The Renegades

by Vasily Mahanenko

  “Bedlam,” Chip concluded. “It’s like people have nothing better to do. All right, we can babble in about this while we walk. What are our plans?”

  “I propose we compare schedules and decide on a convenient time to stray further from the Tree. So that in case one of us has to respawn, everyone else will have something to do in reality and won’t have to sit around for 12 hours stewing about the venture. I have two free evenings and then I go on a week-long business trip. After that it’s vacation and I’d like to level up to the point that I can leave the biota location,” Sloe expressed his desire.

  “Well I’m basically on vacation for the next month, so any schedule will suit me,” I announced carelessly. “But I need to do band practice three times a week and today I need to complete my class quest and finish the cartography one too.”

  We looked over at Chip without whom any attempt to break out of the forest would be doomed in advance.

  “You two intend on spending your vacations in here?” The furball ogled us with amazement. “In the game? Seriously?”

  He received no-less-amazed looks in return.

  “Why? What’s the big deal?” asked Sloe. “It’s a lot cheaper than flying off to some Mediterranean island. And it’s no less pretty—and life is a lot more fun and safer. If you like, go to the beach and get a tan. If you like, go to the dating house. If you like, go to the forest for a stroll and incinerate several monsters on your way. And if you die—no big deal, you’ll respawn in 12 hours. It’s all the same in reality, only more expensive, shabbier and there aren’t any do-overs.”

  “On the other hand—and forgive my tautology—reality is full of the real,” Chip didn’t agree. “While here…it’s just an artificial imitation, no more. All of this is simply a bunch of ones and zeros and we are really interred in a cross of Snow White’s sarcophagus and a medical capsule for transporting the critically-wounded. I don’t know about you, but when I start walking again, I won’t set foot in this place. One should live instead of engaging in self-deception. But whatever, it doesn’t matter, it’s your business. I’ll accommodate my schedule to yours. Either way I’m sitting on my ass at home. The only problem is that I might be late at times, but I’ll try to warn you all the same.”

  The necromancer’s expression was as somber as mine. So our invaluable tank is simply whiling away his time in game as he convalesces. Stomping out my curiosity and at the same time wishing to avoid further discussion about the pros and cons of virtual life, I switched to a more constructive topic.

  “In that case, today I’m going to finish my class quest. We’ll wrap up the map of the Tree and tomorrow head out on our journey to the Arras. By the way, I should ask the locals roughly which direction we need to go in.”

  “I already did that. I’ll show you the way,” Sloe spoke up. “By the way, how much do you want for the city map?”

  “We’ll just make you a copy,” I said with some surprise. “Aren’t we all humans here after all? All the things you’ve told us have helped a lot.”

  “I won’t refuse, but here’s a bit of advice: Don’t pass up a chance to earn some cash. Rare cards, quests and information cost money.”

  “There’s another minus,” Chip began to moralize again. “Everything’s calculated to manipulate the player into spending money and normal inter-personal relationships are turned into a zero-sum game.”

  “Everyone decides for himself here,” Sloe remarked philosophically. “If you want to reach the game’s peaks, you need money, connections and the ability to make the most of every opportunity. My intent is to hone this character properly and end up making money in-game. I’ll quit my irl job and make more here. As for those who come here to relax—they don’t need any of that. They’re here to pass the time, like anywhere else.”

  “What’s your job, if you don’t mind me asking?” Chip inquired.

  “Geologic surveying,” Sloe replied without much enthusiasm. “Rumor has it that they’re about to release an imitator that can do the work of an entire team. All you have to do is send any old high-school dropout to deliver the surveying tools to the right location and the imitator does the rest. And we professionals are out of a job. So on the whole, I’d rather try and make a living here in Barliona. It’s more interesting here anyway.”

  “I’ve heard about the project you speak of. And I’ve seen the trials with the prototype,” said Chip. “No one’s going to replace living people, don’t worry. It’ll work as an auxiliary system—like our drones and remote scouts. I mean, judge for yourself: How could an imitator, even a very advanced imitator, replace a seasoned geologist? When we were stationed in Joburg, as few geological prospectors as we had, we’d still send them in to the field, and I will tell you this: Ain’t no spintronic contraption can determine the strata and the gradients and mineral composition the way an experienced geologist does.”

  “From your lips to god’s ears,” the necromancer sighed. “Okay, since we’re not going anywhere today, I’ll go work on my trades. By the way, I suggest you buy as many recipes as you can. You won’t find similar ones in other locations and you will be able to make some good money.”

  “Why that’s an idea! The most commonplace junk costs insane sums of money here. Maybe it’d be cheaper to just craft it ourselves? We have the starting capital,” I added, noticing Sloe’s interested look, “thanks to our murder pact. I don’t think that the starting ingredients are that expensive. We can craft ourselves some simple gear for Constitution and have an easier time of it in the forest.”

  “It’s reasonable,” Sloe nodded. “And we should put some points into gathering. Maybe we’ll find something on our way through the forest. The initial training is cheap. We can more than afford it. And we should determine who does what. It’s dumb to have everyone take jewelcrafting, for instance. It’s much simpler if one person sews the clothes, another does the budgeting and the third specializes in herbs.”

  “I’m not a big fan of sewing,” I warned.

  “No big deal. Here’s your chance,” grinned Sloe. “All right, I’ll sew the clothes for Lori and me, but I wouldn’t count on me mastering jewelry or alchemy before my vacation if I were you. And it doesn’t make any sense for me to forge the armor for our warrior.”

  “I’ll figure that out on my own,” Chip spoke up.

  “In that case, alchemy and perhaps jewelry are on me,” I went on. “I need to try them first to see what I like.”

  “To work then. We’ll meet tomorrow at seven server time and we’ll try for the Arras,” Sloe concluded and thanking Chip for the copy of the map he’d sent him, headed towards the Branch of the Craftsmen.

  “So what should we begin with?” The pirc inquired, staring at me expectantly.

  “I need to run over to see my instructor and catch up. I also have to figure out what to borrow from the other classes. It’d be nice to complete my class quest too just to strike it off the list. Finally, I need to check out the crafting professions.”

  “Cool. In that case, I’ll go on working on the map of the Tree to settle our obligations to the merchants. When you’re free, you can run through all the sigils of the Tenth and then we can go work on the professions together.”

  I quickly agreed, pleased at the chance to shift the tedious composition of the map onto the pirc’s mighty shoulders. To be fair, it was his own enthusiasm and attention to detail that had turned this simple gameplay mechanic into a complicated and subtle task that demanded contemplation and a ton of extra time. If he wants to create maps of such detail, let him do the work himself. If he settled for the ordinary ones, we’d have finished this quest a long time ago—and found all the sigils in the process. On the other hand, even if it was slow going, Chip was doing most of the work.

  Having said farewell to the pirc, I could barely keep myself from sprinting to the Branch of Vocation. Although—why restrain myself? Why not sprint? Sprint, dash, run to discover the gaming possibilities of Barliona! The possibilities
turned out to be far vaster than those irl: I could run faster and longer than I could back in meatspace and my Agility and even Constitution leveled up at the same time. The only thing was that my Stamina evaporated at a maddening rate, forcing me to keep taking sips from my flask. But I did reach the branch I needed on foot: As we were making our map, Chip and I discovered that besides leafevators there were pedestrian links between the different levels, integrated quite naturally into the entire colossal trunk. At the same time, we discovered the secret of the water supply. The local wizards used magic to pump water from the river through specially grown channels within the trunk. This magical water main passed though the majority of the branches and returned into the trunk, headed back to the river. We really should find out what it’s called—’cause the Rude Creek is simply silly.

  Along with the customary cacophony, a pretty cello part was emanating from the purple tent. It sounded like Coleus had encountered some promising students.

  Overflowing with curiosity, I dove into the tent’s dusk. Some Level 1 players without chosen classes looked at me askance with surprise and curiosity. Yeah. On the Tree, even my paltry Level 5 looked respectable.

  The aforementioned cellist who was still at Level 1 and bore the name ‘Reed’ was a solar biota with golden markings. He flourished his bow forgetfully, ignoring entirely his audience as well as target. It looked like he simply enjoyed playing. But the most unusual thing was that the majority of players had sat down and were attentively listening to what he was playing—Bach’s suite for cello, which was far from customary to the modern ear.

  “I can see that things are going better…” I whispered into the ear of the enraptured Coleus. He glanced over at me and looked back at his new prodigy.

  “You could say that again. He’s been playing two hours now. Others show up and listen but no one dares interrupt with their clatter, or howling or the other infernal sounds they’re wont to make.”

  I nodded with understanding. Reed was playing like a professional but he was also playing like an addict who had scored a hit after a long spell of cold turkey. There are true fans of music alongside whom even those like me seem like pathetic amateurs. And if I, like most of the players around me, was full of questions about how Reed would travel around Barliona schlepping the enormous instrument, then he was clearly unperturbed by such minor details.

  I don’t know how long I spent sitting there and listening but at one point I remembered the point of my visit.

  “Coleus, I need to figure out my abilities and how to take them from the other classes, as well as how to change them,” I whispered to my instructor. He swatted the air, as if he didn’t wish to deal with my training at the moment, and then looked at me slyly.

  “Did you complete my quest?”

  “Not yet. I’d like to acquire some knowledge before I get to it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “When you complete it, I’ll continue our training,” the Bard announced, satisfied with the excuse he’d come upon. I barely opened my mouth to protest when he added: “But you can also simply give up and I’ll train you right this instant. However, you won’t be able to restart the quest chain for another three months. Agreed?”

  I shut my mouth and shook my head negatively. Yeah right. I’d rather go do the quest, I won’t break. It’s a social quest anyway, I’ll survive without any extra skills. The important thing was to manage to grow my arsenal before tomorrow.

  The further I got from the tent, the faster my decisiveness melted. What did I even have to do? I couldn’t very well start accosting random NPCs, saying, ‘Please wait while I play you something on my lute.’ Lacking any idea how to solve this problem, I decided to visit all the sigils Chip had uncovered first. A half-hour jog increased my quest progress to 16/30 sigils located.

  Distracted from the initial plan, I spent the next two hours crawling around the branches, charting what I found on the map and looking for more sigils. In the process I ran headfirst into Chip, listened to a brief but dense lecture on the topic of the proper division of labor and the virtue of sticking to the plan at hand, and was finally sent to complete Coleus’ quest.

  I didn’t have a single idea about how to begin my instructor’s quest and therefore decided to try and start with what I already knew—an improvised concert at the Market Branch.

  Having filled my flask in the fountain, I took up my familiar place on the auction dais and began to contemplate what I should begin with. Joy, a light sorrow, love…No. I should start with something neutral. I need to amass an audience, grab their attention and only then roll out the heavy guns. The more people I gather, the higher the chance that someone will be struck by my playing, fulfilling the quest requirements.

  No doubt, I was still under the impression Reed had made on me: When I took the lute in my hands, I felt the same sense of euphoria thanks to which I had once decided to become a musician. In moments such as this, it seems like there are angels dancing a jig with some demons on the guitar’s headstock and the whole world shrinks to the point of the guitar pick.

  I don’t even recall what I played and for how long—I returned to consciousness only due to a sense of falling. And I don’t mean some kind of moral fall, but an entirely physical one—my avatar collapsed onto the improvised stage and a system notification appeared and covered all the former ones about the stat increases that I had received.

  You are so exhausted that you cannot move. Current level of Stamina: 0. In order to move, your Stamina must be at least 10.

  So this is what it feels like to pass out in VR. A compassionate NPC biota approached me and poured a sour liquid into my mouth that reminded me of cranberry juice.

  Current Stamina: 100. You have received the ‘Tireless’ buff (-50% Stamina used).

  “You bards are always passing out,” the NPC winked at me. “Either you drink too much and slump under the table or you don’t drink enough…”

  “Yes, I seem to have lost track of time, thank you,” I replied automatically, making a mental note to study the Stamina mechanics a little more closely. I don’t remember seeing a warning or anything. Instead, in addition to a notification that my Fame had reached 6, a further system message brought me some good news:

  Attention! You have unlocked the ‘Song of Inspiration’ class ability. Your performance instills combat spirit and raises the stats of your allies. You may learn individual songs from songbooks or by composing your own.

  It follows that I unlocked a way of buffing my party, but I still need to get my hands on the buff. I’ll wager a tooth that the songbook Coleus had promised me, will teach me a basic party buff. As for composition, I’ll need to figure that out on my own. I’d guess that I can write my own song and enchant it with some buff? I doubt the composition part would be difficult—I’m familiar with that—but how do I bind a spell to it? I really really need to pump my instructor for more information…

  My audience, realizing that the improvised concert had ended, began to disperse. The ‘Impressed’ buff had increased their Attractiveness with me by 3 points. Does this mean that if I play here for a few more days, the locals will all love me? Seems suspiciously simple.

  I was particularly pleased to see the little heap of money among which there were some silver coins. It was spare change compared to the gold I already had, but being able to hold ‘material recognition’ (as my first teacher had referred to it) in my hand was pleasant all the same.

  Chip, by the way, could be seen nearby. Judging by his preoccupied mug and periodically glowing paws, he was coming to terms with the art of casting spells. Glancing at my party status screen, I praised my guesswork. The pirc had become a priest and, judging by his stats, was leveling up his Intellect as his mana regenerated. It was a useless stat for a Warrior, but his natural thriftiness kept Chip from passing up on it all the same.

  “How’d it go?” he inquired when I approached.

  “Devil knows,” I admitted honestly. “The system granted me the oppor
tunity to cast buffs, but didn’t tell me what part of the quest has been completed. Non-linear quests are cool and all, but there should be a limit.”

  “In that case, you should continue. Listen, have you tried to update your repertoire? I mean, classic rock is immortal and all, but still…For example, if you performed the old song about the wandering artists—why can’t that be a bardic hymn?”

  “What’s that?”

  Chip rolled up his eyes, chewed his lip trying to remember and then sighed:

  “It’s a song from the 20th century. I’d hear it here and there growing up—it’s like a marching song. Listen.”

  The pirc coughed a bit and then began singing an old wandering musicians’ song. He sang well but a bit tensely and without much soul. It seemed like he lacked a bubbly and clinking catalyzer as well as suitable company to spur him into unleashing his artistic talent fully. The joke here was ‘No booze means no vocals.’

  “I like your idea about the repertoire. I’ll need to dig up some fantasy and folk songs. But this song instills neither love nor courage. The hell with it though. We’ll take a break. Maybe something will occur to me while we’re checking out the other trades.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to eat either,” the pirc scratched his belly. “I feel like my intestine is crawling up to my brain to strangle it. I found out that here in Barliona there are only two races that feel hungry. Everyone else eats only for the sake of buffs. Gee, I really wish I had a nice stew about now.”