by Tao Wong
Strategically, we still don’t know the point of all this. Why attack us now? Sure, I’ve been given explanations that it’s all because there are enough Dimensional Smoothers, that we’ve got an auction going on, that it’s just been a matter of time. But somehow, I don’t believe it. There’s got to be another reason, and I’m not sure I know what it is. Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling if we figure out what they want, we might have a chance of winning. Till then, they’re going to keep throwing people at us. And as they’ve got more people and more Credits, we’re going to lose. Even if we’re Leveling up with each fight, so are they. Speaking of Levels…
Next Level Completion Rate: 87%
Days of fighting Basic and Advanced Classers has pushed up my experience gain. But the biggest contributor was the flood of experience from the System Quest completion rates. When I’m not worrying about the fight, I consider the data that’s still accessible in my mind, trying to make sense of it. I’ve taken to jotting down everything in a notepad or leaving a vocal diary, since sometimes those musings trigger a new System completion request. In fact…
System Quest Completion Rate: 69%
A huge jump, and all because the data was smashed into my brain. It’s kind of amusing in that if the Librarian hadn’t smashed the knowledge right into my brain, the System wouldn’t have registered much of the completion rates. That it opened up a connection to the System when the Skill was being used meant that my flashes of epiphany were appropriately awarded. Now, without actively noting my thoughts, I’m not gaining experience.
“Note: System can only access thoughts when linked via a System Skill.” Memories flash through my mind—research papers, recordings, data. “Supporting documents, K’mara 1938-A-3, Luzard’s Maro BB4123, …” I list on and on, muttering to myself as I head for the nearest mess hall. But along the way, conflicting research comes to the forefront of my memory. “Disproving documentation, Os 7421AMOS01714, Flizard…” Conflicting research, conflicting information. It’s why the System Quest hasn’t been solved. Why the arguments continue to rage. Even two research programs using the same criteria can come up with different results. “Conclusion—maybe. There’s another factor in play. Theory includes AI Overmind, Multiple Cognitive Recognition, First Significant Research Experience, Data Parceling…”
System Quest Updated
+14 XP
“Still at it, boy-o?” Ali says, floating down to join me as I grab a plate and ignore the stares of those who have seen me muttering to myself. Or even heard it.
“Haven’t completed it yet.”
“A million billion years, no one has. And you think you can.” Ali sniffs.
“Exaggerating a little there,” I say. “But I do have their entire library in my mind.”
“And you know that isn’t the only thing required,” Ali retorts.
That’s too true. Even with all the research done, there are still unanswered questions. Never mind the fact that others have tried the very same thing—in smaller doses at a time—and never managed to complete the quest. Even now, I wonder if I can complete the quest, if what has been done to me has destroyed my chances. Then again – the answer is the answer, right?
“Learn anything useful?”
“Well, did you know the Skills can be nerfed? Not necessarily immediately of course, but it seems that Classes and Skills themselves can see an evolution over time as a Class expands. Even those with the older versions can see their Skills altered. It happens mostly with new Classes, those that form when a new world joins, and the frequency of such changes has changed significantly,” I say. “But—”
“I meant for our current predicament,” Ali cuts me off.
“Ah… no.”
“You do know we’re going to lose, right?” Ali’s mental voice is harsh and a touch fearful.
Surprising, considering the Spirit can’t die. But he’ll lose his link to this reality with my death and go back to his home dimension, waiting to be recalled. Or something like that. Spirits and companions come in a million varieties, even when they’re all considered “spirits” by the System.
“I do. But what do you think I can do about it? I’m just one Master Classer among many. And not even the strongest,” I reply with a grunt.
I might have hunted down a bunch of bastards, but a good number weren’t Combat Classers, and the rest of the time… well, I had the luxury to set the time and place for the attack. This is a completely different ballgame. This is a war.
***
After food, where most in the busy mess hall were too tired to speak with me, I make my way back to the temporary barracks. Since the third ring is the front line now, most civilians have abandoned the location, leaving more than enough space for everyone. This held especially true for the Master Classes and high-Level Advanced Classers, many of whom indulged in luxury rooms and residences throughout the stations. Even so, I found myself headed back to the main temporary barracks, an ex-warehouse location near the connecting tubes, rather than my assigned quarters. No matter how close it was, any delay would be too long if things went bad. And after living through an apocalypse and sleeping in abandoned, half-destroyed houses, it isn’t that bad at all.
Inside the warehouse, I find people lying on the Galactic equivalent of military cots, hunkered around fold-out chairs, hard light benches, and in a few cases, just sitting on compressed air. Above, Galactics who prefer being high hang out. Arachne spin their webs while avians, glider humanoids, and a few eccentric humanoids lie in hammocks, floating beds, or just hang upside down. The resting defenders are all doing their own thing, resting before they’re called up once more.
Some are eating, preferring the food they have stored in their Inventory to what’s being served at the mess hall. I admit, it is a bit hit or miss considering they’re trying to serve food for multiple races, but thanks to the System, for the most part, food is food. Barring the non-carbon-based forms, at least. Those who aren’t eating are either taking some time for themselves, playing music or gambling, with games ranging from System-assisted video games to old-fashioned cards.
“Redeemer. Thank you for saving me.” Pink armor appears as I walk in, revealing his neck and offering it to me in a gesture of submission. It’s the weirdest sight of the day, the mohawked, flared tusk, and green skinned Galactic offering me his neck.
“I didn’t really—”
“You blocked the tail. Thank you.” A slight twitch of the hands opening wide before he pulls back. By now, most people know I prefer my privacy.
“Really, I didn’t do anything,” I mutter to his retreating back.
“Heard you took out another pair of Advanced Classers, Redeemer.” The next to accost me is a known quantity, seven feet tall with a bust to match. Clad in skin-tight, scaled armor, she’s striking with her red skin, spiky ears and tail, with cheekbones so sharp that they could cut you.
The woman literally oozes sex appeal, her Charisma stat powerful enough that it reaches across racial barriers and triggers my mental resistances. Just like another alien that I know. I have to admit, there are some stirrings. It’s been a while. But not right now.
“Slowing down a little, are we?” she says. “If you don’t keep up, I’ll catch up to you yet.”
“You’re welcome to do so.” I gesture to the front lines. “In fact, I’m sure they’d take you up right now…”
She snorts, clapping me on the shoulder and rocking me on my feet before she tromps away. A pair of desperate hangers-on offering me jealous glares before they scurry after the she-devil.
Before I’ve taken a dozen steps in, a pair of Galactic fox-creatures scurry up, asking for advice about their latest Level ups. They’re not even really asking my advice so much as wanting an excuse to touch base.
And on and on, it continues. By the time I get to my spot near the exit doors—the signal for everyone to leave me alone—I’ve answered a half dozen questions, declined four challenges, and accepted the congratulations
or nods of approval of a score of others. I might not be the most social of people, but after fighting with the pirates over the last few days, I’d grown to be at the very least on nodding terms with most of them.
I could learn their names, learn more about them if I wanted to. It’d just be a matter of looking up, taking in their details, spending a few minutes chatting. Being social, building the bonds that tie us together. But I don’t. The harsh reality of our lives right now, much like in the first few months of the apocalypse, is that many of these people won’t survive. Learning names, learning details would just increase the sense of loss I’d feel when they do fall.
But… for all that, I can’t help myself. I trigger Society’s Web, letting the Skill reveal the threads that bind us. I turn my head, following thread after thread, lead after lead, watching the shift as people talk, as they interact. Sometimes the intensity and colors change between others, especially when the discussion hinges upon friends. But most importantly, what is most stark are the threads that disappear, fading away as the individuals those threads belong to die.
There’s a stark beauty to the web. It’s a graphical overlay of the way the world works, all the petty jealousies, love, duties, and responsibilities that bind us together. Society’s Web doesn’t care if it’s a word of thanks or a deep-set obligation of Credits and reputation. It marks them all, waiting for me to delve in.
I soak in the changes, learning more about these people in moments than I could have in hours of talking. Information, but information that lacks context. Love, hidden or expressed, burgeoning relationships and broken hearts.
Yet there’s another series of threads that I focus on, threads that arise from each person and lead to the inner stations. These threads are thick, filled not with feelings but obligations, contracts. Eleven threads all lead to the Inner Crew, to the ones who control us. It’s easy enough to differentiate, because almost everyone here has the same level of obligations. Of peasant to lord, of commoner to those above.
Eleven threads. And one more. This one doesn’t go toward the inner rings but deeper in this very station. Leading in a very curious direction. I look down, staring at my version of the same item, at how thick my thread that goes toward the Librarian is, and I wonder—why does everyone have a thread like this? Certainly, not all here are Questors. Yet we all have a thread of obligation, of responsibility to the man. And he to us.
“John?” Ali interrupts my musing, forcing me to look up. “You should rest.”
“Trouble?”
“Call it a hunch that things are about to heat up again.”
I grunt, releasing my Skill and letting it fade away. There’s something there, though it could be nothing more than a station-wide experiment. A data-gathering test for another damn research paper. The station would be a good test for a variety of ideas—from social circumstances creating variations in Skills and how the System creates and implements those Skills to a study on the experience variation in a rebel station compared to Galactic benchmarks. Compared to the threads that lead from the Inner Crew to everyone else, the thread leading to the Librarian is thin, barely there for most people.
Pushing aside the thought, I let out a breath and fix Ali with a considering look. “You sure?”
Ali can only shrug. In the end, I decide to take his hunch as gospel and lean back, resting against the cold wall. Resting till the next time I’m required to bring blood and death.
Chapter 20
Mana shackles wrap around my armor, hampering my movements even as the Gravitic Fetter targeted at my surroundings slows me down further. From the floor, small pods burst into life sending an alien-version of crawling ivy wrapping around my legs and trying to climb higher. But that’s not all—I sense Mana gather behind me, in my shadow itself.
“Thousand hells! What is it with these restrictive spells?” I snarl, trying to stand straight as the spells bombard me. My Class resistances are an innate impediment to any spell directly targeting me, but these guys are using environmental restrictive spells, partially bypassing my Class’s advantages.
“Stop playing, boy-o. They’re already pushing your people back,” Ali snaps.
Suiting words to action, the little Spirit reaches downward and jerks. The gathering Mana in my shadow suddenly disperses as the target of their action disappears under a blaze of light.
“I’m. Trying.” I watch as chains, some formed from the very metal I stand upon, rise and wrap me up as the temperature drops and ice forms on my skin.
Ahead, the casters who keep targeting me with the spells have blasted through a good third of their Mana in the half minute we’ve been at this. But it’s been worth it, at least in their estimation.
While I struggle to break out of the restrictive spells, the tanks and damage dealers have made contact. Without me stopping them, they’re in the middle of punching through our front line, pushing people back with knockback skills or, in a few cases, literally over-running them. They’re splintering the line, forcing us away from the chokepoint. Aura Suppression is keeping my Eye of the Storm Skill out of play. Almost as if they’ve done their homework and been lulling me into a sense of complacency.
“Redeemer, you need to pull more of their people to you. This is an all-hands push.” Oi’s voice is harsh and insistent, the gilled Captain’s eyes wide and concerned. “They’ve got us on the backfoot here.”
“Fine.” I know it’s petty, but it’s frustrating how I’m stuck being pushed to save everyone once again.
Rather than complain, I trigger the QSM at its normal setting, watching the barriers holding me lose their grip. One issue with restrictive Skills like that is that they’re affixed to one reality. I manage two steps forward before I get a new notification.
Dimension Lock instituted.
-247 HP as you are yanked back to your home dimension
Reality yawns and wraps me in its cold, uncaring embrace as my equipment and I take damage from the abrupt shift. The fact that they weren’t blocking me before was probably their way of making me waste Mana or uses of the QSM. Certainly, it’s currently on the fritz as it recalculates my position after the sudden change. But it’s to my advantage too, as I’m free. Until the next Skill and spell hits.
I touch the edges of the Dimension Lock and find myself grinning. I feel more locks appearing, different kinds that harden the layer between worlds or add resonance to things passing between the worlds. But like me, most individuals only have Dimension Lock Skills on a purchased basis. That limits how high most people will go with such a Skill. So it only takes me shaping my Portal Skill into a pick and driving it right at the wall of their Skill to break through.
Dimension Lock breached.
-377 HP damage received
Blink Step is more powerful than the layers they have. It’s just a matter of being willing to pay the price. I’m somewhat surprised they didn’t find someone more powerful, but then again, this isn’t a formal army like the Erethrans. They’re a ragtag fleet thrown together due to concurrent interests, many of them only just beginning to get a handle on working together. Add the fact that I’m not the only individual with a movement Skill, and they might be stretched thin.
Either case, I end up in the middle of their casters. I take the fight to them, sword in hand and conjured blades following as I cut, thrust, dismember, and disarm. While most back-liners have some level of Constitution, none of them are particularly healthy. If they were, they’d be in the front. Blood splatters over my visor as I twist and kill, the Poison Stingers shooting from their hidden compartments to target those that stumble away.
My Mana Sense gives me a half-second of notice, enough time to dodge the axe that swings for my head as the wielder and a dozen of his compatriots appear, punching through the Dimension Lock like me. The next moment, the Lock tightens further, stopping any more teleport shenanigans. A part of me absently notes that this one is different, seeming to borrow strength from the Dimensional Silencers that hold th
e entire station in one place.
“Was this a trap?” I say as I catch a beam on my sword, splitting it apart with my own Blade Strike.
“One that you fell for. How you made it to Master Class is a mystery.” A jackal-like humanoid, face seen under a clear, faceted helmet, cackles as he lowers a tri-barreled gun as big as he is.
“Really?” I grin, looking them over then eyeing the distance—a couple of hundred meters—to our front line. Surrounded by nasties. And nearly at the edge of the entrance of the floating waystation they’ve been staging out. “Let me show you.”
Even as they swing, I get to work. First, the Luione Hard Light projector triggers. My duplicate goes for the front lines, where they put the largest and nastiest of their members—a half-ogre and a rock creature. The other is me as I bunch my legs and throw myself toward their staging area. I hit my target—an anemic, twisted creature made of metal and plastic—with my shoulder, catching it just above its center of balance. The monster folds over on impact, breath whooshing out. Strength, shifted to my feet, helps me shift his body while I tap into my Elemental Affinity to adjust the friction difference between him, myself, and the floor.
Wrapped up together, we barrel through the lines, a cannonball of human and alien, wrapped in shifting rainbow fire as a Faerie Fire spell hits, highlighting me as the real target and ignoring my doppelganger. Not that my duplicate lasts very long after, as the remainder of the fleet personnel destroy the projection. They’re good—the group automatically split their attacks rather than try to guess. It doesn’t matter though, since I’m now inside the waystation between floating transportation rings. The Advanced Classer I’m holding clicks and twitches, hands sharpening into points as it stabs my back. I feel his hands punch through my armor and into my body, before burning poison enters my body.
