by Tao Wong
“Paladin?” the manager calls again, hesitantly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Tell me about the factory,” I say.
This is the fourth such location I’ve visited in the last three days, popping in in between my grinds, when it’s unexpected or when I’m done. Unsurprisingly, these factories work all hours. Churning out drones, ammunition, even repurposing monster parts.
“Ah, well, we make the d’Ius line of sentry drones here. They range from the Mark IV to Mark VII prototypes. Once made, we classify the results”—a wave of his hand encompasses the QA trio—“pack, and ship them. All those below are independent contractors. They purchase the rights to use the respective blueprints, then manufacture them to the best of their ability. Completed works are then paid to them, direct via the System.”
“Interesting system,” I say non-commitally.
“It certainly is. Ever since we’ve instituted the commission rate system, we’ve seen a tripling of our output,” the Manager says proudly.
I grunt, staring down below. What he doesn’t say, what Harry found out when Spuryan’s people sent us the note, was they’d also managed to keep their payroll cost from ballooning by reducing payouts. The people below are producing more, for less pay. Unfortunately, Credit loans for the purchase of the blueprints lock the workers in, forcing them to work themselves to the bone. Worse, when someone does manage to Level up and thus increase their production levels, they’re often convinced to try their hand at another blueprint in another factory. Of course, there’s more chance of Leveling with a new blueprint, but it also means they’re locked in again.
It’s a vicious little circle, and one of the ongoing trends in industrial production among the Erethran capitalists. The Generals don’t complain—they get cheaper equipment to use. The Adventurers are happy, because their loot drops sell for more. And the merchants and nobles, they laugh at their Credit balances.
It’s just the Artisans, caught in the middle and exploited, who have issues. And no one, at least not yet, is talking for them.
“How many d’Ius factories are there?”
“In this sector?” The manager appears to mentally count. “Eleven of this size. Another two larger. And another forty subsidiaries.”
“And you’ve implemented this in all the factories?”
“Yes, Paladin.”
I don’t bother asking further questions, opening a Portal and walking through it. This one takes me to the nearest planetary teleportation point. I’m done with the dungeon on this world. So it’s time to move on.
***
“Paladin, thank you. If you hadn’t arrived…”
“No thanks needed. It was the right thing to do.” I offer a smile to General d’HaBarn, letting my gaze flick across to the battle plot next to him. “I’m surprised though, that you got caught out like that.”
“It’s rare that planetary invasions are done before the space battles are complete,” the General admits, shaking his head. “I never expected the Uswain to be so bold. Or that they’d let their Lesasson come.”
I grunt. That had been a painful beating. If I hadn’t been able to get Mikito and Bolo to come with me, fighting off the equivalent of a mini-Heroic Champion of the Uswain Confederacy would have been… impossible. It’d taken all three of us, pounding away at him, and the four Master Classers on the planet to make him run. If we hadn’t managed to displace the majority of the fight out of the city and over what used to be the local newbie hunting ground, the damage would have been a lot more extensive.
“Why did they?” I say, frowning. “Harry tells me that they’ve never let him leave his Empire before.”
“Ah… well, what can one say? The Uswain are difficult to understand,” d’HaBarn says, waving in dismissal.
“I’d think you’d want to understand your enemy,” I say, letting my voice cool.
“Bah. Crezar are too animalistic to really understand,” d’HaBarn sniffs.
“Really.” My voice grows flatter as I stare at the General. Information from Ali, from Harry scrolls up at a thought. I’d set the reporter on it the moment we learnt of the attack. And what he managed to dig up—from tapping into non-Erethran news sources—was enlightening. “So you really have no idea why the Lesasson might show up?”
“I don’t try to understand the thoughts of such enemies,” d’HaBarn repeats.
“Fair enough. I’ll be sure to let Brerdain know,” I say.
“Let him know what?” d’HaBarn’s voice goes higher.
I smile grimly. “About your lack of imagination. Understanding that attacking the Crezar Creche and ‘accidentally’ killing a generation of their pups seems like a simple conclusion to draw. Even for a non-military man like me.” I lean forward, glaring at d’HaBarn. “I expect the Chief will have his own words on the matter.”
To my surprise, d’HaBarn relaxes a little. My eyes narrow, and a quick query to Ali brings up the information. And the respective family trees. A quick check with Society’s Web confirms my feeling and I internally debate the matter.
Throw him out of the airlock and leave the fleet without a commanding officer? Weakening this sector of space? Or let him pull the strings he thinks he can pull to keep his position? I’m reminded, once more, that the army he controls holds loyalty to him, not Brerdain or the Queen.
“We all have much to do, Paladin. In lodging our respective reports,” d’HaBarn says, his voice cool too. “If you don’t mind…”
“Yeah, I get it.” I walk to the exit of the command deck. Already, I’m composing a message to Brerdain and the Minister of War.
Let’s see how they handle this. And if not… well. I can always space d’HaBarn later.
Or let one of the other Paladins do it.
***
My fist hammers into the prison, and it cracks. Seconds later, the prison reforms. I growl, kicking at the prison again, watching it reform and feeling a little of the shock from my attack rebound. I can feel the prison of light and Mana they used moving, the assassins taking me to another location.
Smart. They couldn’t kill me, not here. Not in the middle of the city. But move me to a different location? Maybe torture, mind-smash me into submission while getting their person in play? That’s doable. Especially since a half dozen Mages are forming this ritual prison.
I could try breaking it with Army of One. But the secondary rebound effect on the prison would kill me if I failed to break through. I can’t help but wonder if the cracks I see are there on purpose, to make me overconfident.
“Ah hell. Let’s try this…” I mutter and pull out a grenade.
Not a Chaos Grenade. I’m not that desperate yet. Just a Ghostlight Mana Dispersal grenade. Four dropped at my feet, and three minutes later, it’s sufficient to make the poor prison falter, the Mages who’ve been holding it aloft drained and unable to continue feeding the prison Mana.
Cleanup after that is simple. I even leave most of it to the local police force—after beating the Mages to the ground and locking away their escape methods. Idiot Mage team seemed to have forgotten to bring non-Mana based backup.
Afterward, while I watch them get carted away, Lord Braxton makes an appearance. The Houndmaster is looking a little harried, and that’s no surprise. This is, like, the tenth or eleventh attack I’ve had to deal with. Not counting whatever my guard personnel have stopped.
“Paladin, you need to tell us where you’re going beforehand!” Braxton complains. “At the least we can alert local constablury.”
“And let my enemies know what I plan to do?” I shake my head. “No thanks.”
“Do you think what you’re doing is working?” Braxton gestures around. “You’re only heading off the least prepared. A good Path Analysis later, they know where you’re going.”
“So why aren’t you doing that?” I say, cocking an eyebrow at Braxton.
“We are!” Braxton snaps. “But we’re on your side. There’s no reason for us to be wast
ing Credits and time, guessing at what you’re going to do.”
I pause, considering if I should point out that this is more an Empire problem than mine. “Oh come on, this is at least giving the new staff a good workout, right?”
I nod toward the group of Administrators, Public Interfaces, and Investigators who are talking to the local police force. There’s even a growing argument between the Investigators and the force on the disposition of the prisoners.
“Any idea who hired these guys?” I ask my now routine question.
To my surprise, Braxton has an actual answer this time. “We do. We lucked out this time. The second-last cut-out was someone already under investigation, so we had a tap on him. Your Title came up under a routine search when you called it in.” Braxton shakes his head. “We’re still refining the automatic AI searches on the data. It doesn’t help that you’ve got so many Titles.”
I snort, but can sort of understand it. When there are a million ways to describe me, setting up an automatic search on general data trawled through the million and one information sources they have must be a pain. “So?”
“So what?”
“Who is it?”
“Oh, Lord d’Frami. Minor house noble. He’s the second cousin of Lord—”
“K’was.” I sigh. “And they still think that idiot has a chance?”
“Not with you talking about it publicly,” Braxton growls.
I shrug unrepentantly. “I wouldn’t trust him to find the throne with a GPS, a seeing eye dog, a Boy Scout, Delta Force Rangers, and the System all aiding him. Never mind rule anything more complicated than a Lego playhouse.”
Braxton shakes his head. “If you’re trying to confuse me, you can stop. Your Spirit introduced me to a proper culture pack download. I now even know of M.A.S.H.”
I shoot a look over to where Ali is busy watching the growing argument between our men and the police force, a bucket of popcorn in hand. The Spirit’s sense of humor can get arcane at times. M.A.S.H. is a little before my time, but I decide not to pop Braxton’s bubble.
“So. You got a good scent for d’Frami?” I say. “Able to track him down?”
“We’ll catch him, don’t worry about that,” Braxton says, shaking his head. “I just hope you Level soon. This is getting…”
“Interesting.” I grin, waving goodbye to Braxton as I open up the Portal.
My surprise visit to the nearest healing shop, where Spuryan had fed me some more information, is scuppered. So I move on to plan I.
Or is it J?
***
The gas giant beneath me reminds me of Jupiter, both in coloration and size. Giant, swirling brown clouds pass beneath my feet as the ship continues its routine patrol. I’m crouched next to the nervous recruit, hooked onto the open strut and feeling the barest tug of increasing velocity as the ship continues to gain thrust.
“So this is routine maintenance?” I say.
“Yes, Paladin,” the recruit says, nervousness evident in every word. He’s got a welding torch in one hand, a fistful of crafted metal-horn hybrid wire in the other. I see the overlaid glyphs his helmet is displaying on the strut, where he’s carefully attaching the wire in exacting detail. “We have to replace the glyphs every month. But with the size of the K’trum, Paladin, it’s—”
“I get it. Neverending work. And not enough of you guys, right? There’s always more than enough people with guns, but people with actual skills…”
The private looks up and shyly offers me a nod. It’s a shared smile, as if I get it. And I do, in a sense.
Random Recruit Whose Name You’ve Already Forgotten (Erethran Space Cadet Level 17) (B)
HP: 130/130
MP: 210/210
Conditions: Mana Sense
“Seriously, Ali?”
“You’re telling me you remembered it?”
“That’s not the point!”
“So they put you through special training for this, right?” I say, gesturing below.
“Yes, Paladin.” The recruit offers me a proud smile. “We get trained in the basics now, if we have the aptitude. Start specializing with some of our Skill choices. Then as an Advanced Class, we can further specialize. I’m going for Erethran Spatial MagiMechanic.”
I nod. “And until then, you grind this? Get experience for it?”
“Yes, sir. Cadets get experience for following orders and combat, Paladin.”
“Very good. Well, I won’t bother you. I’m sure your Sargent will be on you if you don’t get this done.” I grin and wave goodbye to the kid before opening a Portal to send me back into the hull itself.
There are a few others I want to chat with, to get a feel of their navy. Overall, in contrast to the weirdness of the Generals, the navy is almost entirely of one mind and loyalty. I guess it helps that the navy and their ships get paid for by the Queen. Add in a constant rotation of membership, and while there’s intense loyalty to their immediate Captains, there’s less of the insubordination I noted with the Generals.
As I snap shut the Portal behind me, I muse about their social structure. About the challenges Brerdain and Julierudi face in keeping their people contained, in gaining loyalty otherwise. And, worse, of the deeper corrupt currents at play. Too many damn people have their fingers in too many pies, all of them refusing to extract them.
And somehow, they think a few Paladins can fix it.
I’m not sure whether to be flattered or appalled. But I make sure to compose another cautionary note for my friends on Earth to watch out for my initiates.
***
A few days later, Harry is finally back. I’m still mostly running around by myself, my friends busy with their own activities. Mikito occasionally swings by. More often than not, an attack materializes soon after. It’s an uncanny ability, one that she’s loath to explain beyond saying that it’s just a feeling she gets.
I get a feeling too, that it’s both her Skill and Harry’s quiet influence. Surprisingly, Bolo rarely shows up, busy with his own activities. I’m almost annoyed by his abandonment. But the vast majority of the attacks are less than effective. The only few times it matters, he makes an appearance.
It’s hard for assassins to surprise someone when said person spent his formative years in an apocalypse, and then most recently spent the same amount of time doing the same job as the attackers.
It also helps that the majority of the true threats—teams of Master Classers, Heroic level bounty hunters, and the like—are kept at bay by the presence of the Erethran military. Few bounty hunters or assassins are willing to risk angering an entire kingdom.
Finding Harry waiting for me in the dining room is a bit of a surprise. What’s not so surprising is the array of fish and chips before him. I join him, eyeing the multiple plates, each of them with a slightly different golden coloring to the batter and each “fish” piece in different sizes and shapes. Each set of chips is formatted in a different way. All of them are within easy reaching distance, except for a plate of chips that’s been shoved far away. The thinly sliced potato serving isn’t exactly what I’d call chips anyway.
“Harry, what exactly are you doing?” I say.
“New job. I’m being paid by the local culinary circle in the capital to rate their attempts at my national dish,” Harry says, the last words dripping with contempt.
I’m slightly amused a second later as the dark-skinned man spears another crispy golden fish flake and shoves it into his mouth. He chews slowly, eyes narrowing, then writes a note on the pad.
“Huh. I wonder why no one’s asked me to do that for poutine,” I say. Seems like an easy money day, and I get to try a lot of food. Then I spot certain irregularities among the dishes. What should be tender, flaky, and moist white fish flesh is, at times, different. There’s a myriad of colors, a variety of unusual shapes and consistencies hidden beneath the batter. In fact, one of those… “Is that Krishna meat?”
“Yes,” Harry says, sounding annoyed. “It’s not enough that
they try to recreate the dish. No, they’ve decided to add a Galactic twist to it.”
I can’t help but chuckle a little at the disgust in Harry’s tone. I take a seat beside him and conjure a set of dining utensils. After all, I can’t let him suffer by himself.
“I do blame you for this, John.” At my raised eyebrow, he points with his fork. “You’ve been dining out, with your lady friend, so much that you started a trend. Of making the human Paladin satisfied.”
A little thoughtful hmmm at his words while I pin down a chip and raise it to my lips. Spicy. Why would you make chips spicy? “Anything else I should know?”
“Assassinations, minor border skirmishes, random poisonings. Any of that sparking any brain cells?” Harry says.
“Yes. I do get the reports from the guards and my security detail. And, of course, from the nobles with Brerdain and Julierudi when they’re trying to get their digs in at one another. But I get the feeling you’ve seen something?”
Henry snorts and flicks his fork at me. Luckily, there’s no food on it, which means all I have to worry about is the flood of notifications he sends. News articles, his analysis, additional details that don’t make it to the reports. I get to reading while we gorge on the dishes. He occasionally interrupts me, asking for my feedback.
We pass plates back and forth, along with silent notes on the events. And there are lot of notes. Fish and chips should not be made with vegetables. Firstly, System vegetables are mutated and have a tendency to poison or otherwise drug eaters. Secondly, incidents like the accidental delivery of a container of Master Class monster parts are sparking up border skirmishes between nobles and other smaller planets. Thirdly, fish. It’s in the name.