Stars Asunder

by Tao Wong

  Before I can reply, the figure dissolves, the shadows that held it together coming apart. I reach out with my senses, Mana and Affinity, hearing and smell, and note that it’s gone. Completely. No hint of its scent, no trace of the Mana that bound it. I don’t bother checking my minimap, since it never showed up. Or the building’s security—for it had shown up, but as a friendly. And I sigh.

  “Interesting. Doppelgangers don’t get threads,” I mutter. I recall how my own doppelgangers from Hod never gained any. They’re not real, just temporary constructs with no soul. Like a broom. Or a golem. No obligations, no duties, no threads. And thus, no way to track them. “Smart.”

  “Yes, it is.” Ali floats in, already commanding the System to fix our bedroom. “So, basement?”

  “Basement.” I open a Portal and sigh. “That’s two.”

  “Mmmhmmmm…”

  Chapter 23

  “Kino,” I say to the Risen, “I met one of your relatives recently.”

  “My fissure-sire is no longer of this earth. Was it a grotto mate?” Kino says, rumbling over the table in the Shop.

  Around the conference room, the other Paladin initiates are seated, some of them taking the few minutes in the Shop to look around, quite impressed by the surroundings. Others look more blasé, like Magine.

  “Risen, not a close relative. He was quite insistent on meeting me. Had a very rough way of talking,” I say.

  “He tried to kill you,” Freif replies, not all amused.

  “Mmm, yes. And I only made one knock-knock joke,” I say.

  Even Ali doesn’t get my joke, the Spirit in his full form.

  So I give the jokes a rest. “All right, boys and girls. It’s been two weeks. Brief me. How’s it going on Earth?”

  The group looks a bit awkward, most of them looking surprised that I want to talk to them.

  Eventually, it’s Anayton who breaks the silence. “Were we not meant to do this quest… well, alone?”

  “Oh, you mean, throw you guys into the middle of nowhere, watch you flounder and die?” When the group acknowledges my words in their own ways, I snort. “Yeah, that’s the way the Paladins used to do it. Kind of dumb, really.”

  Freif reacts hard to that, leaning forward and almost snarling. Anayton isn’t far behind in her reaction, mouth opening. Magine is the most interesting of the group, the way he just stills.

  “Don’t you dare—” Freif starts.

  “What? Tell the truth?” I cut him off. “You’re going to be Paladins, if you survive. About time to take the blinders off. The way they used to do things? It was broken.” When Freif continues to try to speak, I twitch a finger and mute him, letting the sound distorters neutralize his words. “Sure, they kept you guys running. But there were barely two dozen Paladins at the best of times, and the vast majority of times, we’re talking about seven or eight.”

  “Standards were high,” Freif says.

  “Standards were idiotic,” I say. “Five Master Class monsters while you’re an Advanced Class? Do you know what the survival rate on the Master Quest was?”

  There’s a long pause as the group looks from one to the other.

  It’s Anayton who answers. “Seven percent. We checked.”

  “Exactly. The best and brightest of you guys, and not even one in ten survived,” I say. “And so, you bled people. Again and again. And the ones who survived, they weren’t even the best people who could uphold what it was to be a Paladin, just the best killers.”

  “Yes. That’s what Paladins are. The best of the best,” Magine says. “Well, with one obvious exception.”

  “Bullshit.” I turn to Kino who stirred at Magine’s answer. “You have something to say?”

  “Paladins are the pillars of justice, the levers of equality. They fix what must be fixed, when no one else will do so,” Kino says. “They were never, they should never, be just killers.”

  “Exactly,” I say, pointing at the rockman. Freif is almost shouting now, or maybe he is. But he’s struggling and I realize I’ve still got him muted. I wave a hand, killing the mute and letting him free to speak again. “You have something to say?”

  “They might not have been perfect, but neither are you.”

  “All too true, as my friend will tell you,” I say and point at the Spirit.

  Ali, in his corner, has a plateful of snacks rising from the table, which he’s hoarding over on his side. A twitch of my fingers drags one plate of yellow lemon bars and chocolates over, along with a glass of Apocalypse Ale. The group starts making orders for their food, and for a time, there’s silence.

  Anayton, rolling a rainbow slime across her fingers and letting her skin absorb the poison, says softly, “So they were not perfect. And you think you can change that?”

  “I intend to start.” I tap the table. “The rest, that’s up to you. We’re going to start by pushing the limits of the rules.” I see them stir, and I wave at them. “Relax. I checked. It’s fine.” I don’t tell them how I checked, or about the pounding headache created by reaching backward and prodding at the Quest. “We can talk. Offer suggestions. Recommendations. Training. But you can’t fight in teams with one another. Just as the Quest says.”

  There are a few relieved looks, Freif seeming to stabilize a little. Magine is still eyeing me in that too-still manner he has. He’s got the smallest pile of snacks before him, as if he’s unhappy with the selection. Or uninterested in such talk.

  “The rest of it? I’m just an interloper. Making do with what I can. But if you don’t want your Empire to be stuck in this same situation in a few thousand, a few hundred years, I’d start thinking, and thinking hard, about what needs to change.”

  ***

  The actual process of the debrief was routine. The initiates informed me of their various activities, the monsters they’d met—and killed—the Earth-based teams they’d worked with or avoided. More of the last than the first, though Kino seemed to have integrated better than the others. In short order, I berate them, pointing to Kino’s continued success at integrating and developing his contacts, including finding out about the monster he needed to attack.

  “The Guilds might not be as prominent in Erethra, but they’ve grown very important on a Dungeon World like Earth,” I say. “You need to make friends, work with them. Just because you’re supposed to fight the final boss alone doesn’t mean you can’t simplify your way there. Most of them live in treacherous, dangerous locations. Use the resources available, use the environment available. That’s the only way you’re going to win.”

  “Is that how you did it?” Freif asks.

  “For the most part. I sometimes ran away, sometimes got the monsters to fight one another. Other times, I trapped them, injured them, slowly bled them out. Piled on damage inches at a time until they couldn’t handle it any further.” I shake my head, remembering. “Sometimes, rarely, I did what you guys were going to do. I faced them straight-on without concern for my life. I fought them to a standstill and I won. In other words, I was an idiot.”

  That last sentence brings a round of laughter, but I continue. “Sometimes, being an idiot is all the choice you have. Sometimes there isn’t a better option. But let’s at least try for something more than the depths of idiocy, shall we?”

  I work with them, helping them figure out some initial plans, some goals of what they can and should do. And then we set up the next meeting. They disperse soon afterward, chatting among themselves, a slowly developing team. As I stand up after they’ve left, Anayton pops her head back in.

  “I do have a message for you,” Anayton says. “From a Lana?”

  I gesture her in, frowning at the question mark in her statement. “What’s with the hesitation?”

  “A woman’s intuition. That you might not want to hear it,” Anayton says.

  I glare at the initiate before gesturing for her to hurry up and speak. When she’s done, I find myself shaking my head. It’s nice of Lana to send the message, to let me know of how th
ings are going. It’s kind and thoughtful, just like the woman. I sigh, loudly and deeply.

  “That bad?”

  “No. Not really.” I consider for a second, then flick my hand sideways. Pictures, a slew of them. Little children—Lana’s own eldest and a slew of older kids, nieces and nephews, all playing with a triplicate of babies. “Just a reminder of what could have been.”

  “Oh…” Anayton looks at the pictures, letting her gaze roam over the laughing children. There’s a bit of longing in her voice, squashed soon after. “They’re quite cute. Strong. Though this red hair. Is it a mutation? It seems to be a quite prevalent one. Over half of these children have it. “

  “You could say that. Harmless, for the most part,” I say. “And you? Do you have any regrets?”

  Anayton looks surprised. She hesitates a second and glances at the photos again. In the end, she shrugs. “I’ve had opportunities. But nothing ever felt right. Being in the Honor Guard, being a Paladin, that’s what I want to do. Serving the Empire, doing the best I can. And children…”

  “Children get in the way,” I say.

  She nods, looking a little uncomfortable with that though. “I should get going. The others are already browsing the Shop. You said we didn’t have that long?”

  “Forty-five more minutes. That’s what I’ve bought for you,” I say.

  The guest passes will run out soon, though Foxy might decide later to extend a permanent invitation. If they survive. After all, Paladin Master Classes are rather rare. I watch as she scurries out, ready to go shopping, curious to see kind of things there might be.

  Leaving me alone. With pictures of redheaded children and memories of what could have been.

  ***

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Catrin says, leaning against the table.

  We’re at another restaurant, another mildly expensive indulgence. Now that I’m grinding Levels again, I’ve decided to put most of these meals on my personal tab. All things considered, the cost is insignificant. Not when compared to the amounts I’m earning from the dungeons every day. One of the advantages of the Altered Space Skill is being able to drag along expensive corpses when they’re left behind. And, at worst, extra loot.

  This restaurant is a variation on a deep sea vessel, one used to explore the world beneath the oceans. Sloping ceilings, braced metal plating, projected imagines of creatures in the deep approaching our “windows.” They swim from the inky blackness, highlighted by floodlights, to stare at us as we eat before they swim away again. Occasionally, the entire room shakes as a particularly large and enthusiastic projection prods the “ship.” It’s highly thematic and immersive, going well with the seafood menu.

  The food itself is delivered to us on polished coral, seashells, and giant mollusk platings. The restaurant has even gone so far as to hire semi-aquatic waiters, who move toward us with gills and flippers flaring as they serve.

  “The meal not to your liking?” Catrin mouths the words, not wanting to start rumors. Considerate of the restaurant.

  She enjoys coming to these restaurants, letting her presence be known. It’s a chance to see old friends, to glad-hand nobles and businessmen, establish connections. And potential relationships, later. For her, it’s work and enjoyment.

  I admit, her running commentary on those we see has added to my understanding of Erethran society, of how it works. And those who control it at the highest levels.

  “Nothing like that. Just thinking.” I shake my head, then fix her with a gaze. “Past regrets. You know the kind, don’t you?”

  “Dresses not bought, shoes not purchased, a limited line of grenades passed by?” Catrin chuckles lightly. “Oh yes, I have many.”

  “I was thinking more paths not taken. Choices not made. Because we couldn’t, we wouldn’t, let things go. The things we gave up in pursuit of duty. Or our dreams.”

  Catrin grows serious, eyeing me. She sees how I speak, what I’ve revealed, and she matches my somber mood. The truth I’ve alluded to. “Yes. To all that. Too many dreams given up in pursuit of duty, of what has to be done. Rather than what I would want.”

  “You could change. Make a new path. You’re still young,” I offer, seeing the regret in her eyes.

  She laughs, but this one is not filled with mirth but a tinge of bitterness. “Sometimes the choices we make, they are permanent. Because others won’t let you change. Sometimes we find what we’re good at, and it might not be what we’d want to do, to be. But it is what is necessary.”

  I stare at her, seeing the truths in her eyes. The strong sense of duty, the refusal to bend, even when she probably should. And once more, I turn on Society’s Web. I see the threads that lead between her and those she’s known, between her and those she serves. And for once, I see how the thread wraps her close, holds her tightly in her place. Sometimes the threads we bind ourselves with are all the stronger because they were our choice.

  I see the hidden pain, the way she struggles, in her own way. And I squeeze her hand. Because I don’t have an answer.

  We eat, and there’s a more somber silence for a while.

  We finish another two dishes before she places her utensils down. “I’m done. Shall we just go?”

  I acknowledge her request and lead her out. It’s only a minor effort to send a notification and payment to the waiter, making sure they know it’s nothing to do with them.

  When we are outside, waiting for the shuttle car, she speaks again. “You know, you could change too. Pick a new path.”

  I laugh and pull her close as the air shuttle drops, blasting air around it, catching at her skirts. It throws her hair around, bringing a whiff of her perfume, of that hint of nutmeg that is hers, and the burnt ozone smell of electric use. I hold her tightly till the doors slide open and I usher her in.

  Memory, too much memory, pulls at me. Threatening to sweep me away, threatening to drown me in a whirlpool of regret and sacrifice. My memories of a red-headed man, fallen and lying bleeding, his sister holding him tight in dark caves, illuminated by the glow of steady, yellow Mana lights. Another of a woman with sun-kissed skin, a friend, a sword driven through her body on white-steel decks. A failure, when I should have acted. When I could have…

  And memories not my own. Of experiments. Of screaming men, women, and Yerrick. Mana stripping the very flesh and bones as Classes are removed. Of a Heroic, the Hakarta’s limbs removed, trying to grow them back and failing. His body, his System, failing as the ship records his destruction as it leaves System space. Until, eventually, the Mana levels fall too far and the recordings stop. Decades later.

  Atrocities and losses. Questions answered.

  And still, one question left.

  I get in, never answering her. Because some paths, some questions need an answer, an ending. Or all else that came before would be wasted.

  ***

  They come for me again when I Portal in the next day. Not in single numbers. Not even in small groups. But as a horde. I almost conjure my weapon, staring at the group awaiting my arrival. And I can’t help but curse, because the law forces me to use only specific locations. Unless there’s a need. I could have broken the law, done what I wanted. But I was trying to be polite. Must be the old Canadian in me.

  “I’m sorry, Paladin, they were insistent on waiting for you.” The captain of the guard is, at least, brave enough to speak with me directly.

  I step off the teleportation platform, getting out of the way. Staring at the hungry masses of servants and minor nobles, all of them baring invitations. Some, I’m sure, are just here to curry favor. Others want to progress the campaign of their chosen leader.

  It seems, along with the attack by the assassins, other social norms, including the quiet dismissal of my presence, have faded away. Now, they’re all bent on making their cases. All bent on making sure I know what is best, truly best, for the Empire.

  “Saimon.” I make the call, bugging the man directly.

  Saimon answers my call almost immed
iately, making me smile. I do like competent minions. “Lord Braxton is on his way, Paladin. Just wait a few minutes. He will handle this.”

  A couple minutes later, Lord Braxton appears, fading in next to me from the teleportation platform. He takes one look at the group, grunts, and turns to the people he brought along. “You may begin.”

  To the increasingly frazzled Captain of the Guard’s relief, Lord Braxton puts the minor horde of functionaries into order within minutes, each of them providing business cards, contact information, and details. A brief conversation with Braxton confirms that I’ll have to meet with them, but for now, I can grind in peace.

  He only asks that I inform him when I intend to exit the Dungeon. I admit, I hesitate at that, realizing how much of a potential opening that might offer. But then, staring at the crowd, I realize I’m much more of target as I am. Some changes to my routine will have to be made.

  Chapter 24

  “Paladin! I’m sorry for the late introduction. No one told me you were coming!” The manager hurries up to me, wringing his hands.

  I stare at him, then dismiss him from notice. Instead, I turn back to the factory floor beneath my feet, where the Artisans are hard at work. Lines and lines of them, each of them at their own workstation, attaching, building, creating drones. Putting together the expendable equipment for war that drives the Erethrans onward.

  Dirty gray-steel robots move between stations, picking up finished drones, marking them off, and moving to the next, delivering the finished work for inspection. A few inspectors check over the work, scanning the Status of each item before they’re packed away in appropriate bins.

  In the meantime, the Artisans work unceasingly. Garnering small amounts of XP as they grind away at their job. Small amounts—for the lack of innovation, the lack of development—means that most Classes get nearly nothing from this process. Just Credits, paid by the factory owners.

  It’s why there’s such uniformity between Levels for those below. Why so many peak and hold steady, whether they’re twenty-year-olds or seventy-year-old Artisans. The only real continuity among those below is the diversity of races and the lack of Levels. Even clothing—or lack of it—is different except for the lack of enchanted material. There’s no need for uniforms, and dress styles are wide and varied. Fashion—on a Galactic scale—is so varied, and yet, can often be local.