Stars Asunder

by Tao Wong

  Mikito swings the naginata to the side, discarding the brownish blood with a flick before she steps back to her original starting point. She settles in, ready for the next fighter. Gheisnan glowers and growls, the next in line, but he still approaches. Knowing that the beating he’ll receive isn’t something he can avoid.

  As the Roach crawls out of the way, the other recruits take care of him, casting healing and regenerative spells, fixing broken bits. The Erethran Honor Guard Skill means that his limbs will reappear in time, but the additional magic helps speed up the entire process. Otherwise, he’d be down and out for next day while he rebuilds his limbs. Too long.

  When it’s all done, when Mikito has torn through the entire group, when she’s bruised and bloodied and content, I walk back out and regain their attention.

  “Well. That was enlightening.” I let my gaze run over the group, idly noting how some of their clothing has already patched itself up. Nanowoven protection combined with organic growing threads, all of it stitched together with high density metals and other Artisan Skills. I’ve even heard of clothing that will regenerate from a fist-sized piece. “Anyone care to tell me what they learned?”

  “She’s a sadistic little oxygen-breather. And he’s a battle-crazed Hakarta,” Anayton says.

  “Not true and true.” I swing my finger around and around, gesturing for them to keep going. When she doesn’t answer my body language, I use my words. “Go on.”

  Anayton crosses her arms. “And you have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Very true. Anyone else have anything else to add?”

  “You want us to beat them. One on one. And if we don’t, you’re not going to give us your approval,” Magine says while fixing his gaze on Mikito.

  Magine was the last one to fight, and the closest to come to winning against her. He’s fast, focusing more on speed and precision than strength. He doesn’t have a legacy weapon, but he uses his soulbound weapons in the same appearing and disappearing technique that the Honor Guard is known for. That he combines the style with both hands filled with soulbound blades and the multiple additional blades of Thousand Blades creates a blizzard of floating weaponry.

  He’s better at the Honor Guard’s blade dance than I am, but Mikito has been training with me for years now, and the style is no longer new and interesting. He might do the Erethran sword style better, but better isn’t enough of an edge. Not when he doesn’t know her style, her way of fighting. And really, her weapon’s a lot better than his.

  Not that we’re going to tell them that.

  “Wrong.” I look around, waiting for someone else to speak.

  “You wanted to see if all those recordings were true.” Kino, the big rock creature, rumbles. His fight with Mikito was quite one-sided. He’s too slow to land any attacks on her, but he’s also highly defensive. If not for Mikito cheating with her weapon, it probably would have been a draw. As it was, the added damage from Hitoshi was enough to level the playing field and allow her to down the tough tank.

  “Correct. Next?”

  “You’ve already made up your mind, so why are you dragging this out?” Gheisnan calls, the little kobold glaring at me. I wonder if he thinks that he’s on the chopping block.

  He is, just not today.

  “Fair. Smo. Pack up your things. You’re done.”

  I watch the Roach buzz, wings flaring and folding, insect-like hands twitching in agitation. He takes a step and another away as commanded before he spins around and looks at me. When he speaks, that harsh, painful-to-the-ears buzz of his voice catches me. “Why? Failed Brood. Why?”

  “Because you’re looking to be eaten. I’m not looking for Paladins who are looking to die. That’s not our job. As an old Earther once said, your job isn’t to die for your Empire but to make the enemy die for his.” I look around at the group, meeting the defiant gazes of the initiates. “I don’t need heroics from all of you. I just need you all to survive. Your Empire needs you all to survive. You want to know the lesson? It’s simple. Get back up. And keep going. No matter what.” I let that stupid, idiotic, passe sentence die its ignominious death in the dirt of the courtyard. “Or else in about another ten years, I’ll be back here, doing this all over again with a whole new batch of idiots.”

  Smo twitches and buzzes, moving back and forth on its legs agitatedly, its wings flaring so much so that it hovers in place. In the end, it flies away down the corridor. Hopefully he knows where to report in. But I don’t really care. I dismiss him and his future from my mind, focusing on the others.

  “Homework for all of you. Go over your Skills, your build. Figure out what you’re missing. Figure out what you need to do to fix it. Then come to me with a plan. You’re not fighting in teams anymore. You’re not one of many. You’re single fighters. Single survivors. Figure out how to make it work.” I pause, then gesture at them to disperse. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As they walk away, leaving at my command, I watch them through the security cameras and drones scattered through the building. Watch to see how they took the news.

  Ropo, Gheisnan, and Kino look unperturbed. Magine smirks, as if he expected no more from someone like Smo’kana. Freif is still casting glances at Mikito and her weapon, as if she’s more important than anything that has to do with the selection process. As if he might suspect something. As for Anayton, the female Erethran looks concerned.

  And just like that, my first day with the initiates is over.

  Chapter 6

  Of course, that’s not the end of my day. I drag my team along, heading to my temporary residence. It’s a bit of a trek, since they don’t allow us to Portal around wherever we want. The entire planet is secured by spatial locks, Portals and quick spatial movement accessible only to a select membership. Most of them in the Honor Guard. It says something about my status that I’m not automatically approved to jump about wherever I want. I could probably push it and get myself approved, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Still, it’s on the to-do list.

  I’m lodging off-site, not near the palace residence but still on state grounds. Just not palace grounds, if that makes sense. In fact, rather than being set up in the barracks rooms or anything like that, I’ve been given a small mansion to call my own.

  I designate rooms for my friends within, making the echoing and empty building a little livelier. When I first arrived, the mansion had been colored in salmon pink with purple edging and a noveau gothic design with weird Erethran gargoyles covering the entirety. I changed that to a calming sky blue and cream edging for the walls but left the gargoyles. Partly because some of them were mechanical golems. The walls adjust with the barest of mental nudges, all controlled by the building’s System interface.

  Of course, appearances aren’t the only thing I’m given access to. The entire building’s defense grid, the alarm systems, even the room configurations are all available at the touch of a finger. Included as well are the expansive grounds, which I can landscape to my heart’s content—or adjust the emplacement of the various anti-aircraft artillery. I ignore most of it, beyond verifying the multiple escape routes built into the residence and double-checking the defense grid settings.

  Once we’re in the office, a minimalistic room with liquid-metal furnishings, we grab seats and I send the robots to get us snacks.

  For the next few hours, we catch up. The team informs me of the deal they made, gloss over the problems they caused and the need for Bolo’s appearance. What little I glean indicates that Bolo’s side deal ended up causing more trouble than he expected. They did let slip that they’d managed to annoy one of the Station Masters in the first ring. Staying in Spaks was no longer an option for the Dragon Lord, not after that.

  “So why join us?” I ask. After all, just because he had to leave doesn’t mean he had to choose us.

  “We worked well together. It is rare for three Master Classers to still work together at this stage of their development,” Bolo says, crossing his arms. “Most bount
y hunters will stay away from such a team.”

  Not entirely sure he’s correct about that, since I recall quite a few Master Class teams. But there might be a matter of selection bias in my recollections. I only meet Master Class teams because I run in a team. Statistically, Bolo might be right—and my memories from the library seem to agree—but this is one of those cases where statistics gets beaten by lived experience. Often at the edge of a very pointed bat.

  “You know, being your shield is getting really tiring,” I grumble.

  “Don’t act as if you’re not getting something out of it. Like an example of what a real Master Classer can do for your initiates,” Bolo says.

  I grin guiltily, having been caught out. Bolo really was the best example for them to fight. But more importantly… “I want your thoughts on them. What do they need to fix?”

  “Assuming they’re fighting alone?” Bolo says, then at my confirmation, runs a hand along one arm, humming in thought. “There’re a few things that come to mind…”

  I lean forward, listening. Mikito eventually interjects, adding her own analysis. The conversation runs through the strengths of each Honor Guard. Truth be told, many of them are similar, so the adjustments are a matter of personality and attribute fit. Eventually, we sit back, waving at the detailed notes I’ve taken.

  “Why ask us though? I’d think an Empire like this has their own Class specialists,” Bolo says.

  “They do. I’ve requested reviews for them all.” I flick my fingers and new documentation windows appear, floating in front of the pair. Harry’s still off, doing his thing. This kind of conversation isn’t his thing, for obvious reasons. “They’ve even taken into account my own notes from yesterday, for their analysis.”

  The pair falls silent as they read over the recommendations. I’d let the Class specialists run wild, make the most optimal builds.

  “And you think they’ll let the initiates buy all that? That’s quite a bit of spending,” Bolo says, not without a little envy.

  “They’re an Empire,” I say with a sniff. “I doubt it’s more than a drop in the bucket. The trick will be training them to use the new Skills properly.”

  “That sounds reasonable. It certainly won’t hurt, even if they reject your budget,” Mikito says, turning the teacup that she’s extracted from her inventory round and round in hand.

  I look closer at the gently graded teacup, smiling slightly at the description.

  Fujiwara Ever Warm Teacup

  The latest work by the famous potter, this teacup is guaranteed to keep tea warmed to the perfect temperature without affecting its taste. Both a work of art and a practical piece, the teacup is one of the first vaguely acceptable creations by the master potter to be sold.

  Dismissing the message, I pick at the sandwiches that the robots have delivered, asking further questions. Catching up on trivial things, on stories about my friends. Harry eventually joins us, freed from the bureaucracy required to get his press pass. But soon enough, I see the restlessness, the exhaustion that creeps up on my friends. Whatever it was that happened in the last day, it’s wiped them. Not physically, but psychologically. There’s a point where healing, the System’s fixing of us, is insufficient. When we just need to stop.

  It’s strange really. You can let the System fix your body, fix your mind. You can have it rip out the wounds, the damage you have acquired. You can replenish your health and your Mana. And still feel worn down.

  It’s as though the mental and physical are separate from the spiritual.

  Sometimes, just sometimes, all you need to do is stop.

  Breathe.

  And move on.

  “Go. Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. We’re going to have to push them tomorrow. Can’t have you guys falling down and messing with the good impression you made,” I say.

  “I am fine,” Bolo says, straightening himself. Glaring at the implication that he’s less than the perfect soldier.

  “I’m sure. But I want to think about this a little more,” I say, gesturing at the notification windows that show their recommendations and the Class specialists’ that I make reappear. “And you guys are rather noisy.”

  Bolo’s lips curl up, but I wave him off. Harry is already half out the door, muttering goodbyes. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he’ll just go back to his room and work. Even the little glimpse of Erethra he’s achieved is more than most humans would have, and I know he’s got a lot of human fans. Even if that same information is available in the Shop, it’s not from a human point of view, not as seen by one of us. And that makes a difference.

  I watch the pair walk off, watch Bolo disappear around the corner of the doorway. But Mikito lingers, carefully packing her teacup in its container before storing it in her Inventory. Carefully cleaning her hands and the table, even though the robot has done it once.

  “What’s wrong?” I say.

  “My question. Not yours,” Mikito replies, dark eyes narrowing.

  I draw a deep breath, looking around the office. I frown, sick of the blue, and shift it to green and increase the lighting, adding a little more UV to the output. Mikito says nothing, waiting with studied patience for me to stop fluffing around.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I finally admit.

  “What’s new?”

  I chuckle. Too true. But… “This is more than me. More than us. It feels like I’m playing a game of blocks, pulling them out with my eyes closed. Do it too fast, tug on the wrong thing, and everything will come down. But there are innocents standing on the blocks. An entire Empire.” I stare at Mikito, showing her a little of the fear I’m trying to keep hidden. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Good.”

  “Pardon?” I blurt out.

  “Good.” Mikito shrugs. “Then they won’t know what you intend to do.” She gestures around us. “If you don’t know, they won’t either.”

  “That’s a good thing?” I say, a little incredulous.

  “Can’t be worse than where they’re headed, can it?” Mikito says.

  I grunt. Well, thus far… what was it that concerned them? Civil war? If that’s the case, it’s not so bad. Still… “And if I make a mistake?”

  “You will.” Mikito shrugs. “You’re human.”

  “People will die.”

  “They’ll die anyway,” Mikito replies. “But maybe you’ll do good too. Shake things up. Make these Paladins work.”

  “You mean restore them to working order?”

  Mikito offers a thin-lipped smile, flicking her gaze upward. I remember where we are then reevaluate her words before I sigh.

  “I’m going to rest now. You…” She glances at where the notification windows continue to hover before me, then shrugs. “You continue studying.”

  I feel a little betrayed at being left alone. Even if I did ask her to do that. Especially after that talk. As she walks out, I return my gaze to the windows. And I can’t help but question the world I’ve been thrown into.

  I can almost feel the Empire shifting beneath my feet as I pull up reports. Information I’ve purchased. Recordings from the Erethran news network, the closest thing to their media. I read about the constant wars on the borders, the skirmishes. The protests, the dropping recruitment rates. I read about the loss of more worlds to the Forbidden Zone.

  I read. I listen. I learn.

  And I remember, what is, is.

  ***

  Ali shows up hours later. One second, he’s gone. The next, he blips into reality next to me, almost making me jump. For the last few hours, I’ve been watching multiple data feeds, official channels and unofficial notes. Things that I only gain access to because of my rank. Dominating one corner of my notifications is the Erethran equivalent of entertainment—the latest, greatest cut of their most recent border skirmish.

  More and more, I’m disliking the 300-like world view I’m getting of this society. It’s one thing to read about them, another to be immersed in their culture. Or l
ack of it. Theoretically, there are multiple news streams—journalists, bloggers, and more—but all of them are heavily censored. Most don’t even need that much censoring, so immersed in the party line that they sing the same praises. Those who don’t drink the Kool-Aid have heavy safeguards in place to keep them from being too critical.

  What little criticism there is is carefully contained. To specific programs like waste and “dishonorable” actions. To people who aren’t doing their job to the utmost. So corruption and other mishandling is heavily rooted out by journalists, even if the effects of those reports are often swept under the rug.

  Questions about another way of life, of cultural touchstones that might not involve a never-ending expansion, a never-ending empire of Leveling up? Those are pushed aside or only carefully, ever so carefully hinted at.

  You’d think it’d be impossible within a world where the Shop exists. But while all information is available for purchase, information can be hidden, suppressed. Skills and just a flood of data hiding the truth. It’s the people with the biggest wallets who win out in such a game. The only way to avoid being caught saying something bad, never being considered a threat, is never to draw attention at all. To watch every purchase, every word you say. To self-censor everywhere but in your own mind.

  Even Skills that block out purchases can be overridden with enough money. Add that to the use of Public Relations Consultants, Media Influencers, and Culture Shapers and you get a society that’s not so much evolving as it is shaped. One whose goal is the strengthening and expansion of the Empire.

  One that eats its young in a never-ending grind for Levels.

  And yet… and yet, I can see why.

  Even if the information I’m seeing now is shaped by the movies, by the very Skills I’m whining about, I can’t help but understand it. Six hundred years ago, the slowly growing Erethran Kingdom was attacked. Not by another kingdom, not by a powerful Guild. But by a single man, a high-Level Heroic. Using hit-and-run tactics, he destroyed multiple fleets, wiped out army bases, and the personnel within. And when the kingdom refused to become part of his personal empire, he started going after cities.