Historia Online

by Rae Nantes

  There was a spark of light within its core, then a flash, expanding, brighter, blinding, a crescendo of white with roaring winds that bathed the world pale. In the center, an echo of darkness that pulsed behind.

  The city was evaporating. Closer. Faster.

  Marcion thrust out his arm at Pierre. Nothing happened. Marcion’s eyes became desperate, teary, dead, as he tried again and again. The roar was getting louder. The earth rattling beneath them. Pierre still stood twenty meters away, staring at the blossoming explosion. With nothing left to do, Marcion jumped in front of Vic and fanned out his arms.

  A spectrum of transparent light rippled out from him, wider, higher, thicker than any aura Vic had ever seen. Vic stared at Marcion, shocked, mind unthinking of the reality warping in front of him.

  The light found them, and they were consumed by it.

  5:20

  Rika struggled on the floor, the darkness of the spell pounding at her, drowning her vision, her soul, her will to fight. Her armor was peeling away, her skin was flaking into ash. Every instinct in her body screamed for her to escape, screamed at the threat of death, screamed at the inevitability of it.

  The spell was pinning her down and drinking her in.

  She looked up, worried for Ediha, and saw him through the darkness. As if staring through a lit window at night, he was there, struggling with his shield out, thrusting one foot ahead of another, his weapons glowing, his golden aura trailing behind in the dark.

  Slowly, he stepped further and further in, his light dimming, the darkness returning. He vanished.

  Then the spell clicked off.

  The wind settled with the dust. Clothes and fabric rested. The world was silent, pale white with ash. The golden cross had turned to heated slag. Ediha’s blade tore through Mondego’s chest, carving through his ribcage. Mondego struggled against him, but his arms were missing. He cried out in silent agony as Ediha reached into his chest—

  To find it empty.

  Mondego fell dead on the floor. Behind him, stood Pope Leo with bloodied hands and a still-beating heart in his grip.

  Ediha’s sword flared out in a white flame, and he sliced at the Pope, the fire cutting a thin line through the cathedral walls. The pope vanished, and he stood alone.

  Silence. Ash was falling like snow. His sword and shield clanked by his feet and after a deep breath, he turned to Rika.

  She said nothing. She was too weak to speak, too weak to react. She struggled to her feet, but her bones felt brittle, and her joints turned to mulch.

  “You’ll have me take her there?” Ediha said to himself. “...I understand.” He waved out his hand, and Rika vanished.

  She landed on her feet, uncertain what had just happened. It felt like she was transported to the moon Phobos. The world had lost its color, now only shades of grey that blanketed all in powder, the same white dust that trickled down on them. The spell had drawn the life force from all things - the trees, the wood, water, the color, the air itself.

  The only sign of life or color stood in front of her. A man with his arms limp at his sides, his back torn open, his blood cauterized away, his ribs and lungs peeking out, a low sizzle smoking from him. He stood alive, yet dead inside as he stared down at a wounded man—

  —who knelt beside a charred skeleton.

  5:21

  The bones smoldered. Vic brought a shaking hand to touch the side of the skull’s head, almost tenderly, but it fell apart into ash in front of him. His face was hidden beneath his hat.

  “I’m sorry, Vic.” Marcion’s voice trembled. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Vic’s voice was gravel and ice, hollow and lifeless. “What are you?”

  Marcion was ashamed. “The Demiurge.”

  “What am I?”

  “You’re my friend.”

  A breeze came and pulled a thin layer of ash away. Vic stood from the vanishing remains of his son and turned to Marcion. He leveled a pistol at him and lifted his head. Eyes red, tears down his face, his lips moving to quiver but he grit his teeth. The face not of a hardened inquisitor, but of a grieving father and a betrayed friend.

  “The Soul rejected me,” Marcion said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t save him.” He looked into Vic’s eyes, tears welling, but his eyes fled.

  The pistol shook in Vic’s hand. “You could’ve saved all of us.”

  Vic’s shoulders slumped. His arms fell to his side. He took a deep breath, brought the gun to his right temple, then pulled the trigger.

  The shot echoed far.

  Rika dropped to her knees. Marcion turned to her. He was crying uncontrollably. “He was my friend,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  In a flash of light, he vanished. Rika sat alone in a sea of ash, staring over the horizon of it, and finding nothing.

  6: The Lion

  6:1

  Pope Leo sat alone in the cloister. The sun had dropped into its golden hour, shining through the leaves that glistened against a gentle breeze. A starling nest had been fashioned at a fork in the limbs, and a single bird was chirping.

  The pope looked down at the small box in his hands. It was open, and in it lay Mondego’s heart. It was still warm, pulsing a faint heartbeat that had persisted for weeks. Within its core, a dim light shone through.

  He sighed, then stared back up at the tree. “Which one are you?” he asked.

  “The God of Old,” said the voice behind him.

  “Was all of this the work of your divine providence?”

  “No,” said the voice. “That was the work of the God of New.” The speaker sat down next to him. It was Marcion.

  The pope didn’t move or look at him. He continued to stare into the limbs and the leaves and the bark of the tree, almost studying its natural perfection. The tree was as alive as he was.

  After a moment of silence, Marcion spoke. “Have you ever heard of the Demon of Laplace?”

  “No,” said the pope.

  “There was once - or will be - a philosopher by the name of Pierre-Simon de Laplace. He once said that if an entity had the power to know all in the universe, entirely down to the cells and atoms - their movements, momentums, their behaviors, and interactions - then this entity can surely predict, as if by simple calculation, the past and future of all things.”

  “Fate,” echoed the pope.

  “We, who are above fate, have created this entity.”

  “The world,” said the pope.

  “The world itself is Laplace’s demon, and its manifestation is the Soul of the World, the God of New.”

  “You have made an entire world and staffed it with a god, then filled it with torment and pain.” The pope lowered his eyes. “You have made a living hell.”

  “And I, too, have suffered,” said Marcion. “The Soul had betrayed me, and I lost something I dear to me.”

  A breeze came, the leaves rustled. The sun was sinking down over the walls of the archbasilica. The bird flapped its wings and fled.

  “Could we escape from this?” the pope asked. “Could you not undo what you’ve done? Could you not create a new heaven and a new earth for us?”

  “There is no escaping the physical laws of the world that governs you. Regardless what world we make, it would always be made by us, and nothing would change. Even in death, you are reborn to suffer in a new life, again and again.”

  “Not even death is an escape,” said the pope. His eyes were distant, weary.

  “For a person to be born,” Marcion said, “there has to be a person to give birth. Without the parent, there is no child. There is no rebirth. This, you can do.”

  The pope smiled to himself, but it was empty. “What should we do? Do we live on as slaves, or die as free men?”

  “In your hands,” Marcion said, “is the power to end all the conflict, all the pain, the suffering, the sorrow of the world, forever.” The pope looked down at the heart. “It is a weapon. A sword made as if by fate to slay the Demon of Laplace. It is your choice to wiel
d it.”

  The pope held the heart in his hand. It was warm. “No mourning, no crying, no pain anymore.” He offered a soft chuckle. “It was always my will to ease the suffering of God’s creations. If this is the cost of freedom and peace, then I will gladly shoulder this burden.”

  Marcion stood from his seat. The bench creaked. “Slay the Demon of Laplace, and when it is dead, I will slay the God of New.”

  Marcion vanished. The pope breathed a heavy sigh, then sensed that he was not alone. He looked back at the tree. A veiled woman was standing there, golden light emanating from her. She was peace, and she smiled at him.

  6:2

  Rika sat in her beloved pink bean bag chair, lounging with her limbs stretched out like a sunbathing cat. She had been in this position for what felt like hours, wishing to herself that she could sleep in her virtual room, even live here. The real world had lost its color to her, and she could no longer bear to reenter Vic’s world. Every time she swiped open the screen to login, she simply stared at it, her finger hovering over the holographic display for minutes before she would give up and flop back in her mushy chair.

  Instead, her mind raced with the thoughts of the world, its inhabitants, and the reality of them. What was even real in the first place? To her, the nipsies had every defining characteristic of something real. They were, as if by definition, sapient. They could think and feel and cry and suffer, but they could also argue and reason and have bad ideas. The nipsies could have questionable fashion tastes, like certain foods, dislike certain music, fall in love and hate and envy just as any person in the crowds of Stella Vallis.

  What difference was there besides that they were there, and she was here?

  She glanced over at the picture taped to her wall. The cartoony sketch of her with demon horns and fire breath, and beside it, Vic's self-portrait. She felt the faintest smile when she saw it, a sad smile, and she thought back at how hard she tried to get him to finally finish it.

  Rika had never developed a friendship like that of Vic or Ediha in a simulation before. This was never a problem. How was she supposed to cope with the loss of a virtual life? Was she crazy? Was she delusional to think of them as free? They were, after all, just objects of programming, lines upon lines of code that identified them as who they were, but what was she?

  Was she not, too, a culmination of her DNA, her genes, her atoms and neurons and bodily cells, as calculable as any other complex system?

  The dissonance gripped her, and she lay writhing in confusion and grief until a bell chimed and pulled her away from herself.

  It was a notification, an announcement from the game.

  She flicked it open.

  World Raid, the subject read, from the lead developer, Sasha Karlsson. An end-of-season event would be taking place in the game. Players were able to choose between two teams, A and B, and were given free transportation for the event. The time ratio would be reversed, meaning that players could take extended breaks and miss only minutes of the battle. Beneath the suspiciously obscure announcement text, a long list of bonuses was shown. In-game money, extra XP, simCash for virtual room furniture, and lots of things that Rika had lost interest in.

  As she fell back into her crunchy bean bag chair, she noticed an inbox full of old messages that she had been ignoring. Valgus asking where she was, Stef telling her to log in again, and Nick telling her to at least return to congratulate Ediha.

  And it pained her to be reminded. Little or not, she did make an impact on his life, and now that he was able to kill Mondego himself, what was left for him to conquer? It’s not like she really succeeded at anything in the past few months. She failed to finish the World Quest, she failed to protect him, she failed to protect Vic, she failed time and time again, and for what? What was there left to do? If anything, she could show up to say goodbye before she disappears from his life forever.

  She wiped her face, gave it a good slap on both cheeks, then swiped her screen over to the game’s login. She paused, then confirmed.

  ***

  Rika stepped out of the portal and into the Aztec army camp. It was a city of tents, with Aztec warriors lounging around campfires, sharing jokes and laughs and thoughtful conversations. The morning was a hazy blue, crisp with the springtime winds, and the smell of the ocean lingered here.

  She found them at a pier. Nick was laughing at Stef for his poor fishing skills. Stef, on the other hand, was not wavering in his pride over the tiny fish that wagged on his line. Beyond them in the sea, a colossal navy idled in harbor.

  “Oh, she finally shows up,” Nick said when he spotted her.

  “Where’s Ediha?” she asked.

  “Around,” Stef said. “Probably meetin' with nobles or generals or in the cafeteria again, usual monarch-type stuff. You missed the coronation, by the way.”

  “You missed a lot the past few days,” Nick followed. “It took less than a month for Spain and France to capitulate.”

  “Had to stop before we hit England, though,” Stef said. “Most of our time was spent playing cat and mouse with the Italian princes. Now with the raid official, we’re havin’ to change plans.” He looked her up and down. “The world raid will kick off soon, a couple hours, actually. You joining us?”

  Rika dropped her gaze. “I don’t think I’ll be getting on anymore after this. I just wanted to see Ediha before the season ended.”

  They tilted their heads at her. “Ediha is one of the raid bosses,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “We’re Team B,” Nick said.

  “Why the hell—”

  “Ediha won’t tell us what’s goin’ on,” Stef cut in. “All we know is that most players are choosin’ Team A because they’re more familiar with the pope than with an Aztec king. The devs probably saw what was goin’ on and since the season was ending soon, they decided to play it out like this.”

  Rika groaned. If she wanted to stick with Ediha until the end, she would need to fight again, and fighting meant killing more nipsies.

  “We’ll be challenging the world,” Nick said, “but not without a plan.”

  Rika felt footsteps behind her. It was Ediha.

  “Good morning,” he smiled.

  “Sorry,” she told him. “About everything.”

  “I know.”

  She lowered her head. There was a lump in her throat. “So… you’ll be fighting the pope.” She was desperate to pull the conversation somewhere else.

  “He has the heart of Mondego,” Ediha explained. “And within Mondego’s heart, is the combined power of countless soldiers, sorcerers, and players. This is a power too great for any one person to have.”

  “Players,” Rika echoed.

  “The Soul told me everything.”

  There was an uneasy quiet between them. Stef and Nick stared in silence at the conversation. The wind blew, a distant bell chimed, and Nick’s fishing line dipped.

  Rika broke the silence. “We’re not allowed to—”

  “I know.”

  Stef stepped up to them. “Look, man,” he told Ediha. “After this fight, we’re gone for the rest of your life. All the players will be. We don’t return until the 1600s, so unless you plan on livin’ for another eighty years, this is it.”

  “It was fun, Stefan.” Ediha nodded to Nick. “I thank you all for everything.” He turned back to Rika. “And I thank you for showing me the world.”

  She nodded.

  Ediha smiled. “So, will you join me for one last victory?” His eyes told her that he already knew her answer.

  “Of course.”

  “Then as your king,” he said, “I will give you your first, and last, command.” He waved his hand, and a portal spawned beside her, its crackling mist running its hands through her hair.

  Rika paused to look at Ediha, hoping there was any more left to say between them, but his eyes told her that this war itself would explain. He stared into her as if on the verge to speak, but the words never came. Only a faint smile acr
oss his lips.

  Though it was only a few months for him, almost a half a year, he seemed older to her now. Taller, thicker, confident. Somewhere between then and there, he had changed far from the innocent boy that she had stolen from Mexico, and now he stood before her as a king, a leader, a hero.

  She looked away with a smile. With a deep breath, she stepped through and into the heart of Rome.

  6:3

  With a flash of light, Rika found herself in an underground cave. The walls were perfectly smooth, the cave dim but lit well with torches that dotted the path. Beside her, a trickle of water that brought the smell of purity.

  It was cold and damp here.

  One end of the cave led to a spiraling set of stairs that went upward, the other end held a huge door. In front of it, three paladins stood waiting. Two who guarded the door, and John in the center.

  She gripped the hilt of her sword, paused, then relaxed. The faces that stared back at her were not angry or challenging, but the faces of people who were waiting patiently for her.

  Rika walked up to them. They didn’t move. After an awkward moment of staring between them, John ordered, “Leave us.” The two guards bowed in respect, then vanished with light.

  “Well?” Rika said.

  “Well, what?” John said. “You’re here for the temple, aren’t you?”

  “Then get out of my way.”

  “I’m speaking to you not as John, the crusader,” he said. “I’m speaking to you as a GM.”

  She crossed her arms. “Then speak.”

  He waved out his player screen, and a red glow reflected off his armor - an admin screen. He tapped a few icons, then waved it away. Rika was confused by this until she received a message notification. With hesitation, she opened her mail and saw what he sent. NDA, the subject read.

  “A non-disclosure agreement,” he explained.