“That’s exactly how they do it,” Yorka said sadly.
“Do you mean...” I tensed up and looked at her stump again.
“No. It happened to me for a different reason. But it’s pretty common for some arrogant or reckless people to unexpectedly lose an arm or a leg. It’s best not to argue with the brigades. Ever. But you’re not exactly right, Elb. There is punishment. That’s why they cut off limbs in secret, when no one can see. If you give someone a serious beating, the system will punish you. You’ll be made a goblin, and they’ll cut off at least one limb — system’s choice. Maybe two. They’ll take all your money, and that’s not all. You’ll be banned from using ATMs for a year.”
“That’s much worse,” I admitted, mentally scrolling the list of punishments.
They take your money.
They take an arm. You’re practically a zombie. If the system takes two limbs, you’re an actual zombie.
Once you get made a goblin, get ready for GBL. Work for near nothing.
No access to ATMs was the most serious punishment. Nobody would be able to transfer you any money, and you wouldn’t be able to go to the medblock and ask for a new arm or leg.
Brutal. A brigade would have no problem feeding a soldier crippled by the system. They’d be well-nourished. But living a year without an arm... Or, god forbid, getting on bad terms with your brigade... You’d become a plain old, practically helpless zombie. I would never agree to do something like that.
“They might let you access the ATMs for good behavior and doing work,” Yorka added.
I laughed:
“So the rich still rule. And the punishment isn’t all that severe.”
“I’m not totally sure. But it’s always complicated,” Yorka shrugged. “They won’t let us cripple one another so easily. That’s why we call the system Mother.”
“Now the biggest question: Murder. What happens if you kill someone?”
“You’ll be turned into a worm,” she answered shortly. “And lose everything: your money, your work load, ATM access...”
“For how long?”
“It depends. I only know about the beginning. It depends on your level. Oh! And one more thing about worms — if you kill one, they’ll only cut off two of your limbs and you’ll lose ATM access for a year. If you kill a zombie or higher, they’ll make you a worm, and your time without ATM access varies. If you kill a zombie, six months without ATMs, a year if you kill an orc. Three years if you kill a halfling. I don’t know what happens next. That’s good though, isn’t it? Mother protects us.”
“Well...”
The increasing level of punishment made sense. The system’s choice was obvious. There was nothing positive about losing good laborers. But worms were disposable, what use were they? Zombies weren’t particularly productive either. But orcs and goblins... Maybe they couldn’t do a lot, but they still worked — cleaned, scrubbed, did the dirty work. Halflings were another caste, the backbone of the labor force, motivated workers. That’s why there was such a severe punishment for taking a halfling life. Well... Some things were clear now... And I understood just how important ATMs were here.
“Does the murderer’s rank matter?”
“What?”
“Like if I’m an orc and I kill an orc, I get it,” I explained. “But what if I’m a halfling and I kill a worm? Will they cut off my arms and take away my ATM access for a year too?”
“I heard about one time when a worm got killed by accident. And it really was an accident. The halfling involved just lost his money. But a worm is a worm, you know...”
“Right... Worms don’t thirst for life or justice. They’re just worms. Trample them whenever you feel like it.”
Yorka, who had only just straightened up, shrank back again. “She’s coming...”
I sighed.
“Hey, goblin! We had an agreement! Don’t be a coward!”
“I’m an orc!” Yorka snapped. “Shut up! And die! I’m scared...”
“That’s the whole point. Enjoy the fear,” I advised. “Feel yourself getting hotter, your heart beating, sweat beading...”
“Shut up!”
I tsked, and slipped my left hand under the table to check the elastic of my shorts. It was safe here — the large dome was practically above us. But still... I checked, just to be sure...
It was time to see who was approaching us, and what they wanted.
I looked, and grunted in understanding. Of course the bosses wouldn’t go searching for one stubborn goblin themselves. Nonsense! They’d send an errand boy. Or in our case, an errand girl. She was missing her left arm, limping, and looked angry.
I wondered how she would start the conversation — politely and casually?
The messenger stopped about seven steps from our table and pointed a finger at Yorka. Then she hissed what would have been an intimidating threat, if not for the note of uncertainty in her voice, as though it was her first time.
“You! With me, bitch!”
