The Stillwater Project

By Craig Askham

Bounty hunter on medieval planet required. Popular quest, sells fast, book early to avoid disappointment. No experience necessary.

 

That was basically how the ad enticed Troy Cooper into signing up for The Stillwater Project, Earth's finest – and only – purveyor of portal vacations. In his head, of course, nothing could possibly go wrong; he played Fantasy VR games all the time, so the real thing was surely just a natural progression of that. A chance to level-up, even. A long weekend away, on a medieval planet, kicking butt and drinking ale. No big deal.

 

And besides, portal tourism was an actual thing these days – with billboards and everything – so it had to be safe, right?

 

Well, as it turns out, not so much.

 

Because one of the things Troy didn't really consider was the fact that portal quests are absolutely not the same as playing online games. Not by a long shot, in fact. No second chances, no respawning at the start of a level, and definitely no Invincibility spells to conveniently get his backside out of trouble at the last possible second. Just a very real chance of death. Permanent death.

 

Oh, and a couple of the other things he didn't consider? Firstly, his online avatar might have ninja-skills, but his real-life body is just a little too out-of-shape to be a bounty hunter. And secondly, ale doesn't really taste that great.

 

So, join Troy and his gaming friends as they step through the portal for their first – and possibly last – adventure on magical Vangura, where everything that happens along the way may – or may not – be part of the quest they paid for.

 

And remember, when it comes to being a bounty hunter on a medieval planet, it doesn't really matter what the billboards say…

 

…there's no such thing as no experience necessary!

 

The Stillwater Project is a standalone story set in the world of the Portal Hunter Chronicles, an original new series that's perfect for fans of Westworld, Game of Thrones and Stargate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Askham
• Release date: May 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393830573

Book preview

Craig Askham

The Stillwater Project

A Portal Fantasy Quest

First published by White Lite Publishing 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Craig Askham

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Craig Askham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Craig Askham has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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Contents

From The Author

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Mailing List

Watchman’s Quest: An Excerpt

Also by Craig Askham

From The Author

Thanks for stepping through the portal!

If you’d like to find out more about Stillwater, please consider signing up to my newsletter.

You’ll be the first to find out about new releases, and I’ll even throw in the odd free story, too, from time to time.

Just follow the link below.

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Happy reading!

Craig

One

Smoke billowed towards the dragon, forcing Kalyan D’Uss Oroth to relinquish his grip on the pommel of his beast’s saddle so that he could bury his face in the crook of his elbow. It was a natural reaction, but totally unnecessary; there was no accompanying acrid stench, no stinging eyes, and no searing heat to make him worry about the safety of his eyebrows. The smoke passed right through him, leaving him visually impaired for no more than five quick and painless seconds. As he removed his face from his arm, he caught the faintest whiff of bonfire. Or possibly charcoal from a barbecue. And then it was gone.

Now, Alaris! he screamed, and the dragon underneath him responded instantly. He was too small on her back to even feel her lungs fill, but a steady stream of fire escaped her gaping maw, along with a sound like hot air being aimed into a balloon. She moved her head slowly to the right, back to centre again, and then all the way to the left. Her breath seemed never-ending, and wherever she directed it, chaos ensued. The night sky lit up yellow, and Kalyan could see at least three dragons below him as he leaned to the right, letting his harness take his weight in order to see as much as he could. Alaris banked hard to the left and he was flung in the opposite direction like a ragdoll, but his restraints held firm. One of the dragons from below climbed steeply upwards to intercept them, screaming like a fighter jet as Alaris’s flames raked along the dark green scales of its flank. The two beasts passed so close to each other, belly to belly, that it was a miracle they didn’t collide. Turbulence from the movement blew into his eyes with only a little more fervour than a fan being wafted in front of him. Alaris rolled, and suddenly he was upside down, hanging from his harness with his long black ponytail dangling into his peripheral vision. He took the opportunity to whoop his enjoyment of the evasive move, staring down onto burning thatched roofs and the charred remains of livestock.

Stop showing off, Kal, said a calm female voice in his ear, and he chuckled at how unimpressed it sounded. You want to ride a bloody rollercoaster, sod off to Alton Towers.

Alaris righted herself, and Kalyan felt his braided ponytail thud against his back. As always, his excitement was marred by a sliver of disappointment. Great work, computer boffins. A dragon flies past me and all I can feel is a puff of air in my face, but a bit of hair hitting my back feels like a frickin’ hammer.

What the hell is Alton Towers? he laughed, not bothering to raise his voice because he knew Kresimir could hear him as clearly as he could hear her. You know I live in the States, right? Your English references mean nothing to me.

Kresimir chuckled; the sound got interrupted by static, then came back again, just as abruptly. More static made the sentence that followed the laugh almost incomprehensible, although Kalyan suspected he’d be able to guess the direction she was taking, at a push.

…mother language…cretin…

Kalyan rolled his eyes.

Thunderstorms in London again, Kres? he asked. Alaris found a gap through the green dragons’ defence, and darted through into clear sky. Twisting around in his saddle, he saw Kresimir follow him through on Rezga, and gave her the thumbs up. The rest of the black dragons in their squadron managed to keep the greens too occupied to be able to turn and give chase.

A few rumbles, she replied. Why, did I break up?

Uh-huh. Just for a second. Don’t you dare bug out on me again, looks like we’re the only ones left in this fight.

Turning to face forward again, Kalyan peered ahead to the rapidly approaching fortress. The walls surrounding the keep were thick, impenetrable grey stone. Even in the dark, and from a distance, he could make out the battlements and the scurrying activity of the archers preparing themselves along the ramparts. He shook his head, wondering why they would bother wasting arrows against a fully-grown black dragon. It was thoroughly pointless. He aimed Alaris in their direction, and took satisfaction in witnessing the level of activity within the fortress officially increase to panic stations.

Not too close, Kal, Kresimir warned, like a protective imp on his shoulder. They’ve probably got at least one ballista.

I know what I’m doing, he said, urging Alaris to pick up even more speed. Just try to keep up.

Prick, Kresimir said with a cough.

What was that?

Nothing, just a cough.

The fortress approached, and Kalyan saw that his English friend had been correct; the soldiers on the rampart flung back the grey covers that had been camouflaging their already-loaded ballistae, and started swinging all six into position. He could see the tips of the long spears protruding from the ends of each of them, but it didn’t slow him down. Beyond the battlements, down in the courtyard in front of the keep, a huge trebuchet was already in position.

Look at that, Kres, he murmured, letting an impressed whistle escape from between his teeth. Haven’t come across one of those before. How exciting.

He was close to the fortress now, definitely within firing distance of the trebuchet, and probably just about within range of the ballistae, too. Kresimir and Rezga were so close behind him that he was worried about the latter’s scorching breath lighting up his backside. Right on cue, the sound of Alaris’s beating wings lowered, as if somebody had twirled their finger anti-clockwise on the touchscreen knob of an amplifier’s volume control. At the same time, somebody turned up the volume of the soldiers and archers on the ramparts. He could hear screamed instructions being tossed about here, there, and everywhere; the place seemed to be in utter chaos. Down in the bailey, he heard the whoosh of the giant catapult’s swinging arm.

Look out! Kresimir cried, as a boulder the size of Kalyan’s Porsche hurtled through the air towards them. Alaris banked left, Rezga banked right, and the boulder passed harmlessly between them. It wasn’t until it was too late that Kalyan realised the trebuchet was just a distraction, forcing both of them straight into the paths of two spears that had been fired a few seconds after the boulder had been released.

Oh, shit.

One of the spears tore straight through Alaris’s membranous wing, causing her to fill Kalyan’s ears with the sound of her scream. She dropped at least thirty feet closer to the ground, and his stomach leapt into his throat. Seconds later, another spear bounced off the scales covering the dragon’s chest. The force of the blow spun the dragon, and her rider, into a roll that threatened knock them from the sky.

Kal! Kresimir yelled, but he couldn’t answer. The effect wasn’t completely like he imagined a plummeting dragon would feel like, but the nanobots coursing through his veins were certainly doing enough to make it seem as if his head was spinning. Bloody pull up!

Kalyan knew his precious dragon wasn’t going to make it. Not this time, anyway. They’d been through a lot, him and Alaris, but she was just a possession, at the end of the day. A trinket he’d won in a card game. She was a big loss, there was no doubt about it, but at least he still had a fully-grown red to call upon if needed. Not to mention the baby gold he’d stolen from Sutopo the Sly during a mission two weeks ago. Now that had been a fun quest. Unlike this one, which seemed to be going downhill incredibly quickly indeed.

I’m bailing! he called out, wondering if his voice sounded a little more high-pitched than it needed to be. He knew the ground was approaching fast, and there was no way Alaris would be able to pull up now. For a brief moment he hoped for one of the power outages that constantly blighted Kresimir’s game time, because if the game was interrupted through no fault of his own, there was a good chance he’d be able to get Alaris reinstated by the game’s support team. No.I was too cocky. I deserve this.

Reaching for the quick-release straps on his chest, Kalyan pulled them as hard as he could, and was immediately yanked from the relative safety of his saddle. Alaris screeched at him, and he was glad he couldn’t understand what she was telling him because it undoubtedly wasn’t particularly nice. Sorry, girl. The thought formed automatically, half a second before he realised he should probably be spending the precious few seconds he had left trying to think of a useful spell, instead of apologising to what was essentially a few dozen lines of code. A list of his acquired spells immediately appeared in front of him, and he flicked his eyes down the list for any word that looked like levitation or flying. There it was. Float Like A Feather For Ten Seconds. Not ideal, admittedly, but it would have to do. Activating it with a blink of his eyes, he immediately slowed right down and managed to regain control of his flailing limbs. He was still falling, but he felt weightless; his hands started making figure-of-eight movements, as if he was trying to stay afloat in water, and a ten second timer started counting down in green, slap-bang in the centre of his vision.

Any chance of some help? he asked, looking around for Kresimir and Rezga. He could hear cheering from the soldiers below, and it made him angry. Kresimir was nowhere to be seen, and when the counter reached five it turned amber. He knew the spell was going to wear off before he was able to land. Kres?

"Right below you, loser, in three, two, one…"

Kalyan looked down, aware that the number in his vision had turned red. Rezga swooped into place just as the timer disappeared and he started dropping again.

Too fast! he yelled, cycling all his limbs as if doing so might slow him down again.

Make it work, Kresimir told him with a bored sigh, and he could see her underneath him, waving cheerfully in his direction. For a split second he thought he might land right on top of her head, which would have served her right, but then she was gone, and he smashed feet-first into Rezga’s tail. Jesus Christ, Kal! Kresimir roared in her polite English accent, and Rezga echoed her protestation with an almighty roar of his own. Kalyan’s knees buckled, and he face-planted onto the hard black scales at the top of the dragon’s tail with an oof. Rezga instinctively flicked his tail, and Kalyan immediately slid farther down it.

Easy, boy! he screamed, trying desperately to halt his descent and ending up halfway along the thick, sinewy tail before he managed to do so. Rezga ignored him and continued to thrash violently, sending him one way, and then the next, with what would have been more than enough force to dislodge him had the scenario been in any way real. Managing to clasp his right hand over his left wrist, he rested his head on the tail until he was able to wrap his legs around as well.

What the bloody hell are you doing down there? Kresimir asked, and he could just about pick up the amusement in her tone. How much easier could I have made it for you, for God’s sake?

Tell your dragon to stop wagging its tail, he replied, through gritted teeth. Are you doing this to annoy me?

I won’t bother next… Her voice cut out, then came back again two seconds later. …you odious little… Thankfully her voice went again, and he didn’t get to hear what she called him. Risking his position in order to manoeuvre himself into a position where he could look below, he saw that they were now flying along the length of the ramparts, at the perfect height for the defending archers to be able to start having some fun. Sure enough, the first of a dozen arrows started heading their way.

Don’t you dare bug out on me now! he warned, and every single one of those dozen arrows found a home, in a straight line, along the dragon’s belly. Instead of screaming his displeasure, though, the dragon did something slightly more unexpected and simply disappeared. Bollocks, Kalyan breathed, copying one of his English friend’s favourite words without even realising it. Then he was falling again, still with his arms and legs clasped together around a now-imaginary dragon. Stomach in throat once more, he fought the urge to close his eyes and hope for the best, knowing there was no way he was going to experience any pain, but expecting it anyway. Unbidden, his list of spells appeared again. Right there at the top was the word Impervious, and he activated it without thinking. As soon as he did so he regretted it, but it was too late. Impervious was one of his most treasured spells, and definitely not one he’d intended wasting on a situation that, now Kresimir had been removed from the game, was no longer salvageable. He couldn’t overcome all of these soldiers single-handedly, even using the spell, so it would have been preferable to die instead. His brain hadn’t told his instincts that, though.

Kalyan landed on the smooth stone of the ramparts, scattering a handful of defenders in all directions. One of them might even have tumbled over the wall, by the sound of somebody’s surprised shout. At the very least, he hoped it was an actual player, rather than just a meaningless NPC. Take as many with you as you can before you die, or the whole thing’s been a waste of time. He launched into a forward roll, and came to his feet like the high-level ninja he’d worked for literally weeks to become. His two short swords were in hand by the time he’d even skidded to a halt, lighter than console controllers and more comfortable than a soft pair of gloves. Swish, swish; two burly soldiers lost their heads, and stumbled away. They’re definitely computer-generated. A huge brute of a woman approached him, carrying a broadsword with a blade so wide that he was able to catch a glimpse of his tall, willowy frame in its reflection. He shouldn’t have been able to, of course; it was night, and the moon was in hiding. Also, the burning village outside the fortress was too far away to cast enough light here. But his reflection was there, nonetheless; pale face serenely handsome, pointy ears proudly on display, delicate jaw set grimly, and ponytail swinging as if it was set to music. The warrior woman swung at him, and he didn’t even attempt to block it. The blade bounced harmlessly off him, and he chopped off her arm like it was a soft cheese. More blows rained down on him from all directions, and he ignored them, too. Spinning around, he put his blades to work, swinging and slicing, hacking and stabbing. The soldiers fell back, and he followed them, cutting them down effortlessly. Ten, fifteen, twenty of them, all powerless against his superior skill. He barely even noticed the timer in his augmented vision turn amber; just kept killing, and killing, and killing. For a moment, he had visions of taking the entire fortress by himself.

Then the countdown turned red. Three, two, one, gone. There were still too many of them left, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance. These were the gamers, cleverly hanging back until his spell wore off. Now it had, they approached. Kalyan raised his swords and saluted them, calm now. This was what he lived for. The violence. The blood. The death.

Let’s do this, he murmured, and leapt forward to meet them.

Two

Troy Cooper fought against the constraints of the VR chair, but it held him fast. He forced himself to relax as the back of the chair returned itself to an upright position, the electric whir obtrusively loud in his ears. Five seconds later, the moulded plastic loosened its grip and set him free from his voluntary prison. Pushing the mask away from his face, he gripped both arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet.

Damn it! As soon as he yelled the words, the anger lessened to something closer to annoyance. He was dead. One more precious life lost, only another fifteen left. Most people would give an arm and a leg for that many Eredia Seven lives; in fact, they’d probably kill for them. Unlike some games out there, they weren’t easy to come by. Players had to work for them. Put the hours in. Build them slowly. Troy was lucky; he’d put the hours in already, and then some. There weren’t many people out there as proficient at the game as he was, and he wanted to keep it that way.

His watch vibrated on his wrist, and he lifted it to see a message from Topher.

Sorry mate, don’t think my parents paid the electricity bill again. You know how it is. Did you make it?

Troy pinched the bezel of the watch and waited for the microphone to appear on the screen.

Dead, he said. You owe me a life.

He was sweating. No surprise there. Total Immersion Virtual Reality, even down to the body odour. He lifted an arm and sniffed his armpit, then raised an eyebrow. Not too bad. His watched buzzed again.

Shit. My bad. England sucks, mate. Power cuts all the time. Don’t hate me.

Troy pinched the bezel again.

No worries, he lied. Next time.

He plodded into the bathroom with a lethargy that was at odds with the unbroken eight hours of sleep he’d recently enjoyed. It was six in the morning, and he’d been playing for nearly an hour; the nanobots injected into his wrist by the dentist-like VR chair had kept him paralysed the whole time, and it always took a few minutes for them to realise they weren’t needed anymore. The light came on the second he crossed the threshold and he stopped at the sink, rested a hand on either side of it, and stared into the mirror at the mess he was making of his face. His bed hair hadn’t calmed down in the hour he’d been awake, and there were still pillow lines marking his face. That wasn’t the problem, though; the problem was that he barely recognised himself these days. He’d always been a skinny kid, even in his late teens. He’d never been sporty, but he’d been just active enough to give his lucky genes a helping hand. His grandmother always squeezed his biceps and joked they were like thin knots on cotton, whatever the hell that meant. She was his grandmother, so he’d always hoped she wasn’t being malicious.

Grandma Cooper didn’t squeeze his biceps anymore, though. Nope. Not since the gaming had really taken hold of him, anyway, and he’d started spending so much time lying down on the VR chair. His body had fought the change for as long as it could, but had eventually – and very reluctantly – begun the process of turning to flab. He hated looking at himself now, but somehow still managed to spend way too much time doing exactly that. His chin and his cheekbones had pretty much disappeared, and he’d long since had to buy a whole new wardrobe of loose-fitting clothes to squeeze his expanding frame into. Chubby was the word Katie used, and she swore she didn’t care what he looked like. She was lying, of course; she’d been his girlfriend since they were ten years old and she’d been out of his league even then. It wouldn’t be long, he knew, before she kicked him to the curb. And when she did, he’d nod knowingly and slink off back to his VR chair. Take it on the chin, like the pushover he was. Take it on the chins, you mean. He glared hatefully at the dark-haired stranger who was glaring at him. All of them.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to step away from the mirror. Pulling off his shorts, he flung them over his head so that they landed in the sink, and then stepped into the shower. He was about to turn the water on, but stopped his finger as it hovered over the waterproof touchscreen on the slate-tiled wall. Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, he moved back over to the sink and picked up the shorts. Folding them over to make a neat rectangle, he took them back into the bedroom and placed them carefully into the washing basket. He wanted to ball them up, just to prove he could, but he really couldn’t. Neat and tidy was the name of the game. Except when the name of the game was Eredia Seven.

You need to get a life, Troy Boy, he said, then sighed at the bloated version of himself he caught a quick glimpse of in the full-length mirror of his wardrobe door. And some frickin’ vegetables. Turning his back on his reflection, he dragged his heavy limbs back towards the shower.

Three

Traffic. It was the bane of Troy’s life, even at just before seven on a Saturday morning. The suburbs of Los Angeles were teeming with vehicular life; mostly soccer moms and realtors such as himself, he suspected, on their way to tedious soccer games and death-by-house-viewing, respectively. He touched a button on his vintage Porsche’s centre console, and glanced up at the roof as the smart glass reluctantly turned from opaque to transparent.

Assholes, he murmured, seeing no more than half a dozen flying cars above him. No traffic in the sky on a Saturday morning, is there, you rich sonsofbitches? It was hazy, and the infamous LA smog hung above the flying tin cans like a blanket. The sun was nowhere to be seen, as ever, but he knew it was there, just out of reach. He jabbed the same button and the glass turned dark again. Not long before you can afford one of those, though. You could be one of those rich sonsofbitches, too, if you really want to be. It was a nice thought, and one that immediately led, as it always did, to him imagining his life savings as a swimming pool of gold that he could swim through. He made good money working for his Dad’s business and, apart from the old Porsche and the occasional night out with Katie, he didn’t spend much money, because he spent all his time playing Eredia Seven. A flying car, though? Well, that might just be enough to get me out of the house more often.

Portia, he said, and the blue mood lighting around the dash turned green to indicate the car was listening. "Play The Beach Boys playlist." Portia. How original. It irked him every time he spoke to the car, and he didn’t know why. That was a lie, he realised, as the music started. It was because his Dad had owned the Porsche since he was a kid, and had handed it down to him so he didn’t have to keep giving him a lift to work every morning. The mood lighting was blue because that was the last colour his Dad had chosen it to be, and the car was called Portia because his Dad had programmed the name years ago, thinking he was being funny. Troy still hadn’t figured out how to change either of them, nor the seating position, nor any of the suspension settings. If he’d bought the car from new, he’d have made the effort. Come to think of it, he realised he was only listening to The Beach Boys because Cooper Senior had forced it into him as a kid. He opened his mouth to change the music to something else, but changed his mind; he loved God Only Knows way too much to ever take out his bad mood on it.

The journey took forever. Almost as long as his playlist, in fact. The scenery was drab for the most part, even rundown in places. Cracked white buildings were what he spent most of his time looking at, as well as the occasional biodome, and whole roads under reconstruction. There were no workmen today, of course. They could afford not to work weekends; the regular earthquakes meant they could pick and choose their