The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) (11 page)

“Private!” a voice rammed into my thoughts via the command frequencies.

“Pilot, to be precise,” I mumbled as I checked the person's avatar. Lieutenant Marcus Novitsky. Oh, well. Only Eurasia officers had the right to choose complex nicknames.

“Bring the module down — now!” his voice broke. His lips were shaking, his face gray, his eyes dull and faded.

I didn't have the time to explain to him all the implications it could have. Even the regular Dargian fighters were a good 20 to 30 levels above us. Facing them in hand-to-hand combat left us no chance. But while we were still airborne and enjoying the network's full support, our ship's fire power could compensate for this fatal disparity. I thought that was exactly what the fleet's command counted on: the players would get the XP for every enemy ship destroyed.

Was I right? Well, we’d have to find that out.

The data from the recon probes started streaming in. I began selecting and distributing targets, issuing orders to the subsystems directly through my mind expander.

The Lieutenant was livid. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm saving your fucking ass,” I snapped back.

He showered me with threats. I had to keep an eye on my status. The Lieutenant's commands had priority over mine, but the hacked network ignored them! Excellent. He couldn't do anything at the moment. He could only lose his voice trying.

To stop him from distracting me, I forwarded the data to the group network: for those who were smart enough to appreciate my idea. The Lieutenant could go and stuff himself for the time being. If we survived, then we'd talk.

* * *

Novitsky finally shut up when the search and target recognition system discovered the nearest respawn point.

The picture I received from the recon probes was something else. The slave drivers had set up camp at the base of the cliff range at some distance from the fort. The location was studded with a miscellany of tents and huts — some richly decorated, others humble, depending on their owners' wealth and status. A small paved square was surrounded by cages and pens — most of them empty but in some the probes' sensors had detected the presence of organic life. Ragged figures crouched on the floor. No idea who they might be. The square was awash with the constant emerald flashes of respawns.

I'd already been in Dargian slavery so I had a good idea how it all worked. The others, however, had quieted down. The square was patrolled by drones. The moment someone respawned, they slashed the poor wretch with paralyzing charges. Then the squat slave drivers hurried to strip the new prisoner of his or her weapons and gear, binding the helpless victim hand and foot.

They'd noticed one of the probes and shot it down, but Novitsky had seen enough. Now he'd have some food for thought, considering our own resurrection platform had been destroyed.

Silently I finalized all the necessary calculations, manned the controls and took a course.

The module gained speed, crumpling the pale mist that hung over the boiling lake. The Dargians wouldn't expect the damaged ship to hang around for so long — and they definitely wouldn't expect us to battle through the area of highest resistance.

The cockpit weapon controls sprang to life. The reactor was at 90%. The batteries had accumulated enough charge. I'd even managed to use the automatic mode to replace the shield generators with reserves.

Phantom-like, the assault module escaped the thick mist. False targets followed above and alongside us, their signatures marginally brighter. They forced the enemy's automatic defense systems to sound off with lots of noise and cascades of shrapnel — but no actual damage done to our ship.

My mind expander went into overdrive, slowing my subjective time flow. I could see the xenomorphs lash around the shore seeking shelter, taken by surprise.

I became one with the ship, compressing hundreds of tasks into each split second, controlling it at the speed of thought, pushing my mind beyond its limits. The on-board weapons showered the enemy with fire; coilguns rattled rhythmically; tracers of missiles ripped through buildings, reducing walls to rubble and sending the disoriented Dargians to their respawn points. Pulse ship defense lasers added their voice to the humdrum, burning through the enemy's gun points and shooting down the few missiles they'd managed to launch.

But we too took our fair share of a beating.

Each direct hit on the ship pierced me with pain. Not the most pleasant of feelings, but this was the price you paid for the lightning reactions and the fastest possible interactions between the pilot and his machine that allowed him to act with pinpoint precision, answering dozens of stinging attacks with one well-choreographed maneuver.

I directed the ship along the shoreline. The guns of the right hemisphere kept showering the buildings while the upper ones fired at the cliff range where I'd just discovered yet another defense line.

These isolated bursts of fire merged into a wall of black and orange. The fragments of Dargian defense structures rolled down the slope. Their return fire was sparse: the enemy panicked.

The surviving newbs and the lieutenant were still pinned down by the compensating field. From time to time, their bodies shimmered with a golden glow as the game engine generously bestowed new levels on them, earned as part of my group.

Soon I too felt awash with several surges of warm golden light.

I zoomed up to engage the lower hemisphere guns while discharging the plasma generators into the strange-looking structure mounted on the platform. My first hit very nearly brought its shield down; the second one pierced through it, damaging the strange weapon although not destroying it completely. I just hoped they couldn't use it anymore.

I pushed the little ship and all its systems beyond their limit, knowing we had to wipe this particular defense point off the face of Darg. If we didn't, the Dargians would surely come after us, following our trail and combing through the area. And this was the last thing I needed.

I banked into an assault course, emptying the plasma generators into the cliff range. This time I was in luck. A whole layer of rock sank, collapsing and breaking into enormous chunks of stone.

The force field emitters exploded in a cloud of smoke and dust. The blast wave shook the module.

You've damaged a space defense installation! Wipe it out completely!

No. Not now. I'd rather survive myself. The ship wouldn't withstand a third attack. The batteries were almost empty, the power units struggling to recharge them. The shields kept dropping. In just two minutes of combat I'd virtually emptied our entire tactical ammo reserves. The lasers were about to overheat, the reactor was destabilizing. They couldn't keep up with my demands.

Enough. Time to go.

In one smooth altitude-gaining maneuver I banked into a new course. Soon the mauled cliff range pockmarked with impacts came into view below. Once we'd crossed it, we'd be relatively safe.

Suddenly, the cloud of dust surrounding the Founders' station fragment lit up with dozens of rocket launches. Alarms began wailing as a swarm of missiles came after us. I put my foot down, simultaneously banking to drop and cling to the cliff face — all in vain. The enemy had used an unidentified type of missile which kept gaining on me, avoiding both the uneven lay of the terrain and my return fire.

That was it. The lasers on the bow hemisphere were dead, leaving a murky trail of evaporating chemicals from the decompressed cooling system in their wake. The shields still held but they wouldn't last much longer. About fifty missiles chased after us. Time to eject the capsules — but they could be shot down just as easily.

I couldn't think straight anymore. My mind refused to handle the flow of data.

I boosted the reactor to 100%, pouring all available power into the shields of the bow hemisphere. Enough lying low! I zoomed up again. In the absence of G-absorbers, my vision darkened with the pressure.

A direct hit. They'd got us!

The thrusters packed up. The ship began losing speed. The power unit was in overload. I kept climbing higher... and yet higher... Now!

I sent the ship into a spin. The coilguns and the lasers spat death at the finally exposed sectors of fire.

The enemy missiles split up, feinting, then returning to their assault course. Only a few exploded, their falling fragments leaving trails of smoke in the sky.

Another hit. Dammit!

My shields were down. The reactor was about to explode.

I saw a plain lying directly ahead, followed by the dark mass of a forest. At eleven o'clock lay an enormous swamp, its muddy waters glittering about a mile away.

With one last effort I changed the course, zooming down onto it. A few seconds later, the thunderous splash of an emergency landing sent cascades of evaporating mud into the sky.

Two missiles exploded nearby. The others had lost their target.

Critical reactor overload!

The ship submerged into the boiling water. Twenty or so feet lower, its bottom screeched against the rocks.

The compensating field switched off. The lights went out. The life support system died. Murky mud leaked in through the holes in the hull. Weak daylight seeped through a large crack overhead.

Darg. The assault module crash site.

T
he silence was deafening.

Sounds came back slowly. I could hear the bubbling of mud and the hissing of water against red-hot metal. Someone groaned weakly.

A damaged cable crackled, sparking.

All the systems were dead. The reactor was in overload and I had no means of shutting it down. The sharp smell of chemicals escaping the leaky pipes hit my nostrils. I ran a quick scan of the area — it had already become a habit. The Synaps considerably widened the limits of my perception, allowing me to take a peek outside the ship.

We'd been really lucky. The swamp in this particular spot wasn't deep, so the top hatches remained above the water line. I stood up, holding onto the mountings of my seat's shock absorbers. I had to act fast.

Mud slapped underfoot. Occasional emergency lights glowed red in the gloom of the personnel module.

“Novitsky!” I croaked in the dead silence.

The Lieutenant was alive but paralyzed with terror. He couldn't think straight. No wonder. Thanks to the wretched neuroimplant, his very being was oversaturated with pain, blood and fear. He was deep in shock, his life bar shrinking slowly but surely. But of course! A debuff! Deadly Fear, the one that removed 1 pt. Life per second! I'd never seen it happen before: a player who'd managed to cast it over himself simply by being terrified.

A narrow ragged crack crossed the module's ceiling. The armor plates there had parted, the supporting beams mauled by the missile's direct hit. Thick yellow fog hung outside.

We need to leg it, as soon and as far as we can, before the reactor bursts
, the thought kept throbbing in my head.

I grabbed the Lieutenant by the lapels and jerked him out of his seat. He was limp like a rag doll, his eyes frantic.

“Piss off,” he croaked.

I see. Novitsky's mind had crumbled under the crashing realism of the experience. Now he was going to die here without lifting a finger for his own survival. His gamer's mentality allowed his mind to blank out in the naïve hope of respawning. His inner voice must have been whispering through his mind, telling him that the respawn point was safe, free from pain and horror, free from the taste of the blood caking his lips, free from this numbing, humiliating fear.

I ripped the small plastic cover off his right forearm, concealing a tiny panel with several sensors. It was a good job I'd glanced through the manual for this type of gear which was completely new to me. I touched the first-aid icon. The Lieutenant's life bar soared into the green. His countenance cleared somewhat.

The bumper dose of combat metabolytes had wiped away the shock. His cheeks were spotted crimson. He was still casting mad glances around but his hands grasped the armrests as he tried to scramble to his feet — which was a good sign.

I didn't lose time. Clambering past the rows of seats and dead players (marked as “awaiting respawn”), I checked the floor for any supplies that had poured out of the burst bags that were yet undamaged by mud and water. I picked up an extra ammo kit and three fully charged batteries.

Next one.

A beefy goon, the inside of his pressurized suit covered in puke. His face was ashen. The visor of his helmet had burst and disintegrated into tiny granules. Blood caked on the cut on his cheek.

Nickname: Vandal.

I had no time for talking so I just repeated my trick with the first aid. I had a funny feeling that behind the swamp's yellow fog lay a very unfriendly welcome.

Novitsky had come round somewhat. I could hear him wheeze as he followed me.

“Lieutenant, help the soldier! Quick!”

I didn't give a damn about Admiral Higgs' rules. Okay, so they would fine me for lack of respect and subordination, big deal. Still, no XP sanctions followed. Instead, a very interesting message came into view,

A superior officer has obeyed your orders! New characteristic available: Charisma. As it grows, so will be the other players' desire to join you. Some NPCs might have unique quests available only to you.

I stopped reading. It was pretty clear. Been there, done it. With a swipe of my eyes, I accepted it. This upgrade was quite clever, come to think of it. If indeed a character's development now depended solely on his or her actions, that was truly good news.

Novitsky gave me the evil eye but obeyed. He picked up a heavy pulse machine gun (Vandal's standard-issue weapon) and helped him to his feet. I went on, checking the remaining seats.

The fourth survivor was a tall gaunt fellow that reminded me of the Haash for some reason. I had a good feeling about him.

Nickname: Foggs.

“My foot is trapped,” he croaked without waiting for my question. He must have been in a lot of pain but he was taking it well, suppressing his fear.

I grabbed at the mangled shock absorbers of his seat and forced them apart. “Give me your hand! Try to get up! We need to go!”

Foggs ground his teeth. “It hurts. What a bunch of idiots! You'd think they'd switch off the perception filters, would you?”

The ship was rapidly filling with water. “Vandal and Novitsky,” I said, “I want you to collect everything you can: ammo, gear, batteries, life support cartridges, everything! Grab it and get out, quick!”

As if confirming my words, we heard a loud screeching sound. The floor listed. Chemical-smelling water poured down into the cockpit. The swamp wasn't so shallow, after all. We'd been lucky to have landed on top of an underwater ledge but now the ship had begun sliding down its slope, threatening to bury us in the muddy depths.

* * *

We helped each other out.

I was the first to jump waist deep into the muddy water. I couldn't see the shore: the area was enveloped in a thick yellow radioactive fog. The ship's reactor was overheated so my implant's sensors were reading its bright-red mark clearly. The disturbed mud was bubbling; its oily brown surface heaving with a thick web of intertwined algae.

Novitsky cast a desperate look around. Vandal was still in shock, grinning fearlessly. Foggs was white as a sheet. The metabolytes had helped him to overcome the pain but he could barely move.

“We're leaving! Over there,” I pointed.

“Don't you think you're too big for your boots, man?” Vandal glanced at the lieutenant, seeking support, but found none.

I shrugged. “You can go if you want. It's up to you.”

“Quit arguing,” predictably, Foggs showed he had guts. “Personally, I can't see anything. Can you?” he glanced at the lieutenant, wincing with pain.

He shook his head. “My sensors have packed up with all the radiation.”

“Some gear!” Vandal spat in the mud through the broken visor. “I'm going over there,” he pointed to a place where the mud was the deepest. “Who's with me?”

Zander
, my PM box kicked back to life with the lieutenant's voice.
You sure you know where to go?

I marked the terrain down as we fell,
I answered, not quite prepared to tell anyone about my implants' true properties.

Are you sure?

Absolutely.

Then you'd better take us.

He switched over to the common channel and repeated for everyone to hear, “We're following Zander. Once we're safely back on the ground, then we'll decide what to do.”

We soon left the radioactive fog behind.

I always thought that a swamp was a swamp, in any online world. Still, this time the game designers must have decided to make up for their apparent lack of imagination when it came to interior design of space stations. Just for a change, they'd tried to show some ingenuity.

I led the group, using my scanners to weave a complex path along the rocky bottom. We waded through the obnoxious ill-smelling knee-deep mud. On both sides of us lay a bottomless bog. In places, a complex pattern of tree-like shapes grew through the thick layer of algae, their hardened trunks arching overhead, covered in acid-yellow balls of fluff that kept shooting clouds of spores in our direction.

The biological hazard sensors kept beeping anxiously. We had to seal our helmets, thus wasting our suits' limited resources. After Vandal's encounter with the fluffy microscopic aggressors, we had to replace his broken visor double quick. Luckily, we'd found some spare parts among the supplies we'd lifted from the sinking module.

But back to the landscape. The thin trunks intertwined, forming complex shapes and glowing softly in a variety of colored auras. Fine fringes of translucent fibers swayed in the wind, but once you passed under them, they'd reach out, touching you, trying to sting you with their little barbs of electric shock.

So much for the delights of alien vistas. No one would survive here a minute without a pressure suit.

It took us the whole of thirty minutes to finally see the curve of the shoreline that the hybrid had marked on my map. By then, we were so exhausted we could barely move. Before, Phantom Server didn't have the Physical Energy stat. You were either tired or you weren't. Nothing had changed much in that respect, apart from a new bar on your interface. You still had to battle your exhaustion. I was already quite used to it but the others staggered along in silence, gritting their teeth.

We clambered onto the shoreline and collapsed under a squat shady tree, catching our breath.

Ashen discharge clouded the horizon. Darg's atmosphere was quickly losing its clarity. Clouds thickened; occasional gusts of wind showered the ground with a fine layer of ash. The recent orbital attacks hadn't done the planet any favors. The climate was sure to change, destroying its wildlife. Why was I thinking about any of this? I had to decide what to do next, not ponder over an alien world's ecology problems.

A far-off flash sparkled weakly from the direction of the swamp, followed by a rumbling noise. Waves ran ashore. A new message popped up,

Your landing craft has been destroyed. From now on, your unit has been disbanded.

Oh. So it was every man for himself, then.

The lieutenant sat up, staring incredulously at the water. Vandal leaned against the tree trunk, looking absent. Being attacked by the microscopic spores had done nothing to improve his disposition.

I opened Foggs’ communication channel. He seemed to be the most level-headed of all three. “How's your leg?”

“It's okay. How d'you plan to get out of here?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“The lieutenant isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he?” Foggs said unabashedly. “Vandal is too much of a solo player.”

“What can you say about me, then?”

“Nothing. I haven't worked you out yet. Why did you land the module? We could have respawned, that's all.”

I could see he was in pain despite all the metabolytes. “The respawn points' positions are a bit funny,” I didn't tell him where I'd gotten the information from yet. Let him use his own head. “They're spread over in a thin strip and they're sort of clustered over it. It's as if someone scooped up a few and poured them on the ground. And their locations just happen to coincide with Dargian positions. So I had a hunch that dying might not be such a good idea.”

Foggs put two and two together. “They say there used to be a Founders station orbiting it,” he said. “You really think respawn points are all tied to its fragments?”

“Sure. And they're packed with Dargians. Did you see the picture from the probes?”

“Yeah. Dammit! Listen, Zander, if we don't get to a safe respawn point quickly, we might not last. Then again... we really should check out the nearest locations,” he pondered aloud, considering our options. “We need to find a newb location and do a bit of leveling, work as a team. Novitsky and Vandal might be a problem, though. They don't seem to be much of team players. One is too green and the other too independent.”

“Hey, look!” the lieutenant ducked, pointing at the sky.

Two swift shadows streaked out of the low clouds.

Dinosaurs! Their wings span a good fifteen feet. They'd noticed some prey on the ground and were diving for it.

We froze. These were some seriously dangerous mobs. I read one's stats,

A Tergan. Xenomorph. Level 230. Life: 370,000/500,000

If I remembered rightly, even Crystal Sphere dragons had less HP than these birdies.

The sight of the creatures had shaken Vandal out of his lethargy. The barrel of his massive pulse machine gun rose, following the target. I hurried to make some calculations. His gun dealt 70 pt. damage per shot. The clip contained five hundred rounds. Vandal's Combat Skills were level 2 at best. Which meant that most of his ammo would just kiss the sky, enraging the winged monsters and exposing our position.

I came upon him just in time and pinned him to the ground, preventing him from shooting.

He cussed and tried to struggle out of my grip. Then he slackened, apparently realizing what consequences his initiative could have had.