I scratched at various sleepy itches and fumbled around for clothes to wear. I found myself falling into my chair through the van door and trying to press buttons. Dry mouth suggested that a cup of coffee might have been helpful.
“User Legate?”
The machine’s sudden words barely made me jump. One hand twitched for a weapon that reality didn’t have.
“You seem to be at lower than recommended performance levels. Please consider taking the day off.”
“Not work. Going to my Mom’s. Probably sleep,” I mumbled at the AI.
“Ah. It is our recommendation that you choose to complete a rest cycle.”
“I agree.” The real world outside my Trillium van was damned bright. Days inside the dark [Abyss of Light] had warped my standards.
“User Legate, we note a level of physical distress and will adjust the lighting accordingly.”
“Thank you.” I all but drooled the words. Three hours, that was all sleep I had gotten.
Once the windshield’s opacity turned down, the world felt much better. Yet again, modern technology helped me survive. I shuddered to imagine a world where cars needed to be driven manually or people had to wait in long lines for breakfast.
“Bring Viper, please.” I couldn’t properly articulate my thought. The mumbled words were followed by a long blink. This chair was quite comfortable.
“One moment. Accessing Continue Online avatars for relation to Hermes’s character,” Hal Pal spoke, and the drone was lost under the sound of our van wheels. “Possible match found. Ultimate Edition User John Messier, avatar Viper.”
“Ultimate Edition?” They were supposedly super rare. My addled brain tried to run through the calculations on how likely meeting another Ultimate Edition user was but failed.
“Affirmative. User Legate has encountered three other Ultimate Edition users in his travels.”
“Who else?” I couldn’t even lift my head to look at the AI.
“Your current administrative rights include John Messier, Lia Kingsley, and Alfonse Stone,” Hal Pal said from behind me. “All three are Ultimate Edition users per their profiles.”
“Alfonse Stone?” That name sounded familiar, but I was too muddled to figure it out. “Have I met him?”
“In game, yes. He defended you in King Nero’s palace. In the physical world Alfonse Stone is a founding partner of the Stone Firm, where Stan Middlemire works. You may remember his character, Frankenstein?”
“Oh.” I did remember him. The man had an odd fascination with dead bodies of all types. Not necrophilia that I could tell, but certainly piecing together animals. “Freakinstain’s boss?” I slipped into Requiem Mass’s nickname for Stan.
I should have said hello to the guy more. Frankenstein seemed jumpy in real life. The only impression he really left was a stuttering man who was more comfortable with automatons of various types than people. Maybe in that regard, we weren’t so different.
“Show me John—Viper—first.”
“One moment,” Hal Pal responded.
Viper looked ragged, and the player’s chest lifted with exaggerated breaths. Darkness littered the world of Continue Online. Viper’s character sat next to a small bonfire, staring at Wyl. The two of them were in an odd standoff. Autopilot convict and Traveler versus former guard captain and Local.
The guard captain looked wounded. He moved his arms in a well-practiced circle around his uncovered torso. There looked to be a nasty gash on his stomach that had likely come from another Traveler during the escape. Wyl said something, but it was inaudible.
“Sound?” I asked Hal Pal.
“One moment.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Wyl said while winding the bandage around his abdomen. “But why should you? You’re not even there right now. You damn Travelers and your puppet spirits.”
Viper stared across the fire. He looked beat up but made no move to clean himself or address any wounds. The autopilot was content to bleed all over the gear provided by King Nero’s little box during our first day. Mine had mostly been replaced by [Bound] gear.
“Tell me how long you’ve known Hermes,” the guard captain ordered.
The slit-eyed Traveler ignored Wyl’s demand while looking around for signs of danger. His gaze shifted slowly between trees and bushes nearby. Their fire pit of a camp seemed hidden enough to me, but I used to have gear and items to help with [Wilderness Survival].
“Tell me how you received Nyassa’s blessing.” Wyl cinched the last piece of his bandage in place then tossed the remaining roll over to Viper’s autopilot.
Fire sputtered between them as the bodyguard bound his own wounds. The partial snake didn’t answer Wyl.
“Of course not. You Travelers, it’s hard to pry anything out of most of you. Then there are the ones that never shut up.” Wyl grunted while trying to wiggle into a tight chest piece.
Viper remained quiet.
“First Traveler I ever met, a man by the name of William Carver, he was a great person. Always willing to help, never asked for repayment. Just charged into danger on the behalf of good and decent folk.” The guard captain put his hands toward the flame and winced.
Viper still said nothing.
“You know that man you were with, he reminded me of old Will. I thought maybe they were related. Maybe the son he always talked about.”
Still nothing. Most autopilots rarely held a conversation outside of one-liners. William Carver’s autopilot had been one of the most advanced, next to Xin’s. If I considered it, she was basically nothing more than a series of memories compiled together.
Then again, what were any of us besides a series of moments stacking on top of each other? I wondered briefly if Mother had built in a blur for interpretation and erroneous recollections of the past. Were machine AIs like James, Mezo, or Ray born with perfect memories?
Viper and Wyl were alive at least. That was something. Time skipped shortly as the playback resynchronized with current events. Wyl stood in fast forward, and a splint under his leg became more obvious. The man had broken or sprained a limb.
“Why help me, Viper?” Wyl asked after limping around the fire pit.
“I wass hired to keep you ssafe,” the autopilot hissed.
Wyl didn’t say thanks. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he glanced back toward the east. I tried to figure out from the video playback angle which way they had run, but I failed. Hopefully getting to Wyl, much less not dying upon respawn, would be simple enough.
Voices help me if all those players were still resurrecting and fighting each other. What exactly happened to a convict caravan if it fell apart? NPCs wouldn’t magically appear to control everything. Maybe King Nero would run a dispatch.
“Show Mister Stone, please,” I said to Hal Pal. Calling him Alfonse felt weird.
Viper’s image shut down while a new one came into being. I blinked at the difference in brightness.
The Traveler sat under three lamps. They hung overhead with crystalline strings dangling between them. The table and book shelves around him were no less opulent. Rolls of parchment were carefully stored in multiple racks.
He held a long quill in one hand and appeared more interested in the feather tip than any boxes. Despite apparent disregard, his ink never smudged nor went outside the line. Not one stray drop fell from the inkwell nearby. Even from this remote viewing, it was hard to miss the mechanical neatness.
“Form 1709. Completed in triplicate,” his suave voice said.
The man appeared immaculate as always. Last time I had seen him, my face had been shoved into a king’s floor. He picked up the form and aired it, helping the ink dry.
“Excellent. You are efficient for a Traveler, Mister Stone.” Another man stood in the room. In his hands was a clipboard. This person had to be the beanpole who had jotted down notes for King Nero.
“I have always prided myself on my ability to navigate legal paperwork. A matter of job security, you understand.”
>
They shared a look that implied brief amusement. I weakly snickered, having received confirmation that bureaucracy had been designed as a deliberate headache. Dad was right. He had been right.
I felt tired again. My brain wanted to shut down rather than deal with the impending parental conversation. Last weekend had passed easily enough, given the suddenness. The ease of handling my father’s death could most likely be attributed to everyone else being in shock.
“Of course though, to be honest, I never understood the need to have three copies of everything,” the seneschal said.
“The original practice was to have backup copies filed in various locations.” Mister Stone straightened his cuffs, then worked on another stack of papers. He made short notations along the border. “A matter of keeping the paperwork safe from those who might wish to tamper with it.”
“Where could we store them? There’s hardly enough room. Last week some Travelers—Voices, let it have been Travelers—burned down two storerooms. In addition to the wars and strife caused by your…” The man who had been holding a clipboard during my trial paused with his mouth open. “Pardon my poor manners.”
“It’s all right.” The man sighed and set about writing carefully on another form. “I often stand there defending their actions and wondering if it’s the right thing to do.”
Their conversation paused for a moment, and the ARC playback sped up to skip a moment of nothing. I watched as they bobbled in place before slowing down into speech. The other man’s face pinched slightly around the eyes.
“It’s interesting. In my world, most cases are easily solved. Everything is watched and monitored. Whereas here, crime is harder to pinpoint.”
“It must be difficult for you, Mister Stone,” he said.
“Often all I can do is ensure no one person is targeted. Punishment must be consistent with the crime.” Mister Stone set his latest paper off to the side to dry, then moved on to another sheet.
The thinner man scanned over the pages being notated. His lips pursed in thought before he picked up various sheets and put them on his clipboard. Mister Stone took no note and sat in his chair, continuing to pen away.
“My cousin, a knight who works on the Reparation Caravans, believes that Travelers are beyond redemption,” the standing man said.
“Not all. Their—our—nature makes it difficult to punish them, but most here are simply unintentionally reckless. We need to simply figure out a better means of keeping them from overrunning everyone else as they go about your world.” Another piece of paper slid to the left as Mister Stone worked through.
I tried to focus on what was being written. A few sheets were about passports or taxation of people arriving at the kingdom. Other sheets implied members or groups of Travelers were working on formal recognition by the kingdom. The few words that were visible implied a guild creation of sorts.
Apparently the clipboard-carrying man saw the same theme. He asked, “Have you heard about this alliance of Travelers trying to undermine King Nero? Do you ever worry that you might be approving criminals with these forms?”
Mister Stone, since he seemed to go by his last name in the game, put up a finger and hushed the clipboard-toting Local. Footsteps could be heard moving in a brisk walk. A third male burst into the room. This person looked much younger and was difficult to clearly see from the displayed angle.
“Sirs,” he said with a voice broken by hormones, “Sir Stone. We received word about the caravan you were following.”
“What is it?” the clipboard-carrying man said.
“Well, Sir Seinfeld—I’m sorry, Sir Stone.” The poor kid looked confused about who to address. His entire body alternated between the men. “Sirs, I’m sorry.”
“What is it?” they said at roughly the same time.
The boy’s mouth gulped for air briefly. “The guards escorting them seem to be dead, sirs.”
“All of them?” Mister Stone said while the other man stared at his clipboard.
I felt sorry for the NPC. Answers were rarely ever found in clipboards.
“Except one,” the boy said.
I looked at him a bit harder and noticed he wore an almost casually sewn piece of clothing. It looked like a pillow case with the royal crest woven in.
I saw hope light up in King Nero’s seneschal. He stepped toward the page and asked, “Who is it?”
“Sir. Guard Captain Wyl Cannikin,” responded the youngest male.
“Oh.” The king’s note-taker deflated.
Only Mister Stone remained unfazed. The Traveler drained the quill tip and set it beside the inkwell. His latest paper slid away, carefully avoiding smudges with the former two sheets. Finally, he looked toward the page boy.
“Can we get anyone to him? What of the convicts under their care?” Mister Stone asked.
“I’ve been told to tell you, sirs. Their tethers are loosened, sir—sirs. Sorry.” The lad gulped for air again, then managed to stutter through the rest of his report. “The stone that bound them is broken. We’ve lost them, sir.”
“How many?” Mister Stone asked.
“Fifteen, sir,” the page responded while his face tried to turn whiter than before. By some strange feat, he succeeded. He gulped one last time. then ran off.
I continued watching, but my eyelids were heavy. The sounds of players panicking soon vanished under the weight of missed sleep.
A few hours later, I made it to my mom’s. Liz thanked me by running out the door and screaming about how late she was. I waved absently as my twin got into her car and vanished into the distance.
The front door stood wide open, and I walked inside, followed by the Hal Pal unit. There was no good reason for it to be here, but the AI’s presence helped me feel better.
My mom, Sharee, stood in her front room, looking a bit lost. She was taller than us twins. For a moment, I felt jealous at having never reached such a height, but perhaps that worked in my favor. Xin’s stature was nearly a head lower than mine already. Anything more would have been awkward.
The house looked like a small disaster area. Not torn up or full of broken or thrown objects, but I noticed a lack of tidying. Had Liz done this? Or maybe my sister hadn’t even noticed in her eagerness to hand over the support role. Maybe my twin had a date.
“Hal, can you help clean?” I said while walking over to Sharee.
“Of course, User Legate. We are here to assist you.”
Mom kicked into gear and grabbed objects from the nearby tables. “I don’t want a machine helping me.” Sharee grabbed a fourth glass before heading to the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, Mom, he’s helping me. I’m going to do the cleaning.”
“Your asshole of a father expects me to keep this house clean, and by god, I’m not letting a machine do my work for me,” she insisted.
“Today, Mom, you should.” I held myself back from outright declaring a dead man should have no sway over her cleaning habits. “We’ll clean a bit, I’ll look over the bills again, and you should take a shower. It will help you feel better.” Telling my own mother what to do felt like a crime against nature.
“When did you grow up to be so capable?” Her head jostled. “I think I will take a shower. That sounds delightful.”
Hal Pal and I went through the rooms. There were papers lying about that I gathered for sorting. The AI focused on simple tasks like dishes, gathering clothing into one spot, and vacuuming.
Mom took a long time. I sifted through the papers left behind and marveled that anyone preferred hard copies when an abundance of information was digital. I noted all the companies she could save a few cents on by simply switching to electronic billing. Plus managing their finances would be easier.
I worked with old software on my wristwatch to start making notes. Budgeting like this would be simple enough, and Mom’s finances would be a complete mess in another month if someone didn’t take care of it.
Crunching numbers made me oddly happy. There were mom
ents where my vision clouded, mostly from seeing Dad’s name on a bill, but overall I was happy to be sorting anything out. Maybe Mister Stone felt the same way working on legal papers.
Almost two hours later, I turned around to see my mom. She stood in the front room looking slack-jawed at the cleaned house. She had done herself up for a night out: a nice dress that hung a bit loose, earrings that had been shined, and makeup highlighting her cheeks. Today was Friday, and my parents normally went out on Fridays. I chewed my lip as her expression faltered.
“I did it again.” Sharee collapsed on the couch’s armrest.
I gathered up the pile of papers and put them to one side before I walked into the front room. “It’s okay, Mom.”
“Yesterday I set the table for two before it hit me.” She sniffed. “Imagine that. Halfway through dinner, silly old me, I forgot I didn’t need to make quite as much spaghetti.”
“I understand.”
“I kept going, you know? After thirty-five years, I couldn’t… I had to finish setting the table. It’s what he expected.”
She looked terrible. My head tilted down in thought. The tribulations of Xin’s death had torn me down on many levels, and now a family member faced the same problems.
“It’s the first few months. They’re the worst of it,” I said.
For me, it had been drinking. My work performance went downhill until they eventually let me go—not fired but given a severance package as a token of esteem for a decade of great performance.
Mom just nodded. She stared off into a memory that might gradually fade. I knew those moments well.
“I used to wake up and prepare the house for Xin’s return home on Friday night. I, uhh, I wanted the weekends to be ours. No cleaning, nothing to do but spend time together. One day, after”—after some extremely heavy drinking—“well, one day I didn’t remember to get the house cleaned, and I lost it.”
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