by Tao Wong
“Can’t do it, boy-o. Hide, make it less prominent, sure. But Titles can’t be removed.” Ali pauses, rubbing his nose. “Well, okay. It’s doable, but the Classes are all very rare and in-demand. And the Shop is expensive. Especially for a Title pushed by the Council—you’d be bidding against them.” I wince but Ali’s not done. “Also, you’d get it again the moment you started reading.”
“So what? Suck it up?”
“Got it in one.” Ali flashes me a grin. “I knew you were trainable.”
Turning to the librarian, I growl out my next question. “Reading room?”
“This way.” The librarian seems unperturbed by the entire discussion, waving down the way.
I stomp along, intent on milking this damn branch of everything I can now that I’ve gotten an unwanted Title. Just what I needed. Another complication.
Chapter 12
Projected 3D holograms, 2D video recordings, text and audio files all play, creating a cacophony of sounds and a maelstrom of color and motion. They all freeze as a call from the emergency party line cuts in, bringing silence to the library’s viewing room.
“What is it, Mikito?” I snarl. If she has been thrown into another prison because she got into a fight, I’ll… break her out again.
Deflating slightly with that thought, I’m surprised by Harry’s voice. The Reporter is very good at keeping out of trouble, especially compared to the pair of us. “It’s me. Need to ask you a few questions.”
“You interrupted me for that?” I shake my head, pushing aside the irritation. I was in the groove, soaking up information by the ton, watching my System Quest experience tick up. Nowhere near as fast as a good fight, but so much safer. “What is it? And what are you doing anyway?”
“A new video series. The life and times of a rebel star,” Harry says.
“We’re on a pirate station.”
“Mine sounds better.”
“And there’s already a well-known series about pirate stations. In fact, there are eleven major network series, twenty-four documentaries, and eleven on-going reality shows,” Ali chimes in. “Did you know that the entire crew of one of your reality TV shows was rescued from an island and transported to Goom-ax by the Marquisse of Goom himself to increase ratings of his flagging show? He’s now ranked sixth and is facing a triplicate of divorces.”
“I did not know that.” I wonder if it’s a good or bad thing he’s divorcing. For that matter, who exactly is the Marquisse, what was the show about, and why did he feel the need to put himself on display? Then again, I have my own personal War Reporter, so perhaps I should store my stones.
“Ahem.” Harry says the word instead of clearing his throat, an act that makes me stare at him. Now that he has my attention, the reporter continues. “I need your expertise on something. I’m seeing a lot of echoes in the social and economic structures between Irvina and Spaks and wanted your opinion on them.”
“Why me?”
“You’re my resident expert on the System, no?”
I can’t help but grunt in reply.
Seeing that I haven’t killed the feed yet, Harry hurries on. “Right. So. Five rings around Spaks, with decreasing amounts of security and economic stability as you move away from the central station. Remind you of something?”
“Irvina, as you said. And pretty much every developed settlement,” I say. “It makes sense. You want to put the most important things close to the core, from the governor’s residence to the main Shop access. Heck, even your first teleportation pad often goes in close. Least likely to be damaged by rampaging monsters or invading forces. Dimensional locks, even those enforced by the System, are strongest near the core. You build defenses out from the places you need to defend, making sure you have multiple fallback points. Not a surprising similarity when it’s common sense.”
“What do you say of common sense? That it’s not common at all?” Ali says as an aside.
I glare at the Spirit, who smirks, almost missing Harry’s next words.
“Just give me a few moments to set up the scenario, okay?” Harry continues without waiting for my answer. “Now, Credits are still in use here. System Shops and teleportation work, even if teleportation is heavily restricted and require passes.”
“Again, like Irvina,” I say.
“Then you’ve got the people who have grown up here. The naturalized residents of the station. Did you know that promotion between the rings is possible but very uncommon?”
“I think we just took part in one such movement, no?”
“A violent and aggressive one. And really, it only worked for the people on the top. Any of the illegal immigrants who shifted stations while the fighting was going on will be kicked back to their previous station once they’re found. If they’re lucky.”
“And if they’re unlucky?”
“Serfdom. Or merchant bait,” Harry says.
I shift in my seat, eyes narrowing. “Clarify bait.”
“It’s expensive getting a ship that can catch up to others in hyperspace. Even more expensive getting weapons or individuals with the right kind of Skills that can take a ship out of hyper,” Harry says. “So. Drop a few live sentients in an escape pod, make sure it’s banged up enough that it looks right and reads right to the System. Use a few more Skills to mess with the information available via the System, and suddenly you’ve got live bait in a failing escape pod.”
“People fall for that?” I say.
“There’s a fool born every minute,” Ali says. “But it’s also a matter of numbers. If you drop enough of them on enough major hyperspace routes, you’ll get a bite sooner or later. Once your target drops out of hyperspace, transiting back up can take a while. Especially if you pack the escape pod with the right kind of material.”
“Dimensional transit disrupting material?” I vaguely recall experiencing that in one dungeon. The monster’s body was so filled with the disruptive material that it made even Blink Step—a small scale dimensional hop—impossible to use.
“Explosives.”
“Oh.”
“It’s rare to force sentients to play bait. Most are volunteers—people desperate to escape serfdom, to make themselves useful to the pirate captains,” Harry says. “Leveling’s not easy outside of the dungeons or Dungeon Worlds. Fewer monsters, especially in space. A lot higher chance of death due to the hazardous environment. Get caught in the wrong ‘flow’ of Mana and you’ll end up meeting the wrong kind of monster.”
That, I knew all too well. Like the oceans of Earth, space has its own current. Except the current is made up of Mana flows. In the heavier, denser currents, high Level monsters like the Leviathans swim, living off the ambient Mana most of the time. But like the whales of Earth, many break out from the heavy currents, moving into shallower currents at irregular intervals, seeking something. Unlike System-formed Leveling zones on Dungeon Worlds, the probability of running into high Level monsters in lower level currents is high, especially as the System does not subtly guide these creatures around. It’s one of the dangers of deep space travel they don’t really tell you about.
“Fine. So movement is hard between rings. Life is tough. Your point?” I say, changing topic again.
“My point is that the restrictions are by design.”
“Spakss’s?” I say, rubbing my chin. “I’m not following.”
“Not Spaks, the System. Think about it. If you’ve got a ship to be repaired, do you go to the guy with an Advanced Class or to the Basic Class? Credits being the same, that is? If you’ve got a ship that needs piloting or a spell cast?” Harry shakes his head. “Space might be less restrictive, but it also means the number of deadly encounters are higher. When you’ve got a choice, you go with the best.
“For those with low Levels, you either find work with an existing higher-Level crew or you venture out yourself with a small ship, staying to the safest regions and hoping like hell you aren’t too unlucky. If you’re an Artisan, you work the cheapest, dirtiest
jobs possible to scrape by.”
That does kind of remind me a little bit of the way Galactic society works in Irvina. Except in Spaks, there’s not even a dungeon for the pirates to grind experience, so at best, they have to venture out into the great beyond, hoping to stumble across their prey. Except…
“In Irvina, the inner zones weren’t physically cut off from the rest of the city. And people could go there if they were high enough Levels.”
“Of course there are differences between Irvina and Spaks. That’s not the point. The point is that those in the inner zones have an unfair advantage here, just like in Irvina. They have access to better Skills, better technology and equipment, networks of crews that can be trusted to help and, in some cases, specialized access to dungeons to better themselves. Just like in Irvina.”
“Space dungeons?”
“They’re a thing,” Ali confirms. “More like the natural formed lairs that you encountered on Earth, but some stations do invest in the creation of actual space dungeons.”
That’s one hell of a thought. How big would a dungeon in space actually be? Are there physical constraints? Or does the System warp space itself, like it does for normal dungeons? So many questions, so few answers—at least answers that I can get right now. But I put a bookmark on that thought because going to farm experience in a space dungeon sounds all kinds of cool.
Yes. I might actually have gone pew-pew in my mind while dodging asteroids at close—and entirely unrealistic—intervals in a spaceship. Benefits or drawbacks of a high Intelligence score.
“To the point, you’re saying that the System is creating the situation? It’s basically making societies have different zones or rings based off Levels?”
“I’m saying I’m seeing a pattern. But I don’t know the System well enough to say for sure, and you’re the System expert,” Harry says.
“Ah. Well…” I frown, thinking it through. While I might be the System expert, it’s more knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Or knowledge to answer a single question. Sure, I get a lot of use from that information, but it really doesn’t tackle sociological or societal issues. Still… “I’d say yes. I’ve seen much of the same things. Even in the many worlds we land on, the gradations, the differences between those in power and those without are pretty strict. There are exceptions—like the X-23—where groups move together. But where individuality is prized, there’s more rigidity between social classes. It’s hard for those without Credits, knowledge, or access to good Classes and the Leveling resources needed to upgrade themselves.
“Of course, that’s just my view. I haven’t done any real study on it. I’m sure the librarian has a book or a hundred about this topic.”
“Can you look? Please?” Harry says.
Since I’m now interested, I offer Harry a nod. I’ve been making assumptions, but perhaps I should see what others have come up with. I kill the connection and bring up a simple messenger to notify the librarian of my new needs. This should be an interesting side research project.
***
It takes me about two hours of perusal to come to a definite conclusion. And that is that I really hate anthropological research. Especially when you add in aliens. One of the major conclusions I come to is that there is no one-size-fits-all theory for how the System changes us and our societies.
While major locations like Irvina and Spaks are, in the majority, top-down, stratified societies where Levels, Classes, and one’s initial starting point are the greatest signifiers of future success, this is not always true. It’s more common to see such situations where personal power is a requirement, where individuality and concern about your fellow alien are valued lower. If everyone looks out for themselves and their own, then society fragments with those at the top continually building on their advantages. The only change in societal structure occurs when a powerful individual—Heroic or Legendary Class—dies without an heir of equivalent strength or when major wars happen.
Other societies, other locations have found ways to deal with the stratification of society. Some have taken communist-like structures, with individuals, groups, or even AIs taking over the dispersal of resources.
Cravior, in the Eridani Nebula, have members of their society tagged and numbered on birth. They are then put through a series of regimented trials that allow them to gain the best Class possible. Once they’ve received their Class, each individual is then added to the queue, with members at the head of the queue receiving the undivided attention and resources of the city. Those waiting in line behind are provided fewer resources but targeted to allow them to develop and make full use of their turn. In such a way, each individual is able to achieve as much—or as little—as they desire. No matter how much or little an individual achieves during their time at the peak, they will be put through the same rotation. Variants of this format—with more or less control by AIs, sophisticated programs, or a council of Scholars, Politicians, or Statistical Analysts—exist throughout the galaxy.
UL 53, on the other hand, is a corporate planet. Owned entirely by a single corporation, society is broken into two parts—the corporate serfs and the rest. Many children sign—or have signed for them—lifelong contracts with the corporation in order to be put through training to suit the needs of the corporation. In turn, they are given the chance to promote themselves by using corporate resources to achieve higher Levels and training in corporate-sponsored training facilities. Those who are not beholden to the corporation are forced to scurry and scramble, filling in needs where the corporation has yet to choose. However, they’re locked out of all but a single dungeon unless they are able to win a space in the biannual lottery.
Borysthenis as a counter example is ruled by a council. The council itself is structured to include all walks of society—from the Classless denizens to those in all tiers of their advancement and type. Artisans, Combat Classers, retired Combatants, they are all included and given voice. The members of the council rotate too, though advisors from the appropriate non-Combat Classes are always around.
And that’s not even going into individual races. Some races are weird, like the X-23s. Ohers are pure hive-mind creatures. The twig wardens are another, almost egalitarian culture. While those with higher tier Classes are considered important, it’s more of a familial respect than a societal stricture. In any world dominated by the twig wardens, they’re all part of the same biosphere and thus share success and failure.
For all that, I did notice that even the most egalitarian groups had to build workarounds for the System’s tiers and Classes. It was impossible to ignore them, impossible to structure a society without taking those facts into consideration. While the System might not force people to be selfish pricks, it certainly incentivized short-term selfish actions.
Once I had my fill of that depressing research, I sent a summary of the data to Harry and killed the feeds. At some point, I’d read further into it, but for now, I’d rather do research on something a little more fun.
***
Later, much later, I pause the video recordings and fish out another strip of dried mango. These are purple, a mutated form that has a sweet-tart taste, courtesy of the mild poison. Very good and filling. No matter how much Galactic food I eat, there’s just something to be said about Earth-origin items.
“What do you think?” I ask Ali, letting my gaze roam over the myriad screens. All of them show video recordings, formerly scrolling text and holographic projections of the information I’ve purchased. All of them on the same topic.
“I think I’m bored.”
“Not that, you asshole.” I wave at the screens. “Of what they’ve given us.”
“I think even with your attributes, you’re picking up maybe twenty percent of what’s being shown.”
“So long as it’s the right twenty.”
My Intelligence attribute is hundreds of times higher than a normal human’s. You’d think that’d make me—make anyone—a supergenius. And in some ways, I am. I can do mathe
matical equations that I’d never even be able to finish in my mind at the drop of a hat. My brain can calculate angles and trajectories, translate that to the micromillimeters that I need to move to dodge a barrage of weapon fire without breaking a sweat. But in other ways, I’m still very much human. For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of any of my high school teachers. I can process data, but finding new solutions, new ideas does not seem to be much faster than before.
The System attributes are both a fundamental alteration of my mind and body and a crutch that doesn’t work properly. Galactic explanations delve into things like Mental Resistances, psychic potential, multi-dimensional processing, and the like. And, I admit, I can see it. There are studies of those with too low a Willpower and Mental attribute entering hyperspace and going crazy. Indications that crossing between dimensions—or hanging out between them—is just not right, not “normal,” and without the System aid, we’d come apart at the seams.
Add the way the System seems to help us in the way we lean into it, and I’ve got a brain that can process a fight and multi-dimensional travel without a problem, play with swords, and teleport across a battlefield without feeling disoriented. I can process multiple disparate pieces of information and pull out the salient point without an issue. But I don’t have an eidetic memory, and all the videos are really doing is giving me a small chance to learn what I need at a faster rate. It’s a risk, and I’ll probably go over some of the more interesting pieces in greater detail, but for a quick overview, there’s nothing to beat it.
“Forbidden Worlds, right?” Ali grows serious, flicking his gaze over the myriad paused videos. Most are grainy, broken up. Technology does not work well in Forbidden Worlds—locations so saturated with Mana that most Mana-shielded tech breaks down. Once a world is no longer able to sustain life, when the monsters destroy civilization, most such worlds are abandoned. In the later stages of a lost world, a Forbidden World, even the System no longer functions. “I’d have thought you had enough personal experience with them already.”
