“Excuse me, miss, but co—”
I cut off the NPC dialogue and head straight for the hangar bay. I already know what I need to do in the CCP facet, since I’ve done it hundreds of times before. It’s fun to listen to quest descriptions for dailies the first few times, interact with the NPCs, but after that, it’s simply not efficient. A quick series of finger twitches and I’m broadcasting to the ’Net, my stream numbers already shooting up into the thousands. Don’t ask me why, but people love to watch, even when it’s something as mundane as digital chores.
Quick climb into the cockpit, the canopy hissing shut around me. I punch in my confirmation code to activate the X-Cross spacefighter, a nimble antipiracy craft armed with quad-lasers, six proton torpedoes, and as much attitude as a pilot wants to bring. I could paint mine gold, but I like keeping it low-key, so the default skin remains. Seconds later, the launch catapult vaults me out into space. It’s not true zero-G, of course, no hapsphere can create that, but the illusion is pretty damn close, faux-acceleration pushing me back into my seat. I toggle open a private comm channel.
“Wind, Slend, you here?”
Two more fighters swoop in next to me, light blue ion streams trailing away from their engines, stubby proton torpedoes hanging under their bellies.
“Another day in paradise, boss. Let’s light some fuckers up!”
Slend only grunts, and I grin.
Nothing better than farming with friends.
I press a red button on the side of my throttle, boosting into tunneldrive. The stars turn into streaks of light, a massive weight squeezes against my chest, and even though I know, I know it’s just the actuators inside my hapsphere mimicking the crush of acceleration against my suit, I can’t stop the smile from spreading ear to ear, because holy shit does it feel good. Swimming the stars, twisting through the void like a darting bird, freed at last from the constricting chains of gravity, the universe my playground…
Dailies in CCP never get old.
I check my nav panel while the fighter rumbles through tunnelspace, the Game’s equivalent of an old loading screen. Their servers are good, real good, but even the best hardware still needs some time to load a full haptic suite. Looks to be an easy daily today, simple smash-and-grab attempt, fixed number of attackers and defenders, primary objective a cargo ship carrying medical supplies to a besieged asylum world. The numbers on each side push me into another grin, smaller than before, but no less delighted.
In this daily, most Gamers favor the attacking side, because the secondary award for blowing up the cargo ship is almost as much as the primary award for seizing its supplies, whereas the defenders have to get the ship safely to the planet to get anything. Basic game theory favors the attackers, not just because they have an easier objective, but because that easier objective makes it far more likely players will join that side, compared to the uncertain payoff of a defender.
On the other hand, long odds are how we make our money.
I slot us onto the defending team, and open a public tac channel between me, Wind, and Slend. If the poor newbies with us want to join in, as long as they’re polite, I’m more than happy to help them learn. A second later, two more icons blink into existence—xXx420AshuraREALxXx and Steve. Neither has more than a hundred hours logged in endgame.
“We’re fucking fucked. Five vee fucking twenty? Fuck that. Let’s suicide quick so we can try again.”
xXx420AshuraREALxXx sounds like a ten-year-old boy with his balls in a vise. I roll my eyes. Fucking burbie parents never supervise their fucking kids.
“You’ll be fine. Just try your best to stay alive. Do a barrel roll.”
“You sound like a girl are you a girl do you want to meet up we should meet up my dad he can drop me off at—”
Fucking. Burbies. I slap a ten-second mute on xXx420AshuraREALxXx, one of the perks of being the best. The higher up the ladder you go, the more control you get over chat. Speaking is a privilege in endgame, not a right, and guilds have split over mutedramas before.
“Uhh, I hate to throw a game, but our odds really don’t look good. Maybe the kid has a point? It’ll be faster than waiting through the quitter queue. I only have a couple hours left tonight.”
Steve has the voice of a middle-management corp drone, a guy with a drone wife, two drone kids, three times a year drone exit pass to class single-A restricted territories but only with bond of security and don’t you dare think about staying a day over or at any unsanctioned lodgings. I briefly wonder if he’s ever had sex in anything other than the missionary position.
“Oh please, Ash, please please please let me tell them. Pleeeeeeeeeease.”
Wind sounds like she’s salivating. Who knows, she very well could be. I don’t want her to spoil it yet, though. Gotta tease the stream a bit.
“Wait, please. You know it’s best if we spring it when they’re just about to attack.”
“Awwww, Ash, you’re no fun.”
“…Ash? Why is she calling you Ash? Your tag just says ‘Player One.’ What are you talking about?”
Poor Steve. He has no idea.
“Focus, Steve. The QQ isn’t an option. We’re going to be outnumbered four to one, and that means you’re already in trouble. Now listen, when the battle starts, I want you to—”
“—two girls you’re both girls wow do you think we could maybe get some drugs or hav—”
Another ten-second mute.
“—I want you to focus on staying alive, Steve. Reshunt all your power from weapons into shields and engines, and stay away from combat as much as possible.”
“But… that makes the odds five to one. There’s no one that can take five to one. Not unless you’re legendary, and everyone knows that legendaries always run with their own people.”
Steve doesn’t sound convinced of our skills.
“It’s actually gonna be more like six to one, Steve, but that’s okay. We’ll handle it. Trust me.”
The weight on my chest drops away, tunnelspace breaking into the panorama of an oncoming planet. Bands of white clouds slide across its red-and-green surface, the shining bulk of a ten-megaton cargo hauler gleaming below us, harsh blue light from the system sun making razor-edged shadows along its length. Red brackets pop up through my cockpit—enemy forces. I flick my weapons to active, and nudge the throttle forward. Pressure settles against my body again, but it’s nothing compared to what these combat maneuvers are about to demand.
“—ucking Christ look at how many of those fucking fa—”
Fifteen-second mute this time, with a ban warning. It probably won’t stop him, but it’s worth a shot. I assign initial targets to Wind and Slend, and highlight an evasive route for Steve. A chatter of conversation comes over the public band, the other team close enough now to try to run psych-sec.
“Haha look at these losers, outnum—”
“Go home, scrubs. Nothing for you here but de—”
“Fucking bitch nigg—”
I perma-mute that one, an action that might give away who I am, but based on their straightforward approach, I doubt they’re smart enough to figure it out in the time remaining. The numbers on my stream keep climbing, everyone waiting to watch us do the impossible. Red and blue dots close in on each other on my nav plot, the giant yellow of the hauler crawling beneath us.