***
The log's last entry had been placed today. Was this going on somewhere right now? Who was this person, and how many desolate and delusional men were out there, living in isolation as part of some? some organization? He'd said the exact same words: the only defense we have against nightmare is the power of self-sacrifice. If I hadn't had those words, I'd have never found the log, so he had to be connected to -
Wait a second.
A brunette woman.
In both messages, a brunette woman had inexplicably visited in the last few days. She'd said little the first time, and nothing the second. Had she just sat there listening to that poor cold man speak his mind? What was her agenda?
And? wait? what the hell? What was GLORWOC, and how were there oceans of it around a mountain? Surely someone would have noticed? Surely there'd have been news about what sounded like a global disaster?
And there was.
On the same small network on which I'd found the audio transcript.
Oh my God?
Cached copies. It was all cached copies. The network didn't exist there, not anymore. The timestamps went back years? articles about the GLORWOC threat, stories about containment attempts, news pieces on cults that worshipped and spread the spectral blue to as many people as they could, world governments banding together at the last, and then? silence.
But that couldn't be possible.
The world was right here, and perfectly fine.
Just where did this small network originate?
Seized by a terrible suspicion, I sifted through the data on that network, and many others. It became clear, in short order, that I was right. Our system didn't just connect to our Internet and our network - it connected to dozens of Internets and networks of widely varying sizes, and every single one carried with it a unique set of trends, memes, and histories.
I couldn't process it, but I couldn't deny it, either: our system spanned dozens of realities. We were the sole connection between dozens of alternate Earths with varying situations? many grim. That poor man trapped eleven thousand feet underground? that lone freezing soul on the mountain, keeping watch over the dead? they weren't on my Earth at all!
Data transmission, I could understand. In some way, I didn't doubt information could pass between universes. But who was this brunette woman in her early thirties, and how was she appearing to these forlorn men?
And who the hell was I working for?
Rethinking my entire search strategy, I quickly deleted all evidence of my activities, and then set a passive trigger for any real-time mention of a brunette woman in her early thirties.
There's nothing to do but wait, now?
The Desolate Guardians Page 6