The Outlaw (Phantom Server: Book #2) by Andrei Livadny

leaving without even trying to talk to him would have been stupid.
    His nickname rang a bell. I also had the funny feeling I'd seen him before.
    'Excuse me!” I said, removing my helmet. I tilted my head up and raised my voice. “May I ask you where you got this power unit from?”
    “The serves have dragged it in from somewhere,” he said without as much as a glance in my direction.
    “Did you have any idea that it was stolen?”
    “Stolen?” he sounded surprised. “Don't make me laugh. The station is long abandoned. Nothing belongs to anyone here,” he resumed his work, believing the matter closed and my claims ungrounded.
    “The reactors have been dismantled from my ship.”
    “Right, let me just get down,” he grumbled. “We'll see. Just give me a moment to finish something.”
    I lowered my tired body into a chair that creaked anxiously under the weight of my armored suit. The damp stale air left a nasty aftertaste in my throat. Clouds of brown dust still hovered over the ragged terraces, preventing me from seeing what was happening there.
    “So!” Ingmud floated down, glanced at the control panels and sat in a chair opposite. “What's your problem?”
    I had to admit his appearance left much to be desired. He was flabby and bloated, unkempt like a junk dealer. A strange association flashed through my mind. Of course! This was the scrap cargonite trader who'd tried to rip me and Charon off on the first day of our arrival on Argus.
    Incredible. How had he survived, then? When had he managed to settle down here, why had he changed his character class and more importantly, how on earth had he made level 127? Somehow I didn't think he'd done it by vending. During our fleeting first encounter he hadn't struck me as an ambitious player.
    “I can see you remember me? I'm happy to see you too,” the hybrid chuckled, contradicting my thoughts. His weak triple chin quivered — but his gaze was surprisingly lucid and curious. “It's not often I see survivors here,” he explained. “Honestly, it's been a while.”
    Now it was my turn to be surprised. “A long while?”
    “Half a year, something like that,” Ingmud offered. “There were only five of us at first. Now there're thirty-two of us!” he announced proudly.
    “All from Argus?” I was torn by quite understandable doubts. The attack of the Phantom Raiders had only taken place twenty-four hours ago. I knew of course that time was relative in a game — it was a tool in the developers' hands so even different locations could have their different time flows.
    An explosion thundered on one of the terraces. A serve appeared on one of the sloping ramps and ran toward us, smoldering and limping.
    The ex-vendor didn't look scared. “Some damage you've got,” he grabbed the robot by one of its lugs and activated an ability unknown to me, casting the Immobilization debuff. His gaze grew sharp and focused: he must have been studying the damage, then ran his right hand over the smoking gap in the serve's hull.
    A lilac aura enveloped his fingers. Blood vessels showed clearly under the skin, glowing as if he had incandescent plasma running through his veins.
    The sight was so familiar it gave me shivers. These were the kinds of visuals accompanying the activation of the Founders' neuronets.
    Fine threads of energy emanated from Ingmud's fingers, reaching for the hole in the robot's bodywork. It sparked; its armored edges blurred, softening. The hybrid cast a glance around looking for something to patch it up with but found nothing. He mouthed something silently. Soon a small crab-like serve came running from the direction of the dump.
    Ingmud's eyes pointed at the damage. The serve scuttled up to us and stopped. With a quiet whizzing sound it extended its manipulators and used them to secure the fragment of cargonite he'd just delivered, holding it in the required position.
    The fine threads of energy entwining his fingers softened the cargonite with ease. It