The Renegades Read online

  Hearing such a poetic description, I guffawed and reckoned it impolite to remain in debt.

  “Well, I don’t know, oh my fanged ruffian, the map really does cost three hundred gold and we could easily do the quest in good faith but also make a copy and get it for half-price. My hunch though is that if we do this, the cartographer is going to charge us extra for any further instruction. Heck, he might even tell the other vendors to raise prices.”

  “The cartographer got a promotion back there. Say what you like, but when it comes to maps I know my business.”

  “We’ll need to make two maps of the same locale and compare them. I don’t know a thing about cartography, but according to the fora, I don’t need to—the system does everything automatically. We can see how much difference it makes.”

  “Never trust stupid electronics,” the pirc raised a claw to the sky. “Even the most cutting-edge device with the most elaborate software is but the work of a human. And humans are prone to error.”

  “That’s what I’m saying—we can check. Meanwhile, let’s find another player and try out our mettle hunting the local fauna.”

  Just in case, I re-read the descriptions of the quests I had and finding no mention of the Council’s schism, nor the imminent visit of the Kartossian delegation, sent Chip the quest for exterminating the blighted beasts. I decided to keep the quest for destroying the source of the blight secret for the time being. Sometimes a player seems decent enough but changes entirely when the first difficulty arises. It’d be silly to share a rare quest with someone who was still a stranger after all.

  “Here you go. We’ll be able to grind our rep with the locals while we’re at it.”

  “What’s with reputation in this game?” grumbled Chip, accepting the quest. “This kind of thing was much simpler in Afghanistan.

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “You never had to annihilate anything there—simply haul the chow and pass it out to the locals,” Chip was happy to share his remembrances. “Blitz through a gorge, unload, have some tea with the locals and off you go back home to base. But the reputation, oh the reputation—in our unit, when Jake slipped on the ice and fell, why there was a line of well-wishers stretching around his tent.”

  “Why there’re plenty of quests like that here in actual fact. I read that the majority of quests in Barliona are focused on the social component of the game. Help a grandmother cross the street, bring a kitten down from a tree, save the world. I grow my reputation whenever I play music to the biota. It just so happens that this quest we have is one of the ‘search and destroy’ types.”

  I was being a bit of a hypocrite here—the quest for finding the source of the blight was precisely one of those ‘save the forest’ kind of quests.

  “I don’t want to save the world here either,” Chip waved. “Saving the world is my job as it is. I’m here playing so that others can save me for a change. ‘But I guess that’s my fate: Thirty years I’ve been flying in the mountains…’ Let’s go do a bit of poaching, my lovely sundew.”

  “Let’s, oh super nerd.”

  Seeing no point in running around the entire Tree in search of players and hesitant to ask in the public chat, I decided to use the game mail. The mailbox was located in the local bank, which is where we went. While Chip spoke to his bank representative, figuring out the local system of deposits and bonuses, I quickly wrote a letter to Prickly Sloe, the necromancer I’d come across the Market Branch when I met Chip.

  Hello Sloe! We’ve already met. You told me about the social quests for preparing for the festival. My friend, a pirc warrior, and I have decided to descend from the Tree and level up a bit at the expense of the local critters. Want to join us?

  Lorelei

  I sent the letter and decided to ask the banker about the bank’s services. It turned out that I could acquire a special wallet which would immediately transfer any money I earned to the bank so that I wouldn’t drop it if something happened to me. And yet simply hearing the price of this service forced me to say no to the idea: They wanted 2000 gold per year! Why I wouldn’t even earn so much in a year! Hearing about the other services offered by the bank—such as the portable mailbox—I grew downright despondent. So many interesting goodies and all so expensive. Eh, I should’ve agreed to the beggar trait—I would’ve spent my days playing at some busy intersection, grinding my Fame and earning my money.

  Chip managed to articulate my thoughts better than I could. Leaving his meeting, he broke into an expansive oration consisting of brief but very clear and vivid images. If I strip it down to its essence, the gist of what he was saying could be expressed with a simple sentiment: These people have lost their damn minds.

  “Where’s my red flag and cap?” Chip concluded his fiery monologue.

  “Eh?” I asked, once again puzzled.

  “I’ll clench it in my fist, climb aboard my tank and lead the people to revolution,” Chip clarified. “Just like Lenin in October. You can be our Aurora, singing something revolutionary.” He assumed a picturesque pose, tucking one paw behind his back and stretching the other one before him as if pointing to some distant point only he could discern. “And then, the oppressed masses of gamers, groaning beneath the yoke of the local plutocracy, shall burst their bonds of slavery and…Listen, do you think Communism is a viable ideology for Barliona?”

  “Maybe, I guess. But I only really know how to play the Marseillaise from that, uh, genre,” I warned just in case. “Although, I could always expand my repertoire if it’s for a good cause.”

  Our nascent revolution was interrupted by a group of players who’d become excited at the sight of a pirc. Only it wasn’t his heroic pose that drew their attention.

  “Eh bro, you’d make fine tank, bro!” offered a shaman named Coleen the Acute. “The party’s ready, you’re the only one we’re missing.”

  “Comrades!” the pirc exclaimed with fire. “I am pleased to see you among the ranks of defenders of the revolution! But I am not alone—my trusted commissar is with me.” He nodded towards me. “You will have to forgive us—we haven’t the means yet to supply you with Mausers and leather dusters.”

  The puzzled silence that came in response clearly indicated that none of the newcomers were much interested in history.

  “I don’t get it, are you gonna tank or not?” Coleen clarified just in case.

  “We already have a party,” I reminded Chip about our plans to invite an acquaintance. Traveling somewhere with a person with this kind of attitude…Sure I’m a snob but I can’t do anything about it.

  “I don’t collaborate with bourgeois lapdogs who don’t support the ideals of the proletarian struggle,” the pirc quipped. “We work exclusively with the tried and tested comrades. So no, no business for you, bourgeois!”

  He slid his handaxe from its sheath and began to pare his nails with it, making a show of ignoring our prospective employers.

  “What a Spartacus!” Coleen remarked and moved onward with her gang.

  Judging by the tone, this was supposed to be an insult, but it was a bit of an odd one. However, everything fell into place once I read the next system notification that popped up:

  Attention! Your profanity filter is turned on. You may turn it off in the character settings (only for players aged 21 and older).

  So that’s what it was. This game is simply bristling with filters for all kinds of things. As I fiddled with the settings, I failed to notice Sloe approach the bank. But of course—how else would he read the letter? The necromancer had already managed to reach his third level. He sure wasn’t losing time.

  “Hey Sloe—wait up!” I barely managed to call my acquaintance before he entered the bank. “If you’re here for the letter—it’s from me.”

  “Yes? I’m listening.”

  “…Shush!” the pirc interrupted. He made a terrible face, brought his finger to his lips and in a theatrical whisper that was quiet enough for the groundhogs under the Tree to hear, sa
id: “The sentries don’t slumber, comrade! We are offering you a chance to join the Red Guard and fight for the proletariat with a rifle in your hands!”

  Sloe’s eyebrows hiked up, which, along with his branched hairdo gave him the resemblance of a surprised moose.

  “I sort of always preferred the royalists,” he finally replied to the pirc. “But if the quest is an interesting one, I am prepared to examine the options.”

  “That’s precisely how the Communists recruited professional soldiers to their ranks,” Chip announced in a normal voice. “Your turn, commissar,” he jabbed me with an elbow and then froze, blinked several times in puzzlement and then broke into a grin.

  “The system’s offered me the Chatterbox trait,” he reported. “Accepted. Revolution’s definitely on now, boys!”

  “What’s the Chatterbox trait?” I inquired.

  Sloe replied instead of Chip:

  “A bonus stat like ‘Elocution’ or ‘Charisma.’ It enables you to increase your Attractiveness with NPCs by blathering and also gives you the option of talking an NPC’s ears off until he falls asleep. Helps with crowds too. Like if you find yourself in a tight spot in some remote village where all the villagers are armed with pitchforks and torches and chasing you—with Chatterbox you’ll have a chance to talk your way out. Not a bad trait for a pirc to have. So why’d you send me the letter?”

  This Sloe is clearly an experienced player. He’ll come in handy for a couple newbies like us.

  “We have a quest to kill some forest critters and a big fat tank in our party.”

  “I ain’t fat!” Chip took offense. “I’m fluffy!” As proof he tousled his nape fur. He had a point—he didn’t much resemble a tank so much as a garrulous brush for washing bottles.

  “Either way, let’s go!” I concluded, ignoring the pirc.

  “Why me?” the necromancer asked suspiciously.

  “You helped me so now I’ll help you,” I replied honestly. “In addition, you gave me the impression of a reasonable person and an experienced player. Our little newb team could use a leader.”

  Sloe drummed on his belt buckle pensively, looked over Chip skeptically, then me, and finally made his decision.

  “Send me the invite. I have to exit the game in a few hours anyway. If we get wiped it won’t be a big deal.”

  I sent Sloe the party invite as well as the same quest I’d shared with Chip.

  “We take precautions,” Chip reassured him in the meantime. “Or what are you on about?”

  “Oh, you’re really newbs, huh?” the necromancer sighed and explained: “‘Wipe’ is when the entire raiding party dies. In our case, simply our party. Oh…Lorelei, what have you been doing this entire time?”

  “Erm, playing,” was my honest answer.

  “So why’s your Intellect still at two?”

  “Well I only just leveled up, I still haven’t allocated my stat points.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Intellect for the biota grows automatically through casting. Heal me with all the mana you got.”

  Sensing that I had already made some mistake, I did as he requested.

  Skill increase:

  +50% to Intellect. Total: 100%. +1 to Intellect. Total: 3.

  Attention! You have healed another player. A new trait has become available to your character: Healer. The higher your level in Healer, the less mana you need for healing spells and the spells themselves become more powerful. There is a percentage chance for the spell to be cast again without costing any mana at all.

  Do you accept? Attention! You will not be able to remove an accepted trait!

  Damn…What a dummy I am. So this entire time, I could have been burning my mana to level my Intellect? I suppose my regret was writ large on my face because Sloe simply shook his head:

  “Don’t waste your unallocated stat points for now. Level your Intellect by means of spells any chance you get. All right. The tank’s pretty fat indeed. He should be able to survive without needing to be healed—and my dps should be high enough.”

  I checked his general stats and whistled to myself. At only Level 3 he already had his Intellect up to 42. Yeah, this guy could one-shot a forest critter.

  “All right. Let’s go. Intellect comes with time, and your quest’s a good one. Where’d you get it, by the way?”

  “Talking to various NPCs about various topics.”

  “Yes? Will you tell me exactly how you received it?”

  “Why not?”

  By the time we descended from the Tree, I managed to share my sad tale of my first venture into the greater world and my subsequent questions to Amaryllis about the blighted creatures. Sloe, in his turn, let me in on how I can activate my natural camouflage ability and when we landed, we were invisible (or so we hoped) to the local aggressive monsters.

  My old acquaintance, the Blighted Lynx didn’t keep us waiting: As soon as we stepped off the leaf, something…strange…attacked Chip. This member of the feline species was covered with thorns like a stegosaurus, only instead of bone, the thorns were clearly botanical in nature. The pirc swiped away the beast with his halberd, a clump of dark energy shot from Sloe’s hands and the lynx vanished without a trace before I could even check its properties.

  Experience gained: +80 XP. 37 remaining until next level.

  Achievement unlocked: ‘Bane of the Animal Kingdom Level 1’ (19 animal kills until next level).

  Achievement reward: +1% damage to Animals.

  You can look at your list of achievements in your character settings.

  “Grants less experience, but it’s more reliable,” Sloe nodded approvingly. “Last time I killed four, earned two levels and then ran into two mobs at once and had to beat it.”

  “I don’t know about mobs,” Chip poked his halberd at where the ‘body’ of the monster had dissolved, “but if a kitty like that jumped me somewhere out in reality, like in the Congo let’s say, I’d lose it too. And I mean in my pants. Back in my younger days I dropped acid several times, but never did I see anything like that.”

  “Huh?! You’re from Africa?” Sloe asked surprised. “What are you doing in Kartoss? You’re supposed to start on a different continent.”

  “Shush!” the pirc hushed him once again, then straightened out, slapped himself on the chest and leaned against his halberd. “I’m undercover. I’ve been working for the Belgians in the Congo. But now they’ve sent me here. A new post, new responsibilities.”

  “You’re one of those patients playing from a psychiatric capsule, aren’t you?” Sloe asked surprised.

  “Did you skip your history classes or something?” Chip replied in kind. “Damn kids these days. They see all the Africa stuff, but don’t know their history enough to know where it all comes from. So where to, comrade commissar?”

  “I’m no commissar, but I can answer your question,” Sloe began to issue orders. “Lori and I camouflage ourselves and start running in circles slaughtering every forest critter that comes across our path.”

  In two hours we managed to complete and re-complete Amaryllis’ quest, killing as many blighted creatures as got underfoot, and as a reward, I earned my fifth level, Chip his seventh, and Sloe his sixth. In the course of our adventure, my Intellect grew to eleven points and now I began to bitterly regret the days I’d wasted. On the other hand, I rummaged around the combat logs, disabling any superfluous notifications like the one about how much XP I had until my next level. I just didn’t need useless numbers flying around me.

  “All right, you newbies. I need to get some sleep. I have work in the morning. Kill me real quick and we’ll see each other tomorrow,” Sloe said in a business-like tone.

  “Kill?” No doubt my eyes had grown as wide as Chip’s saucers. “What’s with you?”

  “Are you guys not aware of the killing thing? Lemme explain. If a player attacks another player in Barliona, the system assigns him ‘outlaw’ status for eight hours. That entire time he earns no XP and other players can attack him wi
thout becoming outlaws themselves. There are other details but the main point is that towns will reward you for killing outlaws. Since I’m not planning to be in Barliona in the next 12 hours, I’ll attack one of you, get the outlaw status and then you can kill me and earn 100 gold. When I come back, you slip me my cut. And you can do this any time a player is about to leave the game for more than 12 hours.”

  “Why does the corp permit this?” I asked surprised. “Isn’t this an exploit?”

  “The higher your level the more the 30% XP penalty hurts you. For higher-level players, a hundred gold is a drop in the ocean. It’s not worth the bother. And farming is out of the question—if all you do is die at your buddies’ hands for a month on end—you’ll only earn about the cost of a monthly sub and the corp will break even. For minnows like us, it’s a nice bonus and the taste of easy money.”

  “Will you just look at those corporate pigs,” Chip even sounded pleased. “They’ve calculated all of it. But look, won’t your being a party member affect us somehow? Like some extra fine or something?”

  “You have to kick me from the party first. You won’t hurt me otherwise. As for fines—that’s only if you attack me in some sacred place, in the middle of a city or in front of a bunch of guards or even some location where that kind of stuff is explicitly prohibited. There’s not much to it really. I’ve already checked it out. Say the word and I’ll attack you.”