Андреа Хёст - The Starfighter Invitation

Considerable poking about, and some useful [Activate] commands popping into my HUD, allowed me to identify a ledge as a sink, and a big end bench as a toilet, both of them designed to be thoroughly sealed after use, trapping any liquids inside. The rear of the entry door was a sort of closet where you could hang clothes to prevent them getting wet.

I took care of my revolting expulsions and then tried out the shower, just to see what happened. There were a lot of settings, and I puzzled my way to producing a sudden soapy mist, followed by a cleansing fog of increasing intensity, and then gusts of warm air that dried both me and any moisture that hadn’t drained away. Designed to encourage water conservation, though I was glad to see there were proper shower options.

"Dio," I said, emerging only partially dressed. "Are there any ships that have echoing-large bathrooms with an entire wall that is a window onto the stars, where Bios can have soak-in-the-water types of baths while enjoying the view?"

[[Yes.]]

"What rank would I need to be to get one of those?" I asked, sitting to pull my boots on, and then activating a location link in Amelia’s email. A map of Vessa filled my internal view, with the large crescent shape of the main island highlighted, with a blinking dot obscuring one of the south-facing points. I told my Link to lead the way, and headed for the exit.

[[That would involve more than rank,]] Dio was saying. [[But you’d likely accrue sufficient means by the eighties. Much earlier if you are travelling on someone else’s ship, of course.]]

I liked the idea of it being my own ship much more. "But there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever get to Rank Eighty, right?"

[[Less than ten percent of Bios rise above the seventies,]] Dio told me as we left my snug and an arrow led me back to the pods.

"And how many get near, what was the top rank, a hundred and something?" I asked, after boarding.

[[With one outlier, the maximums achieved are all in the one-thirties. There are fewer than fifty Bios at that strength.]]

It was difficult to adjust to the idea of an MMO that had no guarantee that you’d reach the max level. "Do I have any chance of getting there?"

[[Impossible to predict. Exiting the galaxy would be a far more attainable goal if we could reliably manage the development of our Bios. Some of you improve quickly initially, but then plateau. Others take decades to achieve the first dozen ranks, and then sprout rapidly. And some steadily march forward. While a strong self-image is usually a good indication, even that has exceptions, and so we cannot check off a set of traits and say this Bio is worth my time .]]

"What about powerful families? Is being good with lan something you can inherit?"

Dio, bobbing near the ceiling of the pod, flickered through a green spectrum. Irritation? Boredom? Cycog shrugging?

[[High-ranking Bios do like to cross-match with each other, but the results are not consistent. On a species level, Type Ones have a higher mean than you Type Threes, and there are several species mixes that trend higher than any unmodified Type.]]

"Earth humans are Type Threes? Are Cycogs Type Ones?"

[[Cybercognates aren’t Bios.]]

And so weren’t included in the numbering system. The idea sat uncomfortably on me, even though Dio had been telling me all along that the galaxy belonged to Cycogs, and people—Bios—were very close to pet status in The Synergis partnership .

"You could be Type Zeros," I suggested, and wasn’t sure what to make of the way Dio’s light briefly dimmed.

[[No, the system is not for us,]] te said. [[Besides, Bios pre-date Cybercognates by millennia. It wouldn’t make sense for us to be zero.]]

The pod began to slow, so I put off an exploration of types for later. And wondered if there was a useful Cycog body language guide somewhere, so I could better read what Dio was—and wasn’t—telling me.

A sea of grey-green coveralls spilled from the rollercoaster: thousands upon thousands of players, too many of whom were stopping to gape, blocking the way of even more new arrivals. I hadn’t expected nearly so many people, and moved to turn around, but the crowd swept me forward when I tried to stop short. In danger of an elbow in the face, I ducked through the too-tight press, keeping my eyes down to follow a herringbone brick ramp until it brought me out of the general press, to a clear spot next to a balustrade. Then, with something firm to hold onto, I breathed a while before I took my turn to gape.

The island of Vessa Major was a crescent moon, horns facing south. The western reach of the crescent was made up of a mosaic of small buildings, seating areas, grass and paving, transitioning in the far distance to a trailing comet of sand. To the east, the land climbed in terraces to a slender lighthouse lifting from the sheer cliff of the point. That’s a bit of straightforward orientation, and doesn’t begin to capture looking out over a ten kilometre curve . Improbably regular, breathtakingly vast.

The pearly ribbon of the rollercoaster rose only partially out of the ocean at the centre point, and travelled like a submerged sea serpent on a curving north-south route through the body of the island before vanishing beneath the waves once again. Only the top quarter of the rail was visible, leaving the highly sculptured view unobstructed.

" Is the whole thing artificial, Dio? " I asked over the Link.

[[There is a core structure that has been expanded.]]

" Into one massive resort ," I said. " And it’s festival time . Or end-of-school celebrations. "

A fever-pitch of excitement, a sense of release, definitely permeated the swelling crowd. Some players were in groups, but most were alone, but for a bobbing mote in luminous attendance on a partly-audible conversation, shining human faces frequently turning up to address their personal partner-overlord.

There was a weird dissonance between the fairy lantern appearance of the Cycogs and the prosaic coveralls of the crowd, all in the same shade. A rare few wore something else—coveralls in different colours, jeans, dresses—but these were likely early quest rewards, and I couldn’t spot anyone who was clearly an NPC.

What do people do when presented with their self-image and the ability to adjust it? Give themselves six packs, it seemed, and carve every inch of extra fat from their bodies. Or, no, that wasn’t true. I saw a lot of different body types in the crowd, made less distinct by the loose-fitting coveralls. But the majority had definitely gone the same route as I had, and run their sliders toward peak fitness . And almost everyone was young in a way that definitely didn’t fit gamer demographics. I spotted more than a couple of non-human Bios also wearing the starter outfit, but wasn’t sure if they were alien NPCs or humans who pictured themselves clawed, furred and fanged.

" Self-image is a complicated thing to use as the basis for your primary skill set. Great for some, but what happens to players who have really really horrible self-images? DS forces them to make a choice between living that image, or suffering a massive penalty to gameplay. "

[[Those who synchronise with a Core Unit they do not want to use are usually able to modify it over time. Or they can choose any appearance and, after determined practice, they become familiar with a new image, and it no longer impedes them as significantly.]]

" Why make that decision necessary at all? "

[[Lan works as lan works.]]

That was a non-answer, but an in-game character probably couldn’t explain the game’s design decisions anyway. Shrugging, I turned my attention to my guiding arrow, and how it expected me to get to the meeting point up at that lighthouse.