The hell for?”

  “Because I’ll be sitting on one of them. Up until you drop me off on the Arbiter’s hull.”

  “Guy, are you a moron or what? You’ll be smooshed like a flapjack.” Valmont stopped smoking, fixed me with a lengthy, serious look and suddenly added: “Can’t fly with the gear down. Crazy turbulence.”

  “Sounds like you understand the job. How you do it is on you. All I’m interested in is how much you’ll charge for such a trick.”

  “How much?” Valmont grew pensive again. “You compensate me for the loss of a class, if I have to respawn.”

  “Is that all?” I asked surprised. Graykill had suggested the price would be astronomical.

  “If you succeed — yes. If you fail — a hundred million.”

  Oh! There you have it! A fellow adventurer. Well, this is great. Another hundred million reasons to pull this thing off. The family budget will be better off for it. We shook hands and the pilot immediately waved his hand calling for one of Aalor’s engineers.

  “Hey, you! Come here! You look like the type who likes a good puzzle. Of course you do! I can see it in your eyes. Disassemble the front landing gear. And mount a strut under the nose. What are you standing there for? Get jumping! There’s no time to waste!”

  The player was taken aback but did as ordered. Summoning a brigade of assistants, he began to work on the fighter. The hangar filled with the jarring buzz of circular saws and hydraulic hammers. The only way to dismantle the landing gear was to first amputate it.

  “Now you,” Valmont returned to me. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I like your derring-do. So let’s get down to the business. Here’s the plan: You’ll cling for dear life here. I’ll fly you up to the Arbiter. Remember: I get one chance — after that the Arbiter will repel me with its tractor beams. You’ll have like three seconds, max. And the turbulence on our approach will be strong enough to knot your guts. Changed your mind, yet?”

  “If this were meatspace, maybe.” I turned to the pilot. The cigar was still wedged in a corner of his mouth, though at least he wasn’t dousing me with its smoke. Behind him, the fighter’s landing gear crashed to the hangar deck with a loud clang. The fighter almost slammed its cowl down in its wake, but was caught by a restraint at the last moment.

  “Load up, load up. Let’s see what kind of dough you’re made of.”

  “Soft and fragrant. I got all crusty like this from being in the oven.”

  The landing gear compartment was very cramped and the engineers were forced to help me. Using all my limbs to secure myself in place, I heard Valmont ask snidely behind me:

  “Ready, dead man? Off we go. Flaps in and thrusters to full.”

  Everything began spinning before my eyes and a lump formed in my throat. I was about to lose my virtual breakfast. The suit responded to my unease, injecting some kind of drug. The stars before my eyes disappeared and were replaced by cosmic darkness. Valmont took off at full throttle hurling us straight at the Arbiter.

  “Get ready! We’re about to encounter some turbulence,” he warned over my PDA a few seconds before the rodeo started in earnest. The fighter surged and ducked ‘up and down,’ then swung ‘right and left,’ and punctuated it all with an Immelmann turn. The holds I was clutching trembled violently and gradually began bending from the forces involved.

  “Are you alive out there? It’s about to get worse!”

  Valmont did a barrel roll and my heart sank into my heels. A film descended over my eyes, the chemicals could no longer keep up with the loads I was experiencing — and still the pilot refused to let up. Kicking in the afterburners, he went into a corkscrew.

  “Now!” Valmont yelled and I released my grip. My angular momentum was so huge that I shot out away from the fighter like a bullet. Valmont hadn’t missed — I flew straight at the Arbiter instead of open space. My suit’s screens began to blink madly. The locals’ security ship was surrounded by a static EM field that scrambled all my electronics.

  “Welp — my goose is cooked! It’s all up to you now, Maverick!” said Valmont and a ball of fire appeared behind me. The Precians didn’t bother negotiating with the trespassing fighter and simply blasted it to pieces.

  I shrank, getting ready for the blow but the EM field vanished near the hull itself. I regained control and immediately engaged reverse thrust, slowing down. However, the distance to the Arbiter was so small that this didn’t help much. The crash landing made me go deaf for a moment. A whole bunch of debuffs bloomed before my eyes. Stun, daze, fractures. I was glad of one thing — the magnets had worked as intended, attaching me to the hull. Then again, the suit’s system report was disappointing. About half of its functions were failing and the rest were blaring with warnings and alerts. Changing an armor suit in outer space is pure recklessness, so I fell over backwards, merging with the ship. Just in case, the Precians were looking for me.

  “Brainiac, where should I go next?”

  “I am establishing your current location now. Captain, couldn’t you have landed in some other place?” the computer grumbled. “I cannot see you at all.”

  “What do you mean you can’t see me?”

  “Exactly that. I am reading your signal but I cannot determine where it is coming from. I’m also not picking up a visual ID. Roll your head around, I’ll try to locate you using the stars.”

  As soon as I raised my head, my heart stopped: I was staring straight down the barrel of a capital ship beam cannon. One of the Arbiter’s turrets — capable of blasting a frigate out of the sky in one shot — was aimed directly at me.

  A hundred thoughts flashed through my head. Both good ones and bad ones. But mostly expletive-laden, bad ones. I was staring into the face of death, unable to move a muscle. Perhaps this is what despair feels like — a condition in which there is no longer anything left — no desire to fight, to resist, to come out victorious — a feeling of utter emptiness but for the dull ache of failure.

  “Captain, why’d you stop moving? I’m telling you — turn around! I can’t figure out where you are!” Brainiac buzzed again in my ear. I swallowed, not taking my eyes off the barrel. The shot had not come. “Captain?”

  Slowly, expecting to respawn at any moment, I crawled sideways. The turret did not follow me, remaining in the same position. I moved further still. Finally, I crawled far enough to understand that the gun was inactive.

  “Oh! Give me a sec! Let me just figure this out,” Brainiac did not know what was happening and went on calculating my location. “I have two pieces of news. Good and bad. I’ll start with the good — I’ve located you. The bad news is that you’re on the other side of the Arbiter and I can’t see you.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “To your right, about twenty meters away, there is a deflector. Behind it there are some reflectors and…”

  “Lex, just climb into that thermal exhaust port over there!” barked Eunice. “The Arbiter has a triple hull. It will take you forever to cut through it. Here, all you have to do is cut off the outer seal — and you’ll be inside just like that. Place the pressurizing force field here and then twenty meters further cut your way inside. It’ll be a cakewalk after that.”

 
“Brainiac?”

  “It is feasible,” the ship replied with notes of discontent. “Of course, if you wish to stick to the original plan, then my option…”

  “Brainiac, which of the two options is easier and more efficient?”

  “Through the thermal exhaust port. Judging by its structure it is used to dump excess gas. The duct should be wide enough for you to fit. It will be easier.”

  Everything was not as rosy as I had hoped. Cutting the seal was a matter of five seconds. Hot gas was venting out of the duct and my damaged suit began blinking plaintively, its warning lights coming on. The suit’s thermoregulation system could not cope, and it grew as hot as if I were in an oven. I grew sweaty and my suit’s medunit began to administer various injections trying to put out the overheating debuffs — and still I kept crawling onward waiting for Brainiac to give me further orders. Finally I heard his voice: