by Tao Wong
+751 XP, +238 XP, +1803 XP, +637 XP, +43 XP, …
“Some gift,” I growl. At Foxy’s pointed look, I wipe my face, my hand coming away stained with blood. A simple Cleanse fixes that problem and removes all traces of my blood, though I’ve shed enough of it that it wouldn’t be hard to find if people really wanted it. “My brain feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool soaked in lighter fluid and then lit on fire.”
“I’m sorry, Librarian Feh’ral, but you have violated the rules of your entry. I must ask you to leave now.” Temper cooled, Foxy is showing a hell of a lot of deference to the Librarian. Especially since he assaulted me.
“As you wish.” Feh’ral bows to us both then just disappears.
Foxy turns to me, his eyes raking over my form, and points at my nose again. I blink, touching the still-bleeding nose, surprised that I’ve managed to keep bleeding even with the amount of health regeneration I have. Even the pain in my head has not gone away.
“What did he do?” I mutter to Foxy while holding my nose tightly and tilting my head up.
Foxy is silent, eyes unfocused as he reads a bunch of stat screens. When his eyes refocus on me, he shakes his head. “Nothing more than a data download.”
“I’ve had those before. Never felt like this.”
“That’s probably because you’ve never had the entire Questor’s library downloaded into your brain.”
“Pardon?” I blink slowly, my voice still nasal from having it clamped shut.
“He downloaded all of it. The entire library.” Foxy is looking at me strangely, as if I’ve grown another nose, three horns, and tusks. “You should not be able to handle that much information. How are you still standing?”
I consider Foxy’s words. Even with my resistances and the stupid level of Intelligence I have, the Galactic is right. I should be dead. Hell, I took a couple thousand points of damage just from processing the information. Yet as I prod my brain, I realize that a lot of the data is no longer accessible. When I try to access the data, a searing pain shoots through my body that buckles my knees and makes my eyes bleed.
“Not. Doing that. Again.” I wipe the blood away, retrieving some cloth to stuff my nose and clean my face.
“You learned something?”
“Yeah…” I open my mouth to explain then clamp it shut, eyes narrowing in thought. If Foxy hasn’t figured out how this was done, it means that the Skill the Librarian used—and it must be a Skill—is not easily accessible. If that’s the case, he’s hiding that information for a reason.
“I see we Galactics have finished our corruption of you.”
I laugh ruefully, but my thoughts turn back to the encounter. The way the Librarian managed to touch me, the Skill he used. And why he used it. Something fishy is going on there, and instincts borne from thousands of dangerous encounters tells me I’ve added to my slurry of problems.
***
Since I wasn’t shopping, Foxy threw me out once I had mostly recovered. I still have a headache and a new status condition of Psyche Warped, which I’d missed till I left. Prodding the details, most of which had been left untranslated since Ali wasn’t around, hadn’t been particularly helpful. Not that it really matters beyond the countdown timer of when it’ll go away. Two hours is a pain, especially when the fight is about to start.
Ali finds me when I get back to the fifth ring. “What the hell did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. The damn Librarian dropped the entire library into my head.” I cast my gaze around, taking in the various others in the fifth ring station security room. We’re all waiting, as the next part of the fight will be run by the navy. For us ground pounders, we’re useless—at least till the ships dock. Quite a few screens are up, showing the surroundings and one 3D hologram of the upcoming fight.
“Duh. I knew that. I was asking what you did to him.”
“Nothing. I was polite and everything the last time I saw him. You were there!”
“Uh huh.” Ali frowns, staring me over then floating around me in his smaller form. He stops after making a full circuit, his face unusually concerned. “This. This could be bad.”
“I figured. The question is, how?” As much as I’ve learned about the Galactic System in the last few years, my research hasn’t involved the politics of Questors. Even if my new Title warns of potential trouble, I can’t see how having all this information could be dangerous. After all, it’s not as if the Questor’s library is a hidden repository. In fact, we’re generally trying to get more people involved. On the other hand, if there wasn’t something concerning in this depository, why would the Librarian do what he did? And of course, there’s the title—Corrupt Questor.
“I’ll look into it. But this smells fishy.”
“That’d be ugly on the right.”
Ali looks over involuntarily, only to catch sight of the humanoid fish-creature. As he opens his mouth to retort, a new notification appears.
New Quest Initiated: Station Defense
Defend Spaks station from the invading navy. This is a shared contribution quest.
Requirements: Stop the destruction or conquest of Spaks Station
Rewards: Variable depending on contribution percentage
Bonus Objectives: Save as many rings (0/5) as possible from destruction
As if the fleet was waiting for the quest itself, the views change as the Galactics open fire. There’s no warning, no second chances. Not that most need it. Outside of a single straggling merchant transport, everyone has either docked in the safety of the inner rings, moved outside of the combat zone, or is hiding behind the fourth ring force wall, ready to launch themselves at the transports.
Just like the simulation, the Galactics open fire with the slow-moving physical projectiles first. Unlike the simplified simulation I saw, this time around, there’s a much wider range of projectiles on display, from bolts of enclosed plasma and solid metal shells to even stranger things. I catch sight of feathered cannonballs with extra large eyes, their metallic bodies spinning through space as they are launched from the battleships’ cannons. The feathered cannonballs are accompanied by other weird attacks including glowing green slug shells, tiny nuclear elementals barely contained in enchanted spell containers, and a weaponized concept.
Yes. Fighting in the System is weird.
Once the projectiles are on their way, with multiple ships still firing to ensure there’s a continued attack on the shields, self-propelled attacks come next. Most of these are missiles, though I’m amused to see a few Advanced Classers flying along, powered by their Skills, Mana, or spacesuits. I wonder if they’ve been watching one too many Marvel movies, what with the flying across the thousands of kilometers to punch our shield. If I were them, I’d hang back… but it’s likely they know something I don’t.
Last to fire are the energy beams and line-of-sight spells and Skills. Also known as more weirdness. Projected rents in space, particle beams, matter conversion, and more flicker. The first salvo of attacks arrives at the same time, slamming into the station shield and turning it opaque under the sheer volume of damage. I turn away from the screens to watch the 3D hologram, the screen updating with damage notifications in real time as the payback Skill activates. As the fight continues, a new notification window appears.
Simulation Fidelity: 94.3% in favor of Spaks
“That’s good, right?”
“As good as can be expected. We’re doing more damage than we expected. Seems like there are a few Skills in play that the estimates didn’t expect that are adding to the damage return and holding up the shield. On the other hand, some of those bigger Ships have better defensive Skills than expected, which is pushing up their percentage.”
I grunt, flicking my eyes over the ships. Ali’s right. Many of the bigger ships have their shield integrity at a higher percentage, either because they’re taking less damage overall or regenerating their damage faster than expected. The gap is fast appearing, with smaller ships taking more
and more damage. Some of the smallest ones even have their force shields fail.
“Why isn’t the Admiral dropping them from his Skill?”
“It’s an evolved Skill. Won’t be that easy to adjust the parameters like that, especially mid-combat. Most likely he’s restricted to who is already there and an either-or position.”
“He could have chosen not to include the smaller vessels,” I say. “Or the Dimensional Smoothers.”
“You’re thinking he had a choice. Something this powerful, it probably wasn’t that finely controllable. Anyone who joined his fleet would be tagged with it. Could be the System even tagged a few ships we aren’t seeing here with the effect.” Ali shrugs. “Intelligent Skills might be useful, but they can also be a little too smart.”
“Smart dumb, eh? I wrote a few programs like that.”
The fact that the System sometimes seems like a badly programmed software program is not something I’ve missed. Yet in other ways, it’s too organic. Too randomly acerbic with its Titles and commentary. Some of it, of course, is Ali. In a few, rather worrying cases, it’s the Galactic Council or a Galactic bureaucrat somewhere, adjusting the terminology. But a lot of it is just the System. It feels like the System itself is two, maybe even three people—the System itself, pure and unadulterated, a computer program with specific notifications that it uses again and again; the Galactic Council and their random meddling and rules; and a third, controlling AI that smooths over hitches and deals with edge cases. Like the evolutions and new worlds.
“Oooh, pretty,” I exclaim.
That comment is accompanied by a lot of indrawn breaths as the explosion from what I can only assume is a missile boat fills the hologram. The tiny star blooms then fades, though smaller explosions dot the hologram as the damage accumulates on the fleet’s side. I spot the dispersal of escape pods from each ship. We might be destroying machinery, but the people within are mostly making it out.
The destruction is not all one-sided, as the station’s shield integrity continues to drop. Even the shield’s natural regeneration rate isn’t enough. It lasts longer than we expected, long enough for the light show to become almost boring. Then it finally gives way with a shimmer, letting the remaining fire wing its way in.
“Brace for impact,” the station master’s voice comes through the loudspeakers.
In a corner, a creature with a pair of spinnerets shoots out a series of threads, anchoring itself to the walls. Most others take more mundane means of anchoring themselves. I grip the nearest railing and wait for the incidental attacks, those that were meant to destroy the shield as they miss and hit us. Once the shield goes down, the light speed attacks stop while additional dots bloom across the display as attack shuttles make their first appearance. Other larger and faster ships, with the speed and maneuverability to get in close to the exposed stations and the space to hold assault personnel, join the shuttles. In moments, the hologram is filled with hundreds of silver fireflies that dart toward us.
The booms of concussive impacts resound through the station, the backup shields failing almost immediately. The station rocks and shifts, warning lights bathing us in red and green alternating lights. Penetration rounds meant to take out the entire Spaks stations’ main shields cut through the smaller branch station’s defenses, tearing open metal and venting air into space. In one corner of the hologram, a station filled with water breathers is punctured, filling the immediate area with ice as it expels the station’s contents.
As suddenly as the attack begins, it ends. No more incidental attacks as we enter a lull in the battle while the Galactic fleet waits for our fleet to exit the fourth ring shield and we wait for the transports to close in. Station weaponry, exposed with the shield down, open fire on the transports but do little to affect the big picture. As we wait, someone taps the hologram, shifting the view to layer Mana flows on top of the display.
“What’s that for?” I could ask someone else, but I’d rather not look completely ignorant.
“They’re watching for portals and other teleportation events. Mana level fluctuations can show potential exits,” Ali says.
“I know that. In theory, it’s possible, but the amount of changes and timeframe is so short that it’s nearly impossible.”
“For you. But you ain’t the be all and end all, boy-o.”
I frown but silently admit that with the sheer array of Skills and Classes available, it’s quite possible that someone can read the telltale fluctuations. Of course, to teleport, they’d either have to create gaps in the Smoothers’ locks to allow their fleet to teleport in or get close enough that they can use powerful short-range teleportations. At which point, I have to wonder, what’s the point?
When the approaching shuttles hit the close-in defensive line, the clustered stealth mines and remaining defensive platforms open fire. Once they make their appearance, the Galactic fleet targets the defenses, but in the meantime, our side takes out more transports. This time around, their occupants don’t all survive. Additional attacks stab from the stations, picking off the survivors. It’s harsh, brutal warfare, but that’s the nature of fights in the System. You can’t tie up resources with damaged or injured personnel—anyone not dead is likely back in the fight in ten minutes. Potentially with more Levels. It’s why some armies employ a host of Cursemongers and Poisoners, people who can make the damage they do last.
Another ship comes apart, bodies flung into space as the crystalline spaceship falls to a gravitic mine. From one torn and twisted portion, a half dozen figures emerge. Even as beam weapons target the group, a six-pointed star appears, runes of untold origin forming a magical shield. It takes the attacks, covering the fleeing members. I can see how one of them works a new spell—probably a Portal from the way the Mana flows to them—but more beams, more spells target the star shield. It flickers and tears and reforms, the Advanced Classer putting everything she has into covering her people. I swear, I can see her eyes widen, the resignation that flashes across her quilled, alien face before her Skill fails and the beams tear into them, followed after by a teleported explosive. When the mini-nova clears, only corpses float—corpses that are picked at by the beams before they shift to the next ship.
The calculus might be simple, necessary, but I don’t like it. Those who join such a fight know the risks, so they know where this ends. They have signed up for war, but lives matter, no matter the reason they are lost. It’s a brutal calculus, and one that I see more than a few sentients reassessing as they consider that very soon, we’re going to be on the opposite end of that equation.
“There they go.” The voice is terse but liquid smooth and sweet, like someone gave maple syrup a voice and form. Kind of like that elemental that formed from our national reserves…
I tear my mind away from silly thoughts to focus on the rebel ships as they surge past the opened fourth ring shield. They zoom forward, eager to take their portion of blood. We all know that they’re going to their deaths, that they’re about to get blasted to pieces.
“Brave suckers,” the spider-humanoid mutters, staring at the ships.
“Not that brave. They all have contingency teleport equipment,” the liquid voice speaks. Surprisingly, the voice comes from a troll-rock elemental hybrid creature.
“And they work all the time. Or won’t be shorted out. Right?” The spider shakes its head. “Brave.”
“Look…” another voice cuts in.
But I tune them out, ignoring the argument as I know they’re trying to forget the fight. We’re just spectators, forced to wait for the battle that is coming to us. And so we distract ourselves with stupid arguments and old memories.
“There he is.”
I follow the mental prompt from Ali, spotting Bolo’s small form as he wings ahead on his surfboard. He’s so small that he’s nothing more than a blip to the naked, unenhanced eye. But I can see him, see how he keeps in the shadows of the ships as the Dragon Lord waits for his chance to make a difference. He’s no
t the only individual flying out. There’s someone in what I can only describe as a floating bubble, and a spinning blue circle of fire and fur, along with a few other Masters and Advanced Classers. Most though are in ships, charging into the face of danger, knowing they’re going to lose. And still doing so.
The next few minutes would make any Hollywood director weep in frustration. Missiles, spells, Skills, and more are in full play as the groups close in on one another. Then the two groups make contact, dog-fighting as weapons from the fleet and stations crisscross the void, tearing into ships and bodies. The assault shuttles are, thankfully, not part of the Admiral’s Skill, but the larger ships, the nimble ones, are. In such cases, these ships have an advantage, since the Admiral’s Skill spreads the damage, ensuring that only a fraction of a fraction of any single attack makes its way through to any individual ship. In many cases, those ships manage to fly through without a problem. Occasionally though, one of the enemy fleet ships goes up, destroyed within the second ring or even on the outskirts as damage overloads shields. Our ships go down faster—much, much faster—as the combined weight of attacks tears them apart.
And that’s when the Galactic fleet receives another nasty surprise. Packed to the gills with chaos mines and other, even more unstable items, when our ships go up, they do so with a bang. A vortex of liquid, freezing in midair and then reforming into a tear in space, yanks these ships into the gap. A quartet of ships, including one of ours, disappears into the fast-closing tear.
In another corner, a demon makes its presence known, summoned by a chaos mine. Two horns jut from its form—a form made of creepy crawlies. Its mouth widens and a stream of bugs land on a pair of ships, entangled in a boarding attack. The bugs swarm over the metal and eat into the ship. Before it can do more damage, a radiant jellyfish appears, its tentacles entangling the demon and setting off a struggle of dominance.
The battle rages in silence like all space battles, but our minds supply the screams, the cries of terror, and the shattering of metal. The smell of imagined roasted flesh and burnt plastic is so strong, I wipe at my nose, shaking it off. Sometimes, having a high Perception and Intelligence has its drawbacks.
