by Tao Wong
Kind of is.
“Yes.” I draw a deep breath, pulling information together, piecing data into a single packet, then putting it in a data transfer for Harry. “Because you want—you need—me to bring this library out of here. Maybe it’s because you’ve got someone coming to pull it out of me later. Maybe because you yourself aren’t sure if you’re going to survive this.” I cock my head as I let my eyes rove down a trio of particularly thick threads. Threads that reach toward the same spot in Irvina, that make me shudder even though they’re just threads. Except… “They’re coming for you, aren’t they?”
The Librarian inclines his head and I suck in a breath. Of course. How do you kill a Legendary? You set other Legendarys on them. It’s why he hasn’t acted. The moment he exposes himself, when he’s at his most vulnerable after fighting off others, then they’ll find him. They’re going to wear him down, drain his Mana with small fry, then hit him. At least, that’s how I’d do it.
“If you are done…”
“No.” I shake my head while Ali stares between us. He doesn’t look happy, but the Spirit knows better than to get in my way when I’m in this mood. “No. You’re still going to help us. We can’t win without you. But perhaps we can provide enough of a distraction that you can get away. And if not…”
“If not?”
“Well, we all die. Which isn’t much of a difference from now, no?” I say.
The Librarian seems to consider that. Staring at my head, and somehow, I feel as though he’s staring into my head. At the library he’s socked away, that I’m holding for him. For the future of these Corrupt Questors. Countless seconds, he regards me, the silence stretching out like plastic wrap over leftovers. And then he breaks it by floating toward me, making me step away instinctively. But he doesn’t stop, just continuing to float to the door.
He’s halfway there before I catch up with him, falling in line, hope blooming. Maybe.
Maybe we have a chance now.
If he’s not just running.
***
My concerns about Feh’ral running fade away when we enter the first ring. The Librarian blows right past the guards, his Aura sufficient to cow them long enough for orders to let us through to get to them. Not that he actually stops, somehow bypassing the electronic security locks that keep the gates closed.
The first station—Station Prime—is twice again as large as the station we just left. Corridors are wider, the main thoroughfares so big that there are buildings hanging from them. Even with the population control, I can see how crowded it is, how well-dressed and rich people are forced to rub shoulders with one another. Not surprisingly, the entire ‘population control’ aspect didn’t actually count if you were rich or influential enough. No, the rules were for the peons, the commoners. Tempers are short, restaurants and cafes filled to the brim. Even so, I cannot help but admire the station, the stark beauty of buildings and random, weird vegetation. If we had more time…
But we don’t of course. Feh’ral floats right up to one of the bullet pods that is the station’s form of mass transportation. We blast off, and in minutes, we find ourselves marching past expectant guards. Many of the guards are in the high Levels of their Advanced Class, but not a single one of them looks unhappy to see the Librarian. I kind of find myself grumpy, annoyed that somehow, the mystery I had solved was not so much of a mystery to others.
But that’s kind of like life, isn’t it? Problems that might be unsolvable for one person are a breeze for another. Knowledge varies between individuals and groups, creating inequalities of opportunity and liability. Expertise and solutions often never line up. Until, sometimes, they do. And then the world can change.
When Feh’ral comes to a stop, I jerk to a halt beside him, caught up in my own thoughts. The Master Class guards standing before the door have stepped aside, but the door itself stays closed. They seem surprised but still at a single look from Feh’ral. Rather than moving to open the door, the Librarian just stands before it. When I open my mouth to question him, an image shimmers, a notification window given three dimensions.
In the display is a war room, one that’s decked out with more notification screens, 3D holographic projectors, and simple data screens than any I’ve been in. For all the quantity and quality, the details are all too familiar—a litany of our losses, a listing of the forces arrayed against us. Within, eleven individuals—each of them radiating strength and confidence—are seated in a semi-circle, while aides stand behind them in the corners of the room. And right in the center, dominating the room, is an all-too-familiar hologram of our surroundings, this one playing out another tragic scenario.
“I told you it wouldn’t work.” Clad in a cross-buttoned navy blue tunic, the Truinnar snaps and gestures, killing the hologram. “We don’t have enough people to break out.”
“Pirate Lord Krill. Master Class,” Ali helpfully supplies.
“If we could force them to take out the shield and then storm us…” a barrel-chested, four-armed figure with clay-skin says. A series of unknowable tools rest beside his stumpy feet.
“Station Master Engineer Shinwah.”
“And I’ve told you before. If you make me break Rising Crescendo, I will not be able to use it again. In fact, much of my Skills will be blocked.” The speaker this time is a seafoam green flower creature, her head a mix of petals and humanoid features. Most significantly, a pair of large eyes without pupils. “You insisted I use it, even though I recommended against the use of my Skill for this very reason. Now, here we are. Forced to choose.”
“Poet, right?”
“Got it in one, boy-o. Eurynome the Poet of Spring.”
“If we hadn’t, they’d have rushed us already.” This comes from a stereotypical-looking barbarian Hakarta with a pair of war axes resting against the armrests of his chair. At this point, I’ve had enough surprises that I don’t even blink at the fur-covered Orc, even though the typical fantasy orc image has been replaced by sci-fi-armored orc soldiers after all this time. It’s just been one of those days. “It was the best choice then. Dropping the Skill now and bleeding their ships is our best choice now. They’ll still have to destroy the second ring stations, if they come for us, or have the defenses fire upon them. It should give us the best chance of doing damage.”
“Warlord Mika. Master Class.”
“Damage. And then what?” The Poet’s leaf-hands shudder before she continues. “Even Adonael’s Skills can only hold so long, as we know.”
“Then we take the battle to them,” Mika states.
“And fail,” Adonael, Galactic Station Master, says. It’s curious to me to see that the public faces of the Crew are mostly quiet in this discussion. Then again, I get the feeling that this argument has been going on for days. “But I believe a solution might have made itself known.”
Adonael turns, fixing his gaze on us, as if he knows exactly where we’re viewing him from. And considering it’s his station, he probably does.
The Librarian dismisses the image even as the doors slide open, letting us in. I follow Feh’ral, a couple of steps behind, feeling self-conscious in a way I haven’t since before the apocalypse. Every eye in the room fixes on Feh’ral as he floats in, hands tented in front of his chest as he regards people with those blank, overly large eyes.
“Yes, Station Master, we have a suggestion.” The Librarian gestures at the location the hologram once held. A projection appears, similar but subtly different from the technologically created projection. The image of the station and the fleet are still, frozen while Feh’ral speaks. “But we will require a commitment. Of all forces.”
“And the legend finally appears. Not going to run while we bleed, then?” Mika drawls, a large halberd appearing in his hands as he caresses the haft.
“I have evaluated my options and decided that aiding you will meet the majority of my goals,” Feh’ral replies as if he does not see—or care about—the implied threat.
Before Mika can retort, Ado
nael speaks up. “Tell us your plan. Show us. Then we’ll decide.”
“You misunderstand. You will agree. Or you will die,” Feh’ral informs Adonael and the rest of the Inner Crew.
As the silence from his cold pronouncement stretches, the Librarian raises his hand and waves it. And the new scenario plays.
Chapter 23
We sit within a supernova of energy in the Heartbreak, the attacks from the fleet facing us held back by the thinnest of membranes—a shield of force and Mana. Beams of energy impact the shield, turning it white and blue, flaring red and yellow as energy bleeds off. Spells, bomb-pumped lasers, and nuclear explosions all hammer the station shield, seeking our destruction. And, in turn, the Galactic fleet bleeds. The payback Skill makes them hurt, makes ships’ shields fail and hulls lose integrity and we race to see who lasts longest.
It’s a race we will lose. The numbers are clear, the estimates simple by this point in the battle. Some minor variations occur, new Skills purchased to increase survivability, increased refresh rates from Level Ups that alter the fate of the smart and prescient. But in the end, in a fight between Skills and numbers, we lose. We always knew we’d lose the moment the Poet dropped Rising Crescendo as per the plan. The moment we forced them to come at us through the shield. But this way, we do the most damage to their ships.
“We’re going to die,” Dornalor says as he sits behind the controls of his ship. The Pirate Captain keeps shooting glances at his new copilot, clearly uncomfortable with the creepy Librarian. Dornalor seems like the kind to talk too loudly in a library. Or it might be because of the Librarian’s Legendary Class. Either-or.
“Everyone dies.” Bolo claps Dornalor on the shoulder, grinning. “But what a story we will leave behind!”
“Seriously? Why are you here!” Dornalor snaps, shrugging off Bolo’s hand.
“The view is better. I shall be at my station when the shield begins to fail.”
“Why, exactly, do we have to use my ship?” the Captain bitches again, running a hand over the newly reconstructed console.
“You’re sneaky McSneak,” I point out.
Once the Inner Crew finally decided to listen, things had moved at lightning pace. I barely had time to get myself ready, to allocate that new Class Skill point and deal with the aftereffects before I had to make my way to the ship. Once there, I’d found the Librarian in my seat.
“I’m not the best—”
“Pretty damn close,” I say. “And would you rather be out there?”
I wave at the ships surrounding us. We’re floating in the midst of the other pirate ships, the few remaining cruisers and other modified freighters that the pirates have used for their raiding. Powerful, with a few big guns, but nothing like the dedicated ships the opposition is using. Well, except the few dedicated warships that the Inner Crew finally rolled out. Even then, we’re badly outnumbered. Our only advantage is that the Galactic fleet will be damaged by the time the shield falls.
“Har. No thanks. I still don’t believe you got them all to come out,” Dornalor says.
“Pretty sure Mika roasting that protesting Captain alive got the point across,” Ali says, making a face. “And there I was, eating.”
“Yeah…” Dornalor represses the shudder that recollection brings before he gestures to the navigational plot. “I’ll do my best to get us as close as I can, but with the amount of fire…”
“You’ll do fine,” I reassure the nervous Captain, putting as much confidence I can into my voice.
What I don’t tell him, don’t dare tell him, is that we’ll be provided with as much help as the Poet can give. Due to the feedback from releasing Rising Crescendo, she’s severely limited, but her story Skills—Plot Armor, Protagonist’s Luck, Down but not Out—should help a lot. If she was up to speed, she could…
I shake my head, pushing aside the ifs. That way lies madness.
“Thirty-five percent,” Ali says, having shrunk himself down to a fifth of his normal size so that the cockpit doesn’t feel too crowded. “Time to get going, boy-o.”
“The taste of battle…” Bolo’s grin widens, then he turns, strolling out.
I look at the Dragon Lord’s back, frowning as I try to figure out what the hell is going on with him. One second, he’s talking of running away. And now, he’s throwing himself into this battle with all the enthusiasm of a teenager on his first date.
“Redeemer?” Dornalor’s voice rouses me.
I sigh, shaking my head. What the hell do I know about reading other races, other cultures? I can barely grasp humans. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving. Just get us close.”
***
Once I reach the kitchen, I strap in beside Mikito, flashing my friend a half smile. The smell of twice-boiled pork stock with slices of char shui and fresh noodles floats in the air, reminding me of the lunch I missed. Too busy running around, too busy watching others kick the pirates into gear. As I drop in my seat, I pull out a Galactic ration bar, knowing it’ll taste weird but fill the calorie void.
Mikito doesn’t even twitch, her legs crossed, her eyes half-closed as she meditates, readying herself for this battle. I consider my friend as I chew, swallowing the peanut-pepper goo and following it with water before I clear my throat to get her attention.
“Thanks,” I blurt when she fixes me with that flat gaze. “For everything.”
“Why are you raising flags, you baka?” Mikito says, shooting me a mock glare.
“Flags?” Bolo looks around, shaking his head. “Are these Skill-based flags? What do they do?”
Mikito and I share a look before breaking out into laughter. We laugh even more as Ali floats over to explain the entire concept of death flags to Bolo. It’s a great distraction, especially when the shield falls and we’re forced to sit, strapped into our chairs, passive and silent, while Dornalor and Feh’ral fly us out under the cover of his Skills. All the while, the entire rebel fleet is under fire.
As we spin, swoop, reverse direction at the drop of a pin, and otherwise hide behind the rest of our ramshackle fleet, we laugh. Laugh, because the only other option is to scream in terror. Laugh, because once, long ago, a pair of Adventurers struggled to deal with overgrown wolves and Dire Bears. And now we fly through space, dodging laser beams, nuclear missiles, and tears in reality.
And when the laughter dies down, I mime planting a flag.
“Are you people insane?” Dornalor’s voice comes crackling over the speakers, strained and filled with tension as he controls our ship. We aren’t shooting back because that’d be a dead giveaway, but even with all his stealth Skills, the surroundings are so filled with fire that we get hit on occasion.
“How much farther?” I say, sobering.
“Five minutes. Give or take. But what are we supposed to do when we arrive?” Dornalor says.
“Just hang on for a few moments. We’ll do the rest,” I say.
My gaze drifts to the screen showing the battle, picking out the five wings of our attack. Of those, only three are actual threats—forces with sufficient numbers to be of real concern for the Galactic fleet. The other two wings are meant to pin down the Galactic fleet, keep them busy while the rest of us get to work.
The pair of battlecruisers lead one wing. One of the battlecruisers is barely more than a wreck, its parts scavenged to bring the other back to full fighting form. All that’s left of the wrecked battlecruiser are some secondary shields, the engines, and most of the thrusters. On top of that, new armor was added where the gaping holes of the gun emplacements had been and all along the front of the battlecruiser, giving the damaged cruiser the ability to soak up fire. They’ve basically turned the entire battlecruiser into a giant missile, one so big that its sheer mass will do significant damage to its targeted Dimensional Smoother. The threat of the kamikaze battlecruiser forces the Galactic fleet to concentrate fire on it, allowing its compatriot to pick off the rest of its attackers without fear.
The other two main wings contain the majori
ty of our Master Classers and high-level Advanced Classers. They carry the battle straight to the Dimensional Smoothers, with the full combat membership of the Inner Crew out in force in a show of the true might of the pirate station.
Mika, the Hakarta barbarian fighter, is bounding across space, somehow forming glowing footholds whenever he needs. Each time he reaches a ship, his attacks cut through the frail defenses of the ship itself, tearing apart armor without care for the Admiral’s Skill. The axes are dual-wielded, glowing enchantments on each axe boosting their attack power. Once Mika manages to make his way in, it’s only a matter of time before the entire thing self-destructs, leaving him floating in space and bounding off to the next ship. Not surprisingly, the Master Classer focuses his efforts on the larger vessels.
Yet for all the insanity of a single man destroying kilometer-long ships, it’s nothing compared to others of his kind. The Pirate Lord sits in fighter jet, dog-fighting individuals and other space fighters, all the while commanding a swarm of other space fighters. His personal fleet move in independent synchronicity, like a swarm of psychically linked bees. It’s as if every one of his pilots knows where every other pilot is at the same time. They cover each other’s backs, coordinate fire, and dodge blind-sided attacks with equal impunity. Even worse, as each fighter is eventually destroyed, new ones launch from Prime Station, the physical bodies of the pilots safe in the confines of the station. Only the Pirate Lord is in danger, and he’s so good that he barely gets hit.
Prime Station itself, with the aid of the Master Engineer, contributes to the fight, launching attacks through their final shield. Most are mundane particle beam or missile attacks, but on occasion, the main cannon in Prime Station fires. The main cannon shoots a beam of destruction half a kilometer wide and so powerful that all but the sturdiest ships fall to its attack, even through the Admiral’s Skill. Each attack sees a significant drop in the entire fleet’s shielding and armor. Only the fact that the main cannon requires a long charge time stops it from being a game-changer.
