Massively Multiplayer (2 page)

If the remaining guard were to look away for just a moment, Druin figured he might be able to scuttle to the exit unnoticed. But just as he bunched his legs tightly in preparation for his escape, the sea-troll sniffed loudly. Its broad features contorted as it gulped in air, and its bulbous eyes opened even wider. It bared shiny teeth in an expression halfway between a grimace and a snarl, and readied its iron club, snorting again.

Apparently the trolls’ sense of smell was as acute as their eyesight was poor.
Unfair
, Druin thought petulantly. No-one had ever told him that. Of course that might have been because no-one knew, a thought at which he brightened. Information was always valuable – granting that he escaped from this situation at all, a likelihood remote enough to return him to despair. Maybe nobody knew because nobody had survived long enough to tell anyone. Holding his breath, he tried to will himself into the rock at his back.

It was farcical, really, though not quite comical. Certainly not comical – not with the hulking mass of a sea-troll mere yards away, shifting in the dim light as it searched for him. Druin huddled tighter into his crevice, willing himself invisible, inaudible, utterly undetectable.

He was going to get caught, and there was no way he could take on an alert troll all by himself. He was going to die. Probably messily. And it would take weeks to recover from that.

His fatalistic musings were interrupted by a rustle emanating from the region of the chamber’s entrance. The monster swung its head in that direction and Druin had just enough presence of mind to shut his eyes tightly when Wisefellow yelled “duck!”

Even through closed lids, the flash was blinding. The troll gave a howl of outrage, but Druin was already past it, pausing only long enough to sweep one of his blades low across the backs of the thing’s knees. It wasn’t an honorable blow, but Druin wasn’t in an honorable mood.

“I thought you were out of clearstone,” Druin huffed as they charged down a corridor.

“Found a shortcut,” Wisefellow remarked over his shoulder, hitching his robe up above his knees to make better time. “This way.”

The next few minutes were a blur of dark tunnels and near-empty caverns, splashing down one corridor only to spin around and race the other way at the sight of approaching torches. The sea-trolls’ lair was still abuzz with activity, but Wisefellow had taken the opportunity afforded by his near-invisibility to plot out a path which hopefully avoided the larger search parties. Twice they had to cram into side passages in order to escape roving slavers, and once Druin created a diversion by throwing small stones in order to distract the guards who blocked their further passage.

Eventually they found themselves in a cave whose floor was partially covered in sand, a tiny beach lapped by the salt-water waves which would take them out into daylight. Wisefellow tied his robes up into a thick belt which he knotted about his waist. Then he followed Druin into the water and they waded out into the late afternoon sunlight, where they knew the sea-trolls would not follow.

Another fifteen minutes found them marching up the coastal road, back towards the port of Bitter Edge, dripping wet but otherwise surprisingly unscathed.

"That," Druin announced as he checked for the fifth time to make certain that water had not seeped into his knife sheaths, "was the stupidest thing that I have ever done."

"Do not underestimate yourself," Wisefellow replied, wringing out the hem of his robes. “I’ve seen you stupider. What about the time you interrupted Mim’s duel with Micah?”

“Micah was cheating.”

“Yes, I know. That’s what made it so stupid. Reckless enough to use an exploit against Mim, you should have guessed he’d retaliate. Although that wasn’t even as bad as the time in the swamp. Nothing beats the swamp. I thought that Gil was going to leave you there for the crows."

Druin grinned ruefully. "Nobody got killed that time."

"No," Wisefellow admitted as the gates of the city rose into view, "but Gil was bitten rather severely. And we lost our horses.”

They marched on for a while. Realizing they would soon be among the city crowds, Druin broke the silence with the question which had really been on his mind. "Why didn't you leave with Uriah?" he asked, slightly embarrassed. "Or side with Gil when he wanted to keep my part of the swamp loot?"

Wisefellow smiled back at him, not embarrassed at all. "You are my friend. I admire it when you do foolish, ambitious things. If you were not so enterprising, who would bring me along on these little adventures, eh? I get a great deal of business when people are planning excursions...everyone wants a map, or a rune, or directions to a healer, or to know how to kill a swamp-thing so that it stays dead. But when it comes time to travel, everyone desires the company of a mage who knows how to blow things up. I get far too little practical fun out of my work without your invitations. I was only too happy to return the favor this time."

“Practical fun,” Druin mused. “You just make that up?”

But Wisefellow had returned his gaze to the city walls which now stretched to either side before them. "More importantly,” he said softly, “Gil is a deceitful devil himself. If he could have, he would have made off with the whole hoard, and left the rest of us to the bloodsuckers. I see too many like him in my shop, greedy and careless. I prefer the...humane quality of your ambition."

The city guardsmen gazed at them incuriously as they marched through the plain iron gates of Bitter Edge.

They remained silent as they made their way through the cobblestone streets, past the crowds of natives in their muted browns and grays and the gleaming figures of richly-clad adventurers like themselves. A juggler tossed what looked like small lizards from hand to hand. An acquaintance waved cheerily from a balcony. A native woman tried to sell them a horse.

They doggedly pressed through the crowds, making their way past the town well where the rumor-mongers hawked tales of lost treasure, past the constant streams of traffic surrounding the armory, and down a side-street to the Grinning Pumpkin.

"Truly, Druin, you must move to more luxurious quarters some day," Wisefellow muttered. "At least somewhere cleaner."

"I hear Gil actually bought an even larger house last week, up on the hill," Druin commented absently as they elbowed their way inside the noisy tavern. "I kind of like the Pumpkin, though. It feels...I don't know. Appropriately seedy, I guess."

"The term you are searching for is 'squalid,'" Wisefellow grunted as they shoved their way to the stairs at the back of the room. But he knew it was useless to broach the matter of moving somewhere more upscale – his friend was too attached to this, his first home in Bitter Edge.

"Druin my friend, you are too ambitious for a thief, and you won’t take a scout’s commission in the army...”

“Served my time,” Druin said shortly. “And you know how I feel about politics.”

“Did I mention assassination?” Wisefellow asked with a wounded expression. “Regardless, you are now relatively wealthy. At least until you go shopping again. So, shall we meet tomorrow? I think we could even afford a brief trip to Scryers' Street. I see no reason to immediately re-enter the troll-kin's nest, now that they know we are coming."

Druin glanced once more into his sack and mentally calculated the value of its contents: silks, earrings, an embroidered purse full of coins, a pair of armguards with elegantly scalloped edges that might be real silver. "Yeah, I think we might. Six o'clock, Pacific time? I have to help my sister finish homework from summer school, and I promised my dad I'd mow the lawn."

Wisefellow covered his face with his hands. "Druin, I despair of you. You must learn to stay in character! It may be the only way one so eccentric as you can ever prosper in this world." He sighed. "Very well. I shall be here early. Perhaps I can convince Uriah not to cut you into tiny pieces."

"If he's not dead," Druin countered.

"Yes, if he is not dead. If he is dead of course...well, then should I think that he is going to be very angry with you. I would avoid him until he gets over it."

Druin marched up the stairs and entered a long hallway lined with doors, each one marked with a name. The third on the left was his, and the door opened to his touch. Once inside, he glanced briefly about to take inventory. Unlike some of the Adventurers’ quarters he had seen, Druin’s room was spartan, and most of his possessions strictly practical. An extra jerkin hung on the back of the chair, and there was an arrangement of knives on the small dressing table. Not much, but home.

He dropped the sack with the trolls’ booty casually into the chair and lay on the bed, still wearing all of his clothes. He stared at the ceiling and regulated his breathing. It was always less disorienting if you lay down first.

"Logout," he declared authoritatively, and the room faded away.

Druin the Thief. Circle: 6. Wealth: 1,455. You have been logged in for 213 minutes. Thank you for playing Crucible v3.8.

Andrew Hunter pulled the goggles off and tossed them towards the bed, which was impossible to see from his position, semi-reclining on the virtualounge. He rubbed eyes bleary from almost four hours of strain, and he had to consciously focus on the room around him. From his position, almost flat on his back, he mostly saw the lemon-yellow plaster of the ceiling. Ugh. Luckily it was invisible to him most of the time he spent he spent in this room. His bookcase and desk, both occupied by neatly arranged books, occupied the corner opposite the virlo. Clothing hung out from the half-opened drawers of his dresser.

Andrew tapped a button on the console beneath his right hand. The virlo ceased its persistent humming as the vinyl ribs which crisscrossed the metal frame stopped vibrating. Pressure and gravity returned. His back felt stiff from being nearly immobile for so long. The virlo wasn't a very recent model, or in particularly good repair, and he if he didn’t replace it soon, he thought, rubbing his back, he ran the risk of serious spinal damage.

He held his finger over another button and the virlo’s seat slowly rotated into an upright position, until he could step out onto the floor. As usual after an extended session, he felt dizzy and top-heavy, as though the floor were a great distance away, and his legs entirely too spindly to support the rest of his body.

A long trip, but worth it, Andrew mused. Over fourteen-hundred gold? Plus, if the armguards turn out to be real silver after all, he might get a good amount more from a blacksmith. He and Wise' would have no difficulty paying for the services of a top-notch Seer to help them with their next trip.

He moved the goggles aside, sat down heavily on the unmade bed, and began stripping the data-gloves from his hands. He tossed them onto the goggles and pulled up his legs to remove the thick latex bands from his ankles, and then added those to the pile. Unlike his third generation chair, his computer equipment itself was the best he could afford. The gloves and anklets were black and seamless, with only tiny red dots indicating the sensory implants. The goggles were Blaupunkt ultra-lights with bone conduction speakers -- much better than the heavier unit he'd owned previously, which had given him neck-aches if used for more than an hour at a time.

Andrew stretched and rolled his shoulders. Gregor -- Wisefellow in the world of Crucible -- should be offline by now. What time would it be in Greece, anyway? Gregor must work some sort of night shift there. Andrew remembered him once mentioning that he was some sort of student. Linguistics or something. Anthropology? It was odd, how little he knew about someone he’d met more than two years ago. But of course, he didn’t really know “Gregor” at all. He had never actually met him. He knew Wisefellow, which was a different matter altogether.

But for the moment he should see what he'd missed around the house while he'd been in the game. Maybe Sara was still up. After the encounter with the trolls, and the slave who had so resembled his sister, he had an irrational urge to check on her.

Yawning, he ambled down the hall, shuffling slightly on legs that were still sore from his virlo-time. It would take all the money from any summer job he was likely to land at this point to repair the strapping, but the expense would be worth it if he wouldn’t hurt so much.

Not that his parents would think so, he thought as he cautiously tiptoed past the door to their room. To them, any expense which didn't relate directly to his college prospects was unwarranted self-indulgence. But he was twenty years old, he had gotten into a state college only a few miles away, and as long as he maintained his standing, there was little they could do about the way he spent his money, other than to nag him ineffectually. That was the deal, a truce negotiated as painstakingly as any international treaty, and on the same principle: mutually assured destruction.

The door to Sara's room was open a crack, and he peered in. His sister lay on her own virlo, his parents' ancient castoff, so old that it relied upon cushions, rather than micro-vibration, to protect the user from stiffness and provide the sense of bodily dislocation so essential to virtual experience. Sunk deep into the pink pillows, her dark brown hair a halo about her face, she looked even younger than her fifteen years. Her arms and legs rested at her sides, twitching occasionally as she moved about in whatever program she was currently running. She mumbled indistinctly, her words caught by the microphone pressed to her throat, and then laughed out loud at something she had heard in reply. She was chatting, no doubt with friends, probably in one of the infinite series of virtual fan-clubs devoted to her favorite bands.

Andrew began closing the door, but was surprised when Sara sat up, pulling at her goggles. The deep brown eyes which he had last seen in the face of a simulated slave girl emerged from behind black rubber lens cuffs.

“’Drew? I thought I heard you.”

He nodded. “Didn’t mean to bother you. Sorry.”

She stood, shakily. “No problem. I was bored anyway. Melanie Griffords is a stupid cow, and she wouldn’t know a clean song source if the file came up and introduced itself to her. I get tired of explaining things to idiots, though. You?”