by Tao Wong
I sigh and shake my head. I guess he’s going to make himself known then. A part of me considers ordering the Spirit to stay hidden so he can be another card up my sleeve. I recall doing that when I first entered Whitehorse, scared of what I’d find. But considering what we’re about to do, I have a feeling that hiding him could be futile and potentially lead to accusations of deception.
“We’re trying for a peaceful, productive meeting,” I say without much hope in my tone. Still, a man has to try.
“This better?”
After I pick myself and Sabre off the asphalt and brush down my now-dirty armored jumpsuit, I resolutely refuse to look at the Spirit while speaking to him. “Why are you wearing a Borat swimsuit?”
“What? Everyone loves that movie.”
“Your definition of everyone needs readjusting. And I repeat, we want a peaceful, productive meeting. So for all our sakes, control yourself. Or else I’ll banish you,” I say.
Ali sniffs, and I risk a quick glance out of the corner of my eyes to see him in a simple black shirt and blue jeans. I exhale softly, catching the grin on Ali’s face, and I realize the ass was messing with me. Still, it worked. I’m a lot less tense.
As we roll along the 5 into the outskirts of Everett, I eye my surroundings with a little more care. All I really know of this satellite town is that it’s mostly industrial buildings and bikini-barista coffee shacks. As I drive past one such shack, tucked in the corner of a gas station, I’m surprised to see movement within. A moment later, I realize it’s an evolved cat, not a human. I’m a bit disappointed. Those bikini-barista girls are weird, a strange intersection of the West Coast caffeine obsession and male lust. I blink after a moment—Ali’s most recent game crossed my mind as it free-associated around bikinis.
“What did you say?” Ali asks, cocking his head in my direction.
“Kittens. Cute, fluffy kittens,” I remind myself aloud, trying to bleach my brain.
Thankfully, we’re going to be meeting outside downtown Everett at Spencer Island Park. It’s not anyone’s choice location, too far out of Seattle proper for the groups based in the city, not inside Everett itself or any other satellite town for the suburb groups. No one’s happy, which makes it the perfect meeting spot.
Ali fills in my minimap long before I arrive at the meeting space, showcasing the wide variety of Classes and individuals awaiting me. There are Scouts, Hunters, Sneaks, and Rogues galore on the outside, keeping away the monsters that might disturb the meeting. And within, we’ve got an even wider variety of Classes—but as always, almost all of them are Combat Classers. Damn it.
When I glide into the parking lot on Sabre, I attract some attention. When they realize I’m alone, I attract even more. And by the time I take my place off to the side, without joining any of the other groups, everyone is looking at me. Tapping the side of my helmet, I let it slide down to let everyone see me properly while I regard the groups.
In one corner is a group predominantly made up of Mages of one form or another, all Advanced Classes, all of them within five Levels of each other, most leaning toward an Asian / South-Asian mix. They’ve got specializations from Ice Elementalists to Conjurers to Metamagician and more. Almost all of them have decent Constitutions, but few seem to have put anything into Strength or Agility. In addition to the Mages, I spot a couple of what must be tanks, one of them still in his security guard uniform. A single girl stands out in the crowd of men, alone. At a guess, those would be the programmers from Microsoft.
In another corner are the Sons of Odin, who are shooting dismissive and angry looks at me and the Mage group. No surprise in their makeup, though there’s a few more women among the long-haired, biker-styled idiots than I’d expect. Lots of yellow hair there, some obviously bottle blond. I check out their Levels and their Classes, noting a decent mix that leans toward melee fighting with a wider range than the Mages. Their leader is obvious, a tattooed monster of a man, nearly seven feet tall with a ponytail and biker leathers, a monster of a pistol strapped to his leg. Quick verification from Ali shows that it’s likely enchanted leather, offering more than just aesthetic appeal.
Sweeping my eyes along, I assess the other groups. A multi-national group leaning toward Latinos in one corner. An all-female group in another. A couple of groups almost exclusively made of African Americans. Another pair that I could swear is made up of the criminal elements. The baristas—one of the few non-Combatant groups here—have their own corner with a table laid out, doing brisk business selling cups of joe and bottles of their pre-made coffee.
My gaze is drawn to the large group of individuals in military uniform. Or are those army fatigues? My enhanced memory absently points out that a uniform is just a mode of dress and fatigues are just combat uniform. Or at least, that’s what those books alluded to. When my eyes lock on the group, my stare is met by a gentleman in his late forties. Flanking him is a group that is obviously his security detail and the person I assume is his aide. I’m sure the things on their uniforms have something interesting to say, but I don’t read military. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to those rank insignias in those first-person shooters I used to play. That is, if fictional space marine insignia translates to the real world.
“Coffee?” A soft whisper of a voice to my left almost makes me jump. Even if I knew she was going to try it, Ingrid almost has me levitating off the ground.
“Sure,” I keep my tone cool as I take the cup. Even the faintest whiff is enough to make me salivate. The taste itself is incredible—perfectly mellow, with strong hints of cinnamon and an aftertaste that disappears before I sip again. I’ve finished half the cup before I realize it. “Damn…”
Superior Cold Coffee Ingested
+8% to Regeneration Rates
Duration: 1 hour
“Told you,” Ingrid says with a smirk. “So where’s everyone else?”
“They’ll be here.”
Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Well, don’t screw it up. It took me quite a bit to get everyone to show up.”
“You did good,” I say. A glance at the clock in the upper right tells me we’ve got another five minutes before we’re supposed to start.
“Let’s get this started,” the blond biker says, stomping forward. I mentally tag him as BB—a childish toy wanting to be grown up. “We’re wasting time and kills here.”
A glance around shows that while he might be impatient, no one seems to be gainsaying his words. Grunting, I walk forward, a slight queasiness in my stomach that I push aside. Public speaking was never my forte, but after all I’ve gone through, that fear is easy enough to deal with.
“Afternoon. Thank you all for coming,” I say. Blondie shifts in impatience, but I ignore him as I let my gaze wander around. “My name is John Lee. I’m the current owner of Vancouver and the settlements around it. Since you guys are our closest neighbors, I figured it’s time for us to meet and talk. Especially before the Sect returns.”
“Sect?” a voice calls from one of the groups.
“The aliens,” BB replies. “Invading our territory, claiming it for their own.”
“Are they expected to return? Your friend indicated that they had retreated from their holdings in Vancouver,” the soldier says. Well, Officer, to be exact for his Class.
For now, I ignore their names since I can fix their characteristics in my mind easier this way. Also, I hate remembering names and I have more important things to deal with. “Not soon. We’ve done enough damage to them here that they’re going to consolidate before they come back. But they’ll be back. If not them, someone else.”
The Officer inclines his head slightly, accepting my words. Murmurs rise as others talk.
One of the Mages steps forward. A Blue Mage, whatever that is. “So what do you want? You didn’t call this meeting to just say hi.”
“Yeah, what do you want, eh?” BB mocks.
“No. I didn’t,” I say, replying to the Blue Mage and ignoring BB. “How much do you peop
le know of the world around us? Of the state of your nation and the world?” I ask rhetorically. “We’re lucky here, mostly. We’ve got our cities back under human control. There are other cities, other countries where humans are desperately fighting for any space they can find. There are a lot of places where humans are what the Sect would have us be—Serfs and servants, landless peasants without a say.” I pause before I take my next gamble. “If you’ll allow me, there’s someone I think you should all hear from.”
“Someone…?”
There’re more than a few looks around me, obviously not seeing anyone. But more than a few nod and a few shrug, figuring I’ve got whoever I want farther out. Which means when the glowing black and gold Portal opens up, there are a few exclamations of shock.
“That’s sweet.”
“Nice. Dimension Door?”
“Long-range teleport,” his friend mutters.
The Mages whisper among themselves.
“A Skill,” I answer everyone.
Lana comes out first, followed soon after by her pets. The animals get a few looks but no exclamations since they’re obviously under control. That, and the seven-foot-tall brute of a minotaur clad in modern combat armor draws all the attention, such that Mikito is barely even seen.
“Monster!”
A targeted beam attack splashes against Capstan’s portable shield. The Yerrick growls as he drops a hand to his combat axe. Lana steps forward quickly, blocking the attacks as best she can while I throw a Soul Shield on her and the pets spread out, letting out low growls. Another second and a twist of my hand has me layering a Soul Shield on top of Ulrick as well.
“Stop that!” I snap.
“He’s a monster. A… bull-thing!” The first attacker still has his beam rifle pointed at Ulrick, though he’s not shooting. His friends have all pulled weapons as well, ready to attack the Yerrick.
“Minotaur,” one of the Mages mutters pedantically.
“I’d drop that,” Ingrid says, whispering into the attacker’s ear. A knife is at his throat, the young First Nations woman magically appearing next to the man.
A part of me wonders when she disappeared, but I dismiss that question for more important things. Like the rising tension as BB pulls and points his pistol at her head.
“Chill it,” I snarl.
“Calm,” Lana states, the Aura of the Red Queen flaring again. Her hair seems to darken, becoming a blood red that is not entirely natural. Those violet eyes shift to a brilliant purple as her skin becomes fairer and closer to marble. More, a palpable sense of danger comes from her now.
The attacking group, bearing the brunt of her attention, whitens, a few stepping backward and lowering their guns, others clenching their fists.
“So. Hot,” a hipster kid manning the barista bar, the same one who exclaimed how “sweet” my portal was, says, his tongue almost hanging out. Probably not the effect Lana’s Aura was meant for.
“Charisma effect. Not always going to work the way you think it will,” Ali mentions. “But I got to agree, damn but the lady’s quite edible.”
“I hope this isn’t how you mean to treat us. Threats are not the basis of a good working relationship,” the Officer says, his legs spread as he stands at ease, hands behind his back. Still, I can see the slight tightness around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders as he wills himself to ignore Lana’s aura.
BB keeps his gun pointed at Ingrid, fingers white around the pistol hilt.
“Capstan Ulrick is our friend and a guest. Attacking him is an attack on us,” I say firmly. “But we’re willing to set the violence aside and talk if everyone else is.”
“Fuck that. I ain’t listening to no alien,” snarls BB.
“Then leave,” I say.
“You…” BB growls, shifting his gaze and pistol to point at me.
I ignore his provocations, watching as the others edge away from fighting. Repressed by Lana’s aura and without additional violence or any hostile action by Capstan, the initial impetus fades. Lana, sensing the mood change, drops her Aura. Yet the pets don’t move from their positions around the Yerrick.
It’s then, and only then, that I dismiss the Portal. My Mana is nearly half gone, between all the casting and Skill usage, but there’s more than enough to get us out of here again. The way the Officer is eyeing me and the location where the Portal is, I can see his mind churning.
Until Capstan speaks. “My name is Capstan Ulrick, First Fist of my tribe. The Redeemer has requested that I speak of my people’s history to you, to explain a little of what you must understand. The dangers that lie ahead.” Capstan’s eyes sweep over the group. “The Yerrick are a displaced people. Our home world was integrated into the System without warning, like yours. Unlike you, we integrated into the greater Galactic System as one of their many worlds. What we did not understand was the meaning of this. We did not understand that a settlement, once sold, cannot be rebought. That land, once taken by the larger groups, could never be retrieved. Not without war.
“We were lied to, tricked, and threatened. We lost our lands, our settlements, and eventually, our world. Now the Yerrick serve under others. My people are scattered through the Galaxy as they attempt to earn enough Credits to survive.”
“Boo hoo hoo. One set of aliens taking advantage of another,” one of the Sons of Odin interjects.
Capstan stares at the interrupter, the look he gives him priceless—it’s the kind of look you give a particularly hairy bug and you’re trying to decide if killing it or smacking it away is the better choice. Once the Son of Odin quiets down, Capstan speaks in detail. For the next hour, he talks. At first explaining the process and their history, later diverting to specific questions.
I keep quiet, listening with half my attention. I know most of this already, having spoken with him before. But the information is a revelation to most others.
So much of it is familiar though—to anyone who studies history anyway. Find a few groups that are at odds, pit them against each other while you pay pennies on the dollar for goods—land—that you want while selling your goods at a huge markup. Control the information, control access to the Shops, bring in secondary or tertiary groups to “rule.” Never, ever keep a promise that is bad for you, breaking contracts and rules where you can. After all, a Contract might hold you and the other party to it, but if you word it right, the Contract can affect an entire settlement on one end and a disposable corporation on the other.
And always, always, keep control of what’s important—the City Core and the people.
“Thanks, First Fist,” I say to Capstan after an hour, when the crowd is getting bored, other than a few notable individuals. “Now, the reason I wanted you to hear that is for you guys to start figuring out what the hell you’re doing. From what I understand, you’ve left the Sect in control of various City Cores because none of you can agree on who gets to control them. Or hell, which form of government you intend to take.”
“There shouldn’t be any real argument. We’re still part of the US of A. We should be having an election,” a rather tubby gentleman mutters, his arms crossed in front of him.
His friends are all nodding firmly, as are a few groups.
“We are in a national emergency. In such a circumstance, the United States Army should take control of the city till we are in contact with a legitimate authority,” the Officer says, shaking his head. “If an election is decided upon, we can help conduct such an event in a fair and impartial manner.”
“Oh, like we’re going to let you army boys take over,” growls an African American man. I’m a bit jealous really—he’s wearing the System-equivalent of a leather hoodie and it’s styling. “Like you guys are actually supposed to be acting on US soil.”
“This is a unique situation,” the Officer says, turning to the man. “And there are specific protocols that have been put in place—”
“Yeah, and you still won’t tell us about what’s happened with your nukes,” one of the baristas
says, glaring.
“We’ve already said there is an SOP involved in such a situation. Suffice it to say that there are plans in place for a catastrophic event like this.”
“Oh really, you guys got protocols for the end of the world and the introduction of humanity to a gaming system?” scoffs the Blue Mage.
“Not exactly, but—”
“Ahem,” I cough, quite loudly. “Look, I get it. You all have questions, and you’ve got your own things to deal with. But the longer you argue, the more people—your people—die. You need to get yourselves a city, which means putting together a real organization that all your city cores are tied to.”
“And how did you do that?” the Latino spokesperson asks, eyeing me.
“I own it. All of it,” I say, seeing no point in lying. “We’re working on a better government system, but Vancouver and its surrounding cities are now tied together.”
“You’re a Canadian dictator?” the African American says, choking on a laugh.
“Free maple syrup for all!” the Son of Odin heckler speaks up. This time, he does get a few laughs. “Watch out for the giant beavers!”
That last one gets less of a laugh as they stare at the giant red fox and Lana’s puppies.
“For now,” I say with a shrug, ignoring the heckling. “Speed is important, if you guys haven’t understood Capstan’s point. Once the big boys start moving—and some already have—we’re screwed. As it is, Texas is wholly owned by the Inlin Corporation. Alaska and the Yukon by the Duchess. Europe’s a battleground between five different groups, two of which are backed by the Movana. We need to establish a foothold and take out the smaller groups if we want any say in our lives.”
“And you want our help,” the Officer says, eyes narrowed.
“Aye. My people are good. But there aren’t enough of us. If we’re going to be expanding, we’re going to need help,” I say.
“And there we have it. The real reason you came down,” BB says before spitting to the side. “I knew you people had an agenda. We ain’t going to die for you.”