The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) (13 page)

“Does that mean Novitsky can't really become an exobiologist?” Foggs demanded. “Simply because he has a wrong scanner?”

“He can,” I said. “Any basic mind expander can support at least two permanent skill branches. As far as I understand, you all have Combat Skills by default, right?”

“Yeah. The second branch isn't active yet. Wait, Zander, let me work it out myself. So if I find a Mechanic's suit and do enough repairs, the skill might become permanent?”

“Exactly. But that's about all your Neuron can do. If later you want to dabble in Exo, you'll have to find some Scientist's gear. It'll work as long as you wear it. Once you remove it, the skill will be gone.”

His face dropped. “That's a Catch-22 situation!”

“Not really,” I reassured him. “I've seen a lot of folk on Argus using these basic mind expanders and they leveled just fine. At level 30 you'll be able to wear heavy armor which has a good couple of dozen slots for all sorts of devices. You only need to decide on their configuration. Plus you'll need some powerful co-processors, otherwise the pressure will be too much for your brain to take.”

“What kind of expander do you have?”

“A Synaps. Made to the Founders' specs. It's too good for words, really. Besides all the standard skills, it also supports unique ones tied to ancient technologies. Just wait till we complete the quest and save Kathryn. That'll improve our relationship with the hybrid and I'm sure he'll help you to upgrade if you wish.”

“How can he do it? From what I hear, you can't reinstall a mind expander.”

“He's a mnemotech pro. I've seen him work miracles, trust me.”

Foggs fell silent, pensive. “Will they let me back on Eurasia with his upgrades? Or will they rebrand me as an Outlaw?”

I shrugged. I didn't want to go into that quite yet.

* * *

We continued in silence.

My throat rasped with the burnt air. Still, we were in no imminent danger so we chose not to seal our helmets to save on life support supplies. A hot wind fanned my face, the tall purple grass tangling around my legs. Very soon my muscles were aching with fatigue. The combined weight of my weapons and gear kept increasing with every step I made. I'd never noticed this phenomenon before — I couldn't have, considering the low or zero gravity levels at space stations.

I kept an eye on my Physical Energy stats. This actually proved useful. Once the bar began to slide into the yellow, I'd have to call a breather.

Actually, I noticed that the revisions they'd introduced had considerably improved the gameplay making it more streamlined and familiar. The only things I wasn't so happy about were the new powerful debuffs accompanying any strenuous physical effort. Vandal's stare betrayed his anxiety too; a couple of times he whipped out his weapon, then shook his head in regret.

I, too, tried to draw my gun and take aim on the go without stopping. My arms shook with the strain and exhaustion. The pulse gun's barrel literally waved from side to side. Immediately a message popped up,

Your Physical Energy levels have dropped below 50%.

Effect: you find it hard to take aim. Your Accuracy has dropped 5 pt. For more details, see the Combat Abilities tab.

“Take five.”

I knew of course that we could remove the debuff with stimulants which could raise our Physical Energy as high as 110%. But wasting them on such trifles was unwise. It was easier to just take a break.

“Flippin’ masochists...” Vandal grumbled.

Groaning, Foggs collapsed to the ground.

Where was Novitsky? I looked around me. He was way behind, about a hundred and fifty feet still, scanning yet another plant. He might actually become good at it. Or could his remarkable stamina be caused by the shock he'd sustained?

I'd just have to find out. I still had plenty of time to relax.

I retraced our tracks in the trampled grass. Our freshly-baked scientist had discovered an unusual-looking spiky blossom among the otherwise insignificant flora. Crouching next to it, he hypnotized it with his stare.

Okay. Let him get on with it.

I paused for a minute, studying the area. We still had a good three miles between us and the woods. The weather had grown considerably worse. The rain began drizzling from the overcast sky.

The place swarmed with all sorts of small game. Nothing had tried to approach us yet; on the contrary, the local critters tried to duck out of sight, giving us a wide berth. My Synaps allowed me to just about see them — or rather, see the tags marking their presence.

I took a closer look, registering the nearest thermal peaks, and mechanically recorded the sensors' data. You can never have too much information. A large beetle-like insect flashed across my field of vision, offering me a glimpse of its armored head and a pair of impressive mandibles.

Dagarf (a killer beetle). Level 5. Life: 15/35.

Ingmud had told me the truth, then. Plenty of exo in this low-level location. Let's see what the woods would surprise us with.

In the meantime, Novitsky kept meditating over his blossom. It was taking him too long. I walked over to him: no reaction. His face was crimson, his pupils dilated. What was wrong with him, for chrissakes?

I touched his shoulder, disturbing his balance. He slumped to one side.

I tapped into his gear's sensors.

An Overheal? He'd injected himself with all the stimpacks he had. That was why he'd kept up with us while scanning all the plants on his way. Still, the metabolyte overdose had finally caused a euphoric meltdown. Putting it plainly, our Novitsky was too high to think straight!

How on earth had he managed to make the beta testing team? The guy was a sorry excuse for a gamer.

I was obliged to inject him with a neutralizing shot from my own supplies and drag him by a suit strap toward the others.

A couple of flying mobs showed over our camp site. I noticed them from afar and braced myself to hear any firing. None followed. Apparently, they didn't pose a serious threat.

After a few dozen feet, I stopped to catch my breath and take a better look at the flying creatures. Five of them were already circling the area at different heights, looking vaguely reminiscent of dragonflies. Why weren't they attacking?

“Foggs?” I contacted the group. “What's all this?”

“These are Irakhs, whatever they are. Venomous, apparently. Levels 7 and 8.”

“What's the problem, then? Or do we have too much XP already?”

“Wait,” I discerned a shade of cynicism in his voice. What was so funny?

Then I noticed Vandal who'd crept up on the creatures and stood up, taking a swing. Had he just hurled a rock at them?

One of the “dragonflies” spun through the air, then collapsed onto the ground.

“A headshot!” I heard Vandal exclaim. So he was a shooter lover, then.

He followed up with another good throw. “Headshot!” He then grabbed another sharp piece of rock, unable to stop himself.

The three remaining Irachs froze in the air, their wings flapping so fast you couldn't even see them move. Their slim bodies curved. I heard a sound similar to a bout of fast wheezy coughing as they showered Vandal with their venomous spit.

Vandal dropped to his knees, grabbing at his throat.

Three shots barked as Foggs belatedly downed the mobs one by one. Then he rushed toward Vandal.

What were they like!

I dragged Novitsky toward them and dropped him down like a sack of potatoes, then hurried to scan the area. I couldn't see any new dangers though.

I turned to Foggs. “Is he all right?”

Vandal was conscious but he couldn't move. He must have been in a hell of a lot of pain. These local insects apparently could produce neurotoxins! Nothing fatal, luckily, just a 3-minute Paralysis debuff, but the very idea of it was uncomfortable. I could see that Foggs realized this too. With a helpless gesture, he cast a guilty look my way but didn't say anything.

Novitsky stirred and sat up, staring dimly at me. I cast him a meaningful glare.

“I've opened a new skill,” he mumbled. “I've also found an ingredient for Exo #17,” with a happy absent smile, he made a show of pulling out a bunch of pale yellow grass from his inventory.

I checked the exobiologists' database I'd acquired back on Argus. Exo #17 gave you +5 to Strength but it called for two more plants to make it.

I pointed at the dead Irakhs. “Check them out.”

Vandal groaned, struggling to sit up. His face was bloated, his eyes puffy.

“No one removes helmets during stops,” I was angry but tried to keep myself in check. “Kill mobs on sight, don't wait for them to spit at you. Pressurize your suits at the first sign of danger.”

“We know, Zander,” Foggs mumbled. “You think we're newbs or something?”

Fighting off the fatigue, I couldn't help smiling as I remembered Vandal's stoning the low-level mobs. How old was he, really?

Asking a player's real age was bad form. He could always tell me himself if he really wanted to.

A croaking noise made me turn round. Our newly-minted exobiologist was in a bad way. Sure, gutting an alien NPC and poking at its spilling guts with a scanner wasn't exactly fun at these authenticity levels. Still, he'd better get used to it.

“I got it! I got it!” Novitsky suppressed a bout of nausea to proudly report, “You can make an antidote out of the stuff they secrete! That's the only ingredient you need! Someone, give me a flask or something! I'm gonna make my first exo now!”

* * *

These two little incidents had somehow brought us closer together.

The antidote made by Novitsky earned him Vandal's unreserved respect. Foggs was keeping an eye on his partner, constantly instructing him — apparently sharing his own wealth of tactical experience.

We walked unhurriedly now, trying not to waste our bodies' resources. I led the group. Vandal and Foggs flanked Novitsky who followed within our “perimeter”, inspecting plants on our way under our constant supervision.

Every three-quarters of a mile we stopped for a brief break without relaxing our guard. As we approached the woods, the area around us changed a little. Every now and again we had to walk around deep ravines. The NPCs' levels had grown, too. Most of them were insects in every possible shape and form offered by Mother Nature. They were mainly busy going about their own business and only aggroed you if you attacked them. All this was highly unusual. Real mobs were few and far between. It was as if whoever had created this location had given much thought to its eco system, fine-tuning its food chains (which we apparently made no part of) but completely forgetting about the existence of the PvE mode.

The place was an exobiologist's dream. No wonder Novitsky had already made level 3. Every now and again we shot down some critter or other for him to study, watching the ex-Lieutenant dissect it with an ever-growing expertise.

The world around us though was growing dim. The orbital strikes had taken their toll. Swirling clouds of ash had covered the sky, plunging the planet into gloom. Lightning flashed by the horizon: whether an electric storm or the echo of new battles I couldn't tell from this distance. Gusts of hot wind slashed us.

“Zander?” Foggs awoke me from my musings. “Take a look at this.”

He streamed the video to me. The tall grass was flattened in two wide parallel lines. Judging by the gauge, this must have been a planetary rover. So!

The tracks led toward a small cluster of cliffs, diverging considerably from our tentative route. It must have been left by the exobiologists' group. Which offered some hope — and might simplify our task no end.

“Let's follow it.”

We still had at least two more miles between us and the woods. The wind-worn ledges of reddish lime towered over the plateau, threaded with a maze of narrow gorges. Ingmud's map failed to display the area correctly, showing it as a chain of flat boring hills.

Gradually the purple plants began to disappear. We were now trekking across a rocky wasteland. We'd long lost the rover's tracks; still, soon my Synaps' sensors detected a large mass of metal.

We discovered the rover a few hundred feet away. It stood on top of a crumbling rock not far from the entrance to one of the gorges. Its reactor was dead.

“Are they alive?” Vandal gasped.

“Don’t know yet. Nothing seems to be moving.”

“Now what would exobiologists need with a pile of rocks?” Foggs asked.

“They might have been chasing something,” Novitsky offered.

I peered at the rover, realizing that my Synaps wasn't perfect after all. It had no problem detecting cyber systems and functioning gear modules by their signatures. Life forms, however, were only visible at short distances.

I zoomed in. The rover had apparently been in a serious scrap. Its armor was corroded in places, its surface exposing dark blistered patches as if the vehicle had been attacked with acid. The loading ramp was open. The ground around it was littered with squashed bags and the broken parts of various equipment.