by Arthur Stone
“So there’s no point in having the best vehicles when we’re few in number.”
“Right. What do you want with a tank anyway? Can you imagine successfully aiming at a running elite with a tank gun? Like chasing a fly with a needle. You might get him, sure, but your chances aren’t good. Now, this model, though—shoot its engine full of holes, and we don’t care. Well, not too much. The gun can be moved to another truck, and suitable models can be found in nearly any cluster. Plus, it costs a lot less than an APC. And goes faster. But the best part is its firepower. A tank hits harder, but good luck getting a good shot off, and good luck reloading. This is an antiaircraft gun. Designed to hit targets flying through the air. Good model for its time, too. Despite misconceptions to the contrary, it’s not a double-barreled weapon; it’s two entirely independent anti-aircraft guns, welded together. Each is completely autonomous, with its own ammunition supply. In situations where your rate of fire doesn’t need to be too high, you can just use one. When things get tense, you use two. One weapon has high-explosive rounds loaded up, and the other has armor-piercers. Targets’ vulnerabilities differ. Now, it was designed to work against fast, low-flying objects. So the cannon can swivel a hundred and eighty degrees around at near-instant speeds. A tank gun takes forever to move. APC guns don’t have that kind of mobility, either. They have remote-controlled turrets which rotate much less quickly. The operator sees the world through cameras, and the field of vision isn’t very good. When you’re sitting in this chair here, you can see the whole world, with your own eyes. The Janitor even installed a couple of mirrors. He doesn’t even have to turn his head! Quasi necks aren’t the most flexible, you know.”
“But one bullet or one piece of shrapnel, and this gun is garbage,” Cheater predicted. “Same with the shooter. He may have a perfect view, but everyone else has a perfect view of him, too. Every sniper for miles around has a perfect shot.”
“That’s why Janitor is the one sitting there,” Clown grinned. “His skin is so thick that even shrapnel from grenade launchers will have a tough time taking him out. Or at least not all of him. Have you seen his armor, by the way? Guess how much it weighs. One hundred and fifty-eight pounds! It’s the kind of outfit only a quasi can wear, of course. He’s basically inside an armored personnel carrier of his own up here, with a capacity of one. Especially when he’s got a helmet and knee pads on. Plus, we’re putting shielding on the gun. It’s only light armor, but it might help. Thus we have a well-protected mobile turret that packs a powerful double punch. The truck itself is quick enough that you’re unlikely to hit from far away. Everything flammable has been removed. Few vulnerabilities to small arms remain. And even to intermediate calibers. If we had a second quasi, we would have arranged for two of these trucks. One is good, and two is much better, since they can also cover each other. Sadly, we only have one Janitor.”
“By the way, do you know what March used to bait him?” Cheater asked.
“Bait him?”
“I mean, I know, they know each other from before. It doesn’t seem like they’re great friends, though. I doubt the Janitor is just signing on with March out of the kindness of his quasi heart. Especially for a second time in a row. March has something he wants. He also hinted about March owing him some kind of payment. What was he referring to?”
“Why ask me? Ask March himself.”
Cheater snorted. “Ask March a question, and it’s usually a good month or two before he answers. And only then in riddles. Don’t you have any idea?”
Clown shrugged. “Who knows? If March has promised the Janitor money, it must be a whole lot. He’s no ordinary quasi. Some quasis are referred to as ‘superior,’ others as ‘inferior’ or ‘partial.’”
“So what’s superior about him?”
“I don’t know, exactly. We’re still just mere acquaintances for the Janitor, and as you know, most players don’t rush to share details about their characters. He has some tricks up his sleeve, that’s for sure. Do you remember how he fell into that abyss—and then knocked out two of the bots’ APCs? There’s definitely something different about him.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s something different about everyone here,” Cheater added.
Clown chuckled. “Yes, it’s rare to encounter someone you’d call ‘normal.’”
Nut approached the truck, skirting around piles of scrap metal as he did so. Once he saw Cheater and Clown chatting, he smiled wide, immediately launching into conversation as he did so. “Guys, March wants to talk to you. Right away. You, and you, and even the Janitor. It sounds like he’s got something planned.”
“What sort of something, any idea?” Cheater asked.
“Not a clue. But he was cleaning his gun, so I’m sure it’s a serious something. Plus swearing at Fatso for disappearing somewhere and for failing to bring Button back. Someone owes someone something, or something like that. Anyway, March is irritated, so hurry. Oh, and I just so happened to run into an old sidekick of mine recently. He told me about a caravan from up north, going west, that he fought off. Says they were carrying some amazing stuff. Including a fabulous new mix that you can’t buy anywhere in this region, no matter how rich you are. Some new recipe—natural materials subjected to a little bit of chemistry. He took some for himself, but we might be able to convince him to...”
“Go tell March we’re on our way,” Clown interrupted sharply, so as to avoid listening to yet another description of a powerful experimental drug, inevitably leading to another monotonous biographical tale.
Once Nut was out of earshot, Clown spoke to Cheater with a low voice. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re about to find out what March has on the Janitor.”
Cheater raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“Every piece of shit drops sooner or later. Have you ever seen him call both us and the Janitor in for a chat, at the same time? No, normally we each have our own things to do. Even if we have the same general task, Janitor usually handles his part on his own somehow. I’m going to be the one driving this car, and yet we haven’t spoken a dozen words to each other so far today. Something unusual is going on, and I’m almost certain March will say something related to your question about him and the Janitor.”
“Sounds farfetched.”
“No. Wasn’t it strange that as soon as you mentioned the matter, Nut immediately showed up with some strange orders for you? Like he was lying in wait. It’s all too suspicious. I’ve been watching you for a long time now, Cheater. You’re not just accurate with that rifle—your words often hit the mark, too. Not always. But often.”
“Huh. I haven’t noticed that.”
“I have. I am very good at noticing things, because I love watching and observing. I might be wrong, of course—so let’s go find out how accurate your words really are.”
* * *
Over the past couple of days, so much beer had passed through the “beer office” that Cheater felt he was getting drunk on the air. The smell and buzz of alcohol had permeated every inch of the room’s floor and furniture. The windows had been opened wide, but that didn’t help. Especially since they were covered with thick curtains. Those blocked ventilation, but no one was about to throw them aside since they also blocked would-be observers.
There would be all kinds of onlookers, otherwise. Including some with firearms and with grudges against one or more members of the party. Many would have an especially thick stack of questions for Cheater.
He had, after all, managed to wipe out hundreds of the most powerful players in the region. Every Devil would be after him, the attitude of Watershed’s people towards him was unclear, and he had now killed Romeo twice. Plenty of people would be after him. It was worth keeping the curtains closed. To be sure, spraying the room blindly from a machine gun from the outside would offer the shooter no guarantee of success. The players in this room had high Reaction levels, so the shooter would have only a second, if that. Tossing in
grenades would be more feasible, except for the durable mosquito nets covering the windows. Plus the latticework underneath them. It would be possible to come up close and get the angle right, but you would have to stand on a chair or something. The staff of this establishment would, hopefully, notice a sinister stranger approaching the building with a chair and grenades. To prevent this hypothetical stranger from approaching too quickly, the approaches to the area were deliberately cluttered with decorative obstacles. In addition, it was not easy business to start a battle in the center of Rainbow and escape with your life. The locals may have seemed laid back, but they did not approve of violence, and they would quickly step in.
In general, Cheater believed that the office was a safe location. But not at this moment. March’s unusual behavior was making him nervous.
The man demanded that that they always keep their weapons close at hand and stay awake. He had also made sure to tell them not to go too far with beer drinking, which was the opposite of his usual advice.
As a matter of explanation, March offered only one thought: some people were coming with whom they had to make an important deal. These people were unlikely to be plotting treachery, but the party had to be ready for anything. The stable security forces were capable of dealing with criminals, but they weren’t omnipotent. Also, this particular establishment’s security force was not accustomed to conflict—and was unlikely to fight to the end. They were used to throwing brawlers out onto the street and then not letting them back in. If conflict broke out, they could not rely on anyone else.
Even the quasi was noticeably nervous, something that Cheater had never seen before. The party did not want to insult their unknown guests by meeting them with serious guns, so the Janitor had to put his beloved 50-cal. machine gun away. His huge hands could only use pistols if they had been significantly altered, and the only such gun he had on hand was a make no one had ever heard of—preposterously large, with an extra long clip. Sitting on the couch, which when holding such a colossus looked more like a worn-out armchair, the freak kept stroking his pistol’s holster with one hand; the other held the handle of a massive cleaver, which was in size and weight barely inferior to Choppa.
He was clearly nervous. The feeling inevitably spread to everyone else present.
Despite incessant hints and occasional direct questions, March still did not explain much. He drank beer and kept silent—or said that everything would be fine, and that they just needed to sit for a while, with stern faces.
The visitors were four in number. All of them were NPCs, which Cheater immediately disliked. He was not yet in an open conflict with Watershed and his gang, but after the massacre and destruction of the Devils’ fortress, he had no idea as to where he and they stood diplomatically. They might well be very upset about his decision to destroy the nuclear weapons.
Or, they might not be upset at all.
Whenever a situation was unknown, it was best to prepare for the worst. Thus, Cheater went with the theory that these four were members of Watershed’s organization. Perhaps this business with March was just a pretense. An excuse for them to get to Cheater.
Before the NPCs even sat on the chairs brought in for them, three more visitors appeared in the doorway. These were players, but they had a very strange look about them: they were all cookies from the same cutter, all dressed in black business suits and white shirts. Office workers, on the Continent?
They moved confidently, though, and so Cheater knew they were not simply lost. All three positioned their backs towards the wall by the door and froze, in carbon copy poses.
The middle one said, indifferently, “Rainbow Stable is guarantor of this deal between March and Sixth Eye. If either party violates the terms of the transaction without the consent of the other party, Rainbow Stable will insist that the transaction be rescinded in its entirety, or carried out according to its originally agreed-upon conditions. The conditions are as follows. Sixth Eye shall transfer to the player March: one white pearl, 800 spores, and 110 golden peas. All of the aforementioned items have their origination in the sporesacs of infecteds. In turn, the player March will give Sixth Eye one regular crystal. This is an item won from an Unnamed One. The parties undertake to conduct this transaction in good faith. Rainbow Stable, as guarantor, will observe the transaction until its completion and then collect its agreed-upon payment of 1,250 spores in return for its assistance. Half of this sum, or 625 spores, shall be paid by each side. If either party wishes to amend these terms, or has any questions or concerns, please ask.”
“One thousand two hundred and fucking fifty!” Nut gasped. “The hell kind of price is that?” The sapper was so enraged that an observer might have thought he was making this deal himself—and was asked to pay in vast quantities of his own blood.
“Our stable’s fee has been agreed upon in advance, and is not subject to change,” the suit in the center replied calmly. “Any other questions?”
“I would like to get this done quickly and get back to my beer,” March muttered. “So shut up for a minute, Nut.”
“Your silence would indeed be in the common interest,” the stable’s representative nodded, before turning back to the signatories. “If there are no more questions, please show each other the agreed-upon goods.”
March casually slapped his hand palm-down on the table and then lifted it. Beneath it lay an elongated polyhedron, gleaming brightly even in the dim lighting that managed its way through the curtains.
The leader of the NPCs moved a little closer, squinted at the crystal and nodded slowly, and then laid a flat plastic box on the table and slid it across to March with precisely calculated force.
The man caught it and lifted the lid. Without looking inside, he shuffled around with his hand and pulled out a tiny white ball. He passed it to the Janitor. “This is yours.”
The quasi accepted the offering in one shovel-sized hand, which he clenched into a fist, and then unclenched. It was no longer visible—safely tucked away in his inventory.
“Please count the rest,” Sixth Eye said, his voice tense.
“Why?” March asked. “If it’s not right, I’ll come calling on you. Which you do not want. Tears and pain shall accompany my visit. Many, many tears.”
“Yes, no one needs that,” the NPC nodded, collecting the crystal.
“Is the deal concluded?” the stable representative asked, his voice still flat.
Both parties nodded. The NPC added, “I’m willing to buy another such item, for the same price. Two or three more, perhaps. Please take note of this, March.”
“I will.”
The NPCs rose together and headed for the door. All of the stable’s representatives followed.
As he watched them, Cheater bent towards Clown’s ear. “Golden pearls come from Unnamed Ones. Black, red, and green pearls come from elites. Where do white pearls come from?”
“From the deepest holes of hell. Best not to speak of that, especially before a crossing.”
“Bad omen,” Cheater clarified.
“Yeah. The worst. And everyone here believes in omens, so you’d better get used to it.”
Cheater’s question had been mostly rhetorical. He had been on the Continent for a good stretch of time, now, and had been paying attention all along. Listening to conversations, leafing through brochures for beginners as well as more serious manuals, where veterans shared some of their experience. He had even located a bookstore here, in Rainbow. There were still things he could learn, but in all of his investigations, he had never seen direct mention of the snow-white spheres.
To his recollection, anyway. His question had been rhetorical because he could guess where such treasure came from.
He was piecing tiny bits of information together in his head.
It was doubtless the rarest trophy that could be looted from a slain infected.
A very powerful infected. Cheater had not encountered this class of infecteds. He would keep on reading to learn more, but some tidbit
s fit into the puzzle. Every scrap he was putting together was little more than rumors and slips of the tongue, with one or two reliable sources.
At first, he had thought the “dire elite” to be merely descriptive of a mighty elite, but now he realized it was more likely a separate class of infecteds, a level above regular elite. Ghouls whose levels were in the 200s, and who weighed seven or eight tons. At least. Meaning that the youngest, weakest dire elite weighed as much as a pair of mature Indian elephants. Stronger beasts might reach ten or eleven tons. He had heard rumors of some specimens, near the central regions of the Continent and along some borders, who weighed more than twice that. Some suggested that fighting two Unnamed Ones at once was better than attempting to kill any such dire elite.
