by Tao Wong
It doesn’t help that we find, in nearly the center of town, this.
“Are you sure the System will fix the damage?” Sam asks Ali for the umpteenth time as he carefully moves the rods into the newly created lead container.
“Yup. Radiation is a low-grade damage over time effect. Your natural regeneration is more than sufficient to fix it. You’d really only need to worry about kids and maybe some real suckers with no points in Constitution,” Ali reassures Sam. “And even then, a swig of Carlos’s potions should fix it.”
“Well, that’d also explain the lack of safety equipment,” I say helpfully.
“Stupidity also does the same,” Sam grouses, looking around the Alchemist’s lab. “Who the hell makes plutonium?”
“Someone wanting their own nuclear warhead,” Lieutenant Marco Sprouse says as he stands by, watching the entire operation diligently.
Outside, his rather relieved team is keeping an eye on the lab and ensuring we’re not interrupted. The Lieutenant was dragged out here from Portland, one of the combat engineers sent to “help” us contain radioactive material. I still find it amusing that Sam’s the one managing said radioactive material though.
“I thought it was pretty difficult to build nukes?” I say, frowning. I mean, didn’t it take the entire brainpower of the States to figure out how to do it in the first place?
“Well, as you’ve pointed out to the Colonel numerous times, everything is for sale,” Marco says and lets me draw the obvious conclusions.
I do, soon enough, my eyes widening. “Shit…” I look at the nonchalant-looking Spirit. “What? What am I missing?”
“Everything important,” drawls Ali. When my eyes narrow, he snorts. “You’re carrying a particle beam rifle over your shoulder, driving on an anti-gravity-driven Personal Assault Vehicle, and regularly throw around lightning while teleporting hundreds of feet. What makes you think a small nuclear explosion is that important?”
“Because they’re nukes?” Sam says as he finishes screwing the container closed.
“It’d destroy most non-System-registered buildings, but even a mildly reinforced System building should be able to stand up to the explosion if the nuke wasn’t System-registered. Most of what you’ve got are the equivalent of Tier IV weapons, dangerous for non-Combatants and Basic Classes—but that’s the same as most of your spells and Skills. I’ll admit, if you built the bomb from scratch and used your Skills, it’d have a little more of a kick—but nothing a good settlement Shield couldn’t stop,” Ali says. “At best, it’d be considered a Tier II weapon.”
There’s a long silence as our worldview takes a beating. The idea that a nuke—a weapon of mass destruction—isn’t really all that powerful in this new world takes some getting used to. Maybe a little more widespread in its basic destructive potential, but a single high Level Advanced Classer could probably tank the damage and dish out more damage over the longer run. Still…
“What happened to the US’s nukes?” I ask the Lieutenant, curiosity burning me.
“I’m not privy to such information,” Marco replies stoically.
“Would you tell me if you knew?” I ask.
“You would not be cleared for that information either,” Marco replies, which leads to an annoyed grunt from me.
Still, the non-answer leads me to believe that not only has the colonel learnt what has happened to most of the US’s nukes, it’s also well in hand. I can’t see him refusing to direct me to one of those earlier if that wasn’t the case.
“We’re going to have to track down the Alchemist who did this,” I say, changing the subject.
“I believe the colonel will agree with your assessment. I’ve requested that Sam use his drones to continue searching for our escapees.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Sam says grimly. “We’ve got a few Bounty Hunters and Trackers who’ll make finding these asses easy. And the military boys have their own police squad. We’ll find them, even if we have to issue a quest.”
“Just make sure they bring enough friends,” I mutter and get a nod.
Now that the radioactive material is safely stored away, the Lieutenant calls in his people to cart it through the newly opened Portal. Within seconds, people are streaming in to help settle the city as well. Getting all this settled will take a while, and for the time being, my presence is needed. It’s just another damn delay on the way south.
Chapter 11
Life never takes you to where you expect it to. After our last disturbing settlement, I’ve reached the Six Rivers, Klamath national forest reserves. Being drawn once more into the leafy embrace of tall, mutated trees is actually comforting. The few settlements that either border or are located within the forest reserves are mostly empty, the few survivors more than grateful to be Portalled somewhere safer.
I could almost believe that the rest of the trip down would be that simple. After all, the settlements nearest a big city get emptied as the survivors flock to the city for mutual support and safety.
It’s at Williams, California, a tiny little crossroads town hours away from Sacramento, that things change once again. The town itself is empty, abandoned buildings and broken-down vehicles telling the usual tale of the apocalypse. No bodies this time though. Not even the rotted remains we expect to find occasionally.
No, what I get is a real, live Galactic sitting in the middle of the crossroads, one with red skin, horns, pointed ears, and a tail. The fact that he doesn’t reach for a gun and is lounging on a bright red, bullet-shaped hovering vehicle clues me in that this will be a more social kind of confrontation. Unsurprisingly, that puts me even more on guard.
“Greetings, Redeemer.”
Dylan Pratma, Grandmaster of the Forge (Level 8 Executive Diplomat)
HP: 2830/2830
MP: 8940/8940
Conditions: Aura of Benevolence, Tier II Pheromones, Shield of the Stars
“Grandmaster?”
“Just a title. He is a Master Class though,” Ali says warningly.
“Greetings, Grandmaster Pratma,” I say with a smile, pulling Sabre to a stop and bringing my helmet down with practiced motions. “I’m going to assume your presence here is not a coincidence.”
“Forsooth, that is the truth of such matters,” Pratma says with a grin, running a hand along the silver-grey suit he wears. Seeing my glance at his clothing, Pratma smiles again. “The dress, the cloth that drapes across your kind’s bodies, speaks to the petals of my vanity, the dressings of success and opulence that man revels in.”
“That’s one of us,” I mutter.
I hate suits. It’s why I worked for a tech company. And what the hell is up with his speech pattern? I almost want to ask him, but I’m not entirely sure what the etiquette is with regard to botched language downloads.
“In this time of darkness, a moment of light is required, a time to speak and perchance come to an agreement of minds. We seek to speak with yourself under the greater aegis of the System and a bond of peace,” Pratma continues, his voice becoming almost rote.
“A… what?”
“Bond of peace. Exactly as it sounds like, boy-o,” Ali explains. “You both promise not to injure one another while you talk. Generally has a duration and other terms and conditions… ah, here it comes.”
I get a notification, one that makes my eyes glaze over. When I shoot Ali a helpless look, the Spirit laughs.
“Boy-o here hates reading. Something simpler would be best.”
I growl softly at Ali over the besmirchment of my good name, but he is effective. The next notification is much shorter, a simple agreement that promises that we’ll talk and not harm each other nor allow each other to come to harm during this conversation and an hour afterward. I agree to it, curiosity driving the decision more than anything else.
“How come the Uvrik didn’t use this for our meeting?”
“What did you think the Contract was? It’s all just variations on the same thing.”
�
��Gratitude is given to the Redeemer, he who sets to rest those who have fallen, who resolves the wishes of the forsaken and lost. We speak now, if the slayer of beasts will allow, about the peace that reigns in our fair cities and the coming clouds of war, of those who might be lost and those who might be saved,” Pratma says.
I stare at the devil again before coughing and waving for Pratma to continue.
“I come from the city by the bay, the settlement of golden gates, the abode of the fog children and the city of the blessed ritual in the hopes of peace, of an agreement between our two empires.”
“You’re from San Francisco and Sacramento,” I say. Memory of my briefings about the owners of the settlements come back to me, sparse as the details might be. The pair of neighboring cities had been taken and controlled by the same organization, another damn corporation. “You’re part of the Golden Water Corporation’s upper management, aren’t you?”
“In the manner of decisions, in the choices of the actions that the business of the golden liquid might take, it might be said I have some say. Some, those touched by the green-eyed beast, might say that I have more than some, but it is not for one to speak about such minor things. Such words are a hateful bile that erupts from my throat and wipes away all sweet words.”
“Okay…” I wave him on, wondering if we’ll ever get to the point.
“In the time since the coming of the System, since the approach of those starborn, the glimmering dihydrogen monoxide has laid claim to the lands of the golden gate and the blessed ritual. We have provided a shield against the night, a sword against the rapacious. We have given greatly and taken fairly, provided succor for the frail and training for the strong.
“But the clouds of time drift ever onward and the System comes fully birthed, extending its tendrils through all facets. Now, other starborn come in greater numbers, some with needs and desires that encompass all that they see, hear, and smell, seeking to only take from the wealth that flows from the blood of the Mana-evolved. And those native-born to your fair land strike back, seeking safety in numbers and under the glowing barrels of your guns. But it will be insufficient. For the starborn are numerous, like the kelp in the sea, the eggs of the kooma. If there is only blood and death in your path toward peace, only blood and death will you find.”
“And what does that have to do with you?” I say.
“A meeting of minds, an agreement among those more rational. We seek to show you our fine and fair intentions while swearing upon our good names and under the aegis of the System an alliance, one born from fair intentions and future Credits,” Pratma says with a smile, hands spreading to show them open and inviting.
I fall silent, considering what Pratma said. He’s not wrong—we can’t fight everyone. It’s why I pushed for us to talk with the Uvrik corporation in Calgary, why we have tried to come to some agreement with Galactics when we can. I know that the Americans aren’t happy with that, there being a very clear desire to “win” back their land, but Wier seems to understand the strategic implications of an all-out war. Even if we could beat the first wave—and that’s a big if—the second, third, and all the subsequent waves would win out eventually. There’re so many more of them than us that engaging in a constant acceleration of violence can only end in the devastation of our population. At the same time, we can’t afford not to take action, not to push back and acquire our cities.
What Pratma offers, what Roxley has in the North, is a potential solution. My biggest hesitation is the same one that afflicts me in BC right now—the various webs of Galactic politics being unknowable for us. The Movana and Truinnar, the Yerrick, Hakarta, and more. All of them have alliances and deals, and any one such deal we make could draw us into fights we want nothing to do with. Yet we need our people to deal with the real monsters out there. A memory of the previous human-run settlement comes to mind unbeckoned, disheveled survivors and starving children reminding me that the monsters aren’t just among the Galactics.
“This isn’t going to be an easy conversation, you understand? And I’m not likely to be the man you’ll want to speak with,” I say. “But I’ll pass your recommendation up the chain.”
“In the pursuit of peace, admonishments, anger, and abuse are but minor inconveniences. Among the dross and vitriol of words spoken in anger and overflowing emotions, one can find true orichalcum.”
“Ali, what are you doing?” I send to the spirit.
He’s staring at Pratma, hands held up in a small rectangle formation in front of his face. “Recording. This guy’s incredible.”
I roll my eyes at Ali’s answer but nod to Pratma, content to give him a non-verbal answer, partly in fear that he’ll start up again. With a gesture, a Portal appears next to me and I step through it to report on the latest change, Sabre following me. I’m sure someone has plans for this. In either case, having me do the negotiations is probably the worse idea possible.
***
“John…”
“Yes, dear?” I say with a smile later that evening, when we’re alone and picking through the remnants of our dinner. Mmm, barbecued mammoth creature slathered with Yurk butter.
“Why didn’t you warn us about him?” Lana says, just the slightest edge to her voice.
I can’t help but flash her a shit-eating grin, which gets me a pinch. Twisting away, I regret provoking the woman—and that Pratma insisted I stay, at least till a minimal agreement had been made. Something about my ability being a potential danger.
“Didn’t think it was relevant. He’s understandable.” Mostly.
“And the fact that he sounds like he’s from a badly written sixteenth-century play?”
“Is amusing. I’m kind of sad that the agreements are so…”
“Business like?” Lana snorts, shaking her head. “Imprecise, flowery language is not something you want in your alliance agreements. Even if they make for more fun reading.”
“Yeah…” I give her a hug. “Thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome. It made sense to ensure we had some oversight on this. Wier is nice enough, but his people are kind of like you.”
“Except that diplomat.”
“Peter? Yes. We’re lucky he survived. And kept his Class,” Lana says, smiling. “That Skill of his is quite useful.”
“Diplomatic Immunity?” I say. “Complete immunity to damage, targeting, and spells? It’s a bit broken, as Jason would say. If it lasted for longer than a few seconds, it’d be really broken.”
“Do you think we’ll get an agreement?” Lana says, a slightly wistful note in her voice. “It’d be nice to have a couple of big cities on our side, ones that we don’t have to protect. After the Uvrik gave up their portion of Calgary, we’ve mostly been taking over smaller settlements owned by the Galactics. If we can get what they promise—that the humans can help us if they want—we’ll receive a lot of help without the cost.”
“Aye. San Jose’s going to be problematic though,” I say with a grimace.
“Do you think it’ll throw off the negotiations?”
San Jose is technically a contested city, one that exists in an uneasy cold war with Pratma’s people. Whether we would give it up—if we even have a right to make that decision—is something that would be a sticking point in the negotiations.
“Maybe. Depends on how stubborn everybody is. If the Pratma give up on San Jose, it’d be great. Otherwise, they might have to learn to live with them. If it was just Wier, I’d be more optimistic.” I shrug. “But he’s in contact with his bosses now and I don’t know them. And there’s a lot of pressure to not give up any ‘American’ soil.”
At the last few words, Lana grimaced. We’ve both heard such sentiments more than once, sometimes with the American changed to Canadian. It’s no surprise really. No one wants to consider themselves conquered, but perhaps because we lived for over a year with Roxley as the “owner” of Whitehorse, it’s something we can accept. Needs must when the devil drives, and the devil’s on a Germa
n autobahn.
“Keep an ear out on this?” I finally say to break the silence and get a nod from Lana.
After a moment, to distract us from the conversation, I kiss her with my hands on her hips, a hand sliding along her waist. In short order, we’re not worrying about the state of the world anymore, our focus on much more immediate and intimate matters.
***
A week passes in a flash. The first three days I spend stuck in the meetings, forced to listen as they negotiate a basic agreement between all parties. Since I was there, I even signed it, putting the settlements I owned up north into the document. City and myself, all bound by a simple acknowledgement. Once again I shivered at that level of power, that ability to control the lives of so many with so little.
After that, I was allowed to roam while they hammered down more concrete details, like when the first trade caravan could come in, when the first group could visit the cities. Mostly, I spent my time driving around, finding the few last human holdouts, and Portalling them to bigger settlements. There were a few nice surprises. A First Nations—wait, Native American—tribe that had managed to survive by holing up in their casino, along with a bunch of their workers and high-rollers. It highly amused me that the casino was a “Gambling Fort” with some truly strange, chance-based defensive measures. There was a church whose preacher had sacrificed his own Class and Perk to register the building in the System, allowing it to become a sanctuary against the violence and saving the town that had grown up around it. His actions had saved hundreds of people, the megachurch more than sufficient to accommodate them all.
