232: The Phantom City

The Earthborn laughed incredulously. He glanced around, realising he and the Cultivator standing across from him were increasingly the centre of attention. Nicolai saw a flash of pridefulness on the man’s face. Then he gripped and aimed his auto-shotgun, levelling it at the Cultivator. ‘Hand over your valuables, beg for my forgiveness, and I’ll leave your family a somewhat intact corpse.’

The Cultivator sneered and a shield shimmered around him. He raised a hand and light glittered as he activated a Symbiote.

The Earthborn snarled back, and squeezed his auto-shotgun’s trigger.

A thumping boom issued from the shotgun which shredded into the Cultivator’s—only a Tier 1—shield, breaking it in seconds. At the same time the Cultivator had flicked his wrist and a ribbon of red light flew from his hand. The red ribbon punched through the Cyberpunker, twisted and went through him again, and again.

Both of them roared as their attacks carved into one another. After a moment the Earthborn’s shotgun clicked empty, and the Cultivator’s red ribbon faded—taking a moment to move Oma around in his system.

The pair paused, staring in puzzlement first at one another, and then at themselves. Neither was injured. The attacks had appeared to hit and even go through, but done no damage. As though they had existed on a different plane, or just been illusion. Although the bullets had impacted the Cultivator’s shield and broken it, but they simply hadn’t touched the man himself.

Nicolai took a slow step back, all his senses alert. There was something in the air. His skin prickled. Similar to the sensation of static and the smell of ozone before a lightning strike. He had a strong intuition as to what was about to happen. He recalled the Inheritance, which had possessed some kind of anti-combat field. He remembered how when he’d punched one of the Cultivators, the blow had been reflected back at him.

Light and sound flared and blasted. The Earthborn was hit by a dozen rounds of buckshot that simply appeared from nowhere. The Cultivator was caught by a dozen looping flares of zipping red light.

Both of them danced as the projectiles punched through their bodies, eviscerating them. After only a second the burst of reflected attacks finished and they collapsed. Very dead.

Nicolai raised his brows. Each of them had been killed by their own attacks, absorbed by some unknown magic then returned-to-sender.

An instant after the two had fallen, he felt the Aura ripple of a Soul dispersing, and at the same moment their bodies and items shimmered and disappeared.

So, this was what would’ve happened to him if he’d tried to shoot anyone, back in the Inheritance. Not a good idea. He stepped forward and sunk to a knee where the Earthborn’s body had been, running a thoughtful hand over the ground. His Skin Suit’s gloves retracted so he could feel it properly. No blood, nothing. Everything was gone. Where to? And, why hadn’t they been warned of this, as in the Inheritance?

Threat Analysis poked him, and he glanced up see that he was in the midst of expanding emptiness. The crowd had split into two. On one side the Cultivators, and on the other those from Earth.

And in the middle, him; wearing a Skin Suit while having many Symbiotes, with an assault rifle slung from his shoulder and an Imbued rapier hanging from his belt.

There were numerous other Cultivating individuals from Earth, but looking around he realised he had much more Cultivation-style gear than most, and based on the Soul Senses he felt from the Earthborn side, might be the furthest along. He determined to hide that fact as much as possible.

He best fit with those from Earth, so Nicolai moved quickly to join them. This was no time to stand out. Fortunately most were too busy discussing what they’d just seen, the swift deaths of the two who had chosen to fight. Any thoughts of engaging in combat had vanished, but still the sides were drawn.

The chatter and yelling from the first moments faded as the two swiftly formed armies eyed one another. In each crowd, people peered around and in some cases found faces they recognised, calling out and moving closer together.

He felt the Local around him, generated by these people with all their augments. That Local was extremely active as communications and data ricocheted around.

The question on many of the minds was: Who are they? Who were these strange robed individuals, with the haughty expressions, the robes and swords?

Nicolai felt a similar question echoed from the other side, from the hard and wary eyes that stared back across the gap. He could detect it in the general mass of Soul Sense that formed a kind of invisible sea. The Cultivators over there did not exactly talk with it, as the humans here did with Local, but they did use it to communicate, in a way. A general sense of what was being thought, a way they could draw attention to this or that. They seemed to be using both Soul Sense and Aura ripples to do this.

It seemed that the majority of individuals, on both side, had not yet encountered someone from the other race of humans. Some of those Earthborn around him who had, were now taking on the role of explaining—sending out video clips and images in which they had encountered people of the other race.

By and large, these encounters had not been friendly. The general air with which the information was given was: Don’t trust those sneaky, robe wearing, magic-throwing savages!

Meanwhile, he could sense the shape of what was being communicated there on the other side, where in turn those Cultivators who had had encounters with Earthborn were telling their fellows what they’d experienced.

It went something like: Don’t trust those sneaky, metal wearing, bangstick-wielding barbarians!

Nicolai and the other Modules found the whole thing—especially the speed with which the sides had been drawn—fascinating. They had all simply entered a portal and arrived here, and by and large had no friends other than the plus-one some had brought. And yet, looking across the street, and then at those around him, Nicolai knew that he was currently surrounded by allies of convenience. If any of the Cultivators across the way tried to start trouble with him, he would have a hundred augmented friends to back him up—and a hundred Cultivating enemies.

Simply the sight of another large group of humans who were so clearly not one of us had done in an instant what would otherwise have been just about impossible; forging from many independent, untrusting, ambitious and warlike people two large and cohesive groups.

Me against my brother… My brother and I against our cousins… My cousins, my brother, and I against the strangers, quoted Aiming wonderingly, to the applause of the others. The Modules were delighted to see this ancient saying on human nature turned real before their eyes. The Mask, in comparison, found it somewhat dismaying. Why must we always be in conflict? it wondered.

Nicolai smiled. Because humans can always be relied upon to be human, he answered. The Modules were very pleased by this answer, and he felt them reflecting that if nothing else, humans are always interesting.

There were flickers of blue light, here and there. Some were from people continuing to arrive. These portals generally appeared in the middle of the two sides.

He saw one new arrival—a fresh-faced young Cultivator—emerge in the centre, stare around with ever-widening eyes, then immediately call his portal back up and step back through. It closed with a flash.

Some, braver, more desperate, or simply naive, exited their portals, peered around, then strode over confidently (or at least while doing their best to appear confident) to join their chosen side. Some of the blue flashes were those of exit portals, coming from amidst the already formed crowds—people deciding, after consideration, that they wanted no part of this dangerous environment.

He might’ve joined them; leaving would be the less risky option. But with danger, there is opportunity. He wanted to see what would happen, and he already knew outright combat wasn’t possible. There was a threatening air to what was occurring but it would take more than that to drive him away.

The Modules, excited, were wondering what would happen next. Even Threat Analysis, in spite of the risky situation, wanted to stay and watch. What was the next stage in this human drama? They were so impatient that they began poking him, asking what he predicted. Nicolai, smiling, was happy to share his thoughts.

We have two sides, he told them. But something is missing from this picture. He could feel them hanging on his words, while the Mask was rolling its eyes. His smile grew. Where are the leaders?

The Modules let out knowing ahhs, doing their versions of thoughtful nods. Human nature, said Cyberwarfare happily.

No one had expected this when entering the portal, no one had known these two impromptu groups would form. But where a group does form, someone will want to lead it. As Cyberwarfare said, it was simply human nature.

On the far side he saw this process starting in a rather dramatic manner. Wind was stirring as a Cultivator rose into the air in the midst of the crowd, Cultivators turning to stare at him. It was an old bearded man in a white robe, with a straight white beard and astonishingly long eyebrows.

Nicolai saw the man’s Soul Sense, which looked like some great beast when compared to those around him. Was this a Tier 3 Cultivator? Simulations was already modulating the BIS implants within his ears, taking into accounts the audio dynamics of the area to help Nicolai better hear the Cultivators words.

‘I, Sheng Lao, will lead in this matter. We are dealing with outsiders, non-Imperial vermin! As such, for the sake and face of our people, I must assume this role. I demand that all individual aims and goals be put aside!’

Nicolai observed with interest as from elsewhere in the crowd of Cultivators, another stepped forward. A beautiful woman with a Soul Sense just as mighty as the old man.

‘You, Sheng Lao?’ She laughed. ‘Of course the shameless Pavillion Sect would try something like this! Certainly we must maintain our honour, but—‘

Nicolai lost sight of the distant argument as people shifted around in front of him. Just as competition had appeared over there, so it was over here. He made way as a Cyborg strode through the crowd. Level 3. This individual did not say anything verbally, but he was a nexus within the Local. With powerful cyberwarfare capabilities he had arranged things so that all communications went through him.

There were a few other Level 3’s in the area, but none of them caused any fuss.

This was due to a difference in Earth tech and power levels, compared to the Cultivators. When it came to Level 3, there was a wide gulf—especially when it came to straight up combat potential. Vikrum had been a Level 3 that closely resembled a human, with lower-grade Level 3 augments.

In comparison, this Cyborg was of a much higher grade and of a far more warlike build. The Cyborg was over eight feet tall and Nicolai saw GRECKON tech on the guy—miltech, not the stuff available to just anyone.

Where Vikrum had clearly been the son of some oligarch family, with a body designed more for socialising and living life, this man looked like he might’ve led some private military unit. He was built like a tank, or a killbot. Each leg thicker than a man. Two sets of arms, huge and bulky, all armed with cannons. Two launchers, for missiles or countermeasures or both, flanked his “head”, which was in fact just some kind of ball full of sensors and cameras set into his huge shoulders. Sprouting from his back were two gun-limbs not dissimilar to Zero-Twelves; long metal tentacles ending in high-calibre machine guns.

‘I will take the lead here. For the mutual benefit and safety of all, we must maintain a strong front to these aliens. Does anyone have a problem with that?’

No one had a problem, and the high-grade militarised Level 3 strode out ahead. He met with the two Tier 3 Cultivators who appeared to have settled their differences.

Nicolai remained quiet and cognisant of his surroundings while observing the conversation between these three. It started out relatively peaceably, at least once the Cultivators had gotten over the oddity of talking to someone with no recognisable head. They appeared to eventually come to the conclusion the Cyborg was wearing some kind of strange armour. The old man and the Cyborg were both quite calm, neither wanting to start a fight. But the woman was much more aggressive and demanding, and the Cyborg, initially reasonable, became aggressive in turn.

Within a short time the old man had stepped away, muttering and shaking his head. Aiming had Nicolai’s bionic eye zoom in, observing curiously as his lengthy, sword-like eyebrows swayed with the movement of his head. Meanwhile the woman was calling the Cyborg a worthless barbarian, sneering about the state of his Soul; the Cyborg was just at the start of the Node clearing level, from what Nicolai could tell, the same as pretty much every other Earthborn, those who had managed to complete their Seed at all. In return the Cyborg’s voice began to boom from his speakers as he snarled that she was a stupid child and threatened to unload on her, his gun-limbs taking aim.

The Modules and the Mask fuzzed with concern, anticipating imminent battle. Nicolai calmed them. Despite the posturing, he could tell that neither actually intended to do anything. From the reactions of the crowd of Cultivator—largely approving—he believed that woman was acting out because a large quantity of those Cultivators behind her wanted her to behave in this way. They considered it a show of strength. Likewise, the Cyborg didn’t want to give way to her demeaning and demanding manner in front of all the Earthborn behind him, but he was as aware that any shooting would just see the bullets reflected.

Both crowds were soon yelling out in encouragement to their chosen champion, while hurling abuse at the other side.

The old man, standing to the side of the arguing pair, simply observed quietly. He appeared neither pleased nor upset.

Things may have continued like this for some time, but the yelling was interrupted by a high, piping voice.

‘Greetings, new arrivals!’

All heads turned. Someone new had appeared from nowhere and now walked towards the humans, moving between the two groups towards the three individuals in the middle.

Nicolai recognised the race of this individual immediately; the People had quite a unique look. This one had the tentacles on his head and behind his ears rather than on his chin, as he’d seen from others. But he had the same third eye, currently closed, and facial tattoos.

‘Who are you?’ asked the Cyborg, turning to face the individual.

‘I am a Guide, here to give direction to those entering the Phantom City. I can answer any questions you have. I must apologise. I was supposed to be here from the start. Alas…’ The Guide glanced upwards, and shrugged. ‘A minor glitch. My first role is to inform you of the rules of the city.’

Nicolai considered the Guide, and for a moment found himself given pause simply because he was unsure how to think of him. He was one of the People. Therefore the noun was… Person. It seemed a little redundant. He shrugged the thought away, observing as the Person glanced to either side then began calling out loudly.

‘Be at ease, because there is an anti-hostility restriction placed upon the city. So long as you do not attempt to harm another, you yourself cannot be harmed. Thievery, assault either physical or spiritual, cannot be performed and will only lead to a karmic retribution upon the offender.’ The Person smiled wide. ‘I am sure that will come as a great relief to all.’

Nicolai raised a brow, eyes skiming over the spot where two had already died, and taking in the unbridled hostility remaining in the eyes of those around him, and those across the way..

‘Of course, you may say whatever you wish, and trade freely. If two wish to exchange items, or one wishes to give another something for free, the restriction will not cause any problems—though be warned that if you make a trade, you would be advised to ensure the items are swapped simultaneously. The restriction takes no notices of words like “I promise.”’ The Guide let out a genteel laugh.

‘For now, the City will open once a week, and visitors may only stay here for the 18 hours in which it is open,’ he continued, then raised a warning finger, turn to one crowd then the other and waggling it sternly. ‘It is your responsibility to leave before the time is up, but we will make you aware when it draws near. This is section 39 of the city, which has been designated for your use. The entrances to the other sections are blocked by barriers of Divine Light, and you will not be able to pass through them unless you can present a City Travel Token to the guards.’

The Person smiled thinly. ‘Now, enough with the rules. I am sure you are much more interested in what the City can do for you. The fact you have been granted access here proves you are standouts amongst your races. You have performed acts worthy of notice, or hold enough personal power that no such acts were necessary, as you were worthy from the start.’

‘The Phantom City has much to offer,’ the Person continued. ‘It is a wonderful place full of fun and interesting things to do.’ He waved, and all heads craned as in the air above, a map appeared. It showed a City, viewed from above. The map zoomed, and a hexagonal area of the City glowed, while the rest faded from view. The hexagonal portion was labelled Section 39. ‘We have a Duel Arena, Market, Trade Link, Auction, Gambling Hall, Refinement Hall, and more services available.’ Various buildings on the map glowed, and were marked by labels. ‘There are also Guild Halls belonging to various sanctioned Denizen Guilds—Slayers, Refinement, Information, and so on—which Players may choose to join, or visit to place jobs and make use of Guild services.’ A few more buildings lit up, words appearing above them.

Nicolai snapped a picture with his bionic eye, and was happy to find that the map wasn’t some kind of spiritual or mental projection but true light. His camera thus copied it easily and in high detail.

‘Welcome to the City,’ said the guide and he clapped his hands together.

The Person shimmered and disappeared as the area shifted with a lurch, the previously empty space seamlessly replaced.

The square they stood upon was now in the midst of the City. Nicolai recognised the area from the map. They were in the very centre of Sector 39. Buildings, white and grey and black with a design that most resembled the gothic architecture of the 16th century rose around him. One, bordering the square, sprouted a tall tower with what looked like a gigantic bell hanging in its highest room.

There was also actual sky above, pale blue, no clouds, the sun descending from the midpoint. Back on Nightmare? Presumably. Aiming, after considering the shade of the sky, informed him they were at a very high altitude. There was less atmosphere between them and outer space, thus the paler shade of blue. They were likely above cloud level, thus no clouds.

His eyes turned away as his mind darted through the places he’d seen listed on the map, orienting himself, then he began to move. After seeing what was available, he had immediately determined where he would go. A place that, based on the name, would provide him with something he had been continuously frustrated by a lack of.

The Information Guild.