Skathareek

  Sheerna Observation Lab, Vesheen City, Shee

  

  Skathareek, Seer and advisor to queen Tiana of the summer court, hummed in deep discontent. Her queen had demanded she attend this pitiful planet following its purchase. It was her role to ensure the transfer of power was both seamless and complete.

  In general, her mission had been successful. The locals mostly regarded the change to the planet’s owner as inconsequential, as nothing ever changed immediately in such cases. Transfers of power were a well understood and common phenomena. While small day-to-day specifics might be changed immediately, no new ruler with a wisp of wisdom would attempt to demand an overhaul to existing and working ecosystems.

  This, in fact, was a great source of discontent to the drama-loving Seer. It had been nearly a ten-day since last she ‘overheard’ any courtly intrigue or caught wind of a power play in motion! In fact, the most drama she had witnessed had been a joyous occasion which caused not an iota of strife. Disgusting.

  Even her queen would be pleased to learn the little rift world, which gave value to this uncultured planet, had advanced mere days after she purchased it. In fact, she would likely see it as a sign of good fortune and a sign from the grand weave that her plans would be readily accepted into the tapestry. A shame.

  Slender shoulders rising to nearly touch the fat which hung from her wide jaw in beautiful blue waves, the Seer released a sigh which she stretched to the extent her lung’s capacity allowed. The wistful sound quickly drew her servant, a loyal fae man who attended her well and sought not his own ambitions. The man, whose name she had no need to know, bowed and quickly began attending her. Gently, his bristly hands scrapped along the bark which had formed on her ankles and toes, removing the unsightly stress-growths. He spoke not, thought not, and cared not. The perfect servant. In the moment, she hated for his perfection.

  She’d brought this servant, rather than her more conniving lackey, with the expectation she would need a stalwart ally in the face of strong political opposition! After all, her queen had never commanded the orcish peoples leave the planet when she purchased it. And, as expected, they had not left! Yet, they did naught to resist their new rulers!

  The small, subtle, changes which Skathareek had implemented had been accepted stoically without a single sign of discontent. The few potential dissidence she’d marked to watch with her gift had even left! Just like that, without a single act of spite or resistance! Having never dealt with orcs before, Skathareek was horrified to learn from the locals that this was to be expected. Orcs did not maneuver and plot. They did not seek subtle influence. Had the orcs been in opposition to the sale, they would simply have not sold. Such a boring, boarish, and bumbling peoples!

  Even as the servant male rubbed at her feet, she could feel yet another layer of bark forming. Should this stress continue, she may be reduced to little more than an ent before the year-long assignment was at an end. In an attempt to sooth herself, she began plotting against whoever her queen sent to assume her position at the end of the year. Ah, yes, whoever her queen sent should not suffer so! Or… Perhaps leaving this horrible culture of un-subtlety and barbaric acceptance of rulership should be left to torment her successor? Oh, what a delightful possibility!

  Yet… Would she, Skathareek, wish such torment even upon an enemy? Much less a possible ally? Was it possible to prime a more properly subtly turbulent political landscape without tipping the scale in its entirety? In such a case, might she balance the planet on the cusp of change, ready to push it over should her replacement prove to be an ally worth nurturing? Yes, a truly wonderful idea. If someone such as that Koothalan should show his disgusting mane, she could simply resolve whatever pivotal conflict she was nurturing, so returning the peoples of this world to placidity.

  A soft giggle slipped from her thick lips, her broad tongue wetting them in delight. Even her scent improved at the new direction, the new plan. A proper plot. What a wonderful project! Could she maintain to the peoples of this world that she held to their silly notions of simplicity and honesty, while simultaneously orchestrating and building a proper court? A court she could dismantle in as short a period as she’d be given between learning who would come to replace her and their arrival?

  Delectable! Delightful! Yes! Now, what contrivances would she build? Which structures should she push and prod? Surely, nothing the orcs controlled or cared for. She did not desire a direct and immediate response, after all. Besides orcs, humans were most present upon this planet. Followed by elves, then a smattering of other races.

  It was unsurprising, given the planet of Shee was one of the so-called golden-zone planets which all those closely related branch of humanoid preferred. The fact that fae were, largely, within the same ‘branch’ was of little relevance and tempered not her scorn for them. Especially the simple-minded orcs.

  So, humans would be the simplest target. They were the most malleable of all available races. For the Queen’s love, many of them left their tutorials believing fae couldn’t even lie! The fools were ripe for manipulation. It was why they were often used as unknowing stooges and plot devices within the many carefully crafted living plays which the court so enjoyed. Others, should they learn of the extent of the current problem and her proposed remedy, would scoff at her. After all, using humans to build a system of intrigue was too cliche, too simple. A more ambitious route would be to target the orcs. Those very brutes she had dismissed. The thought… had merit.

  Did other fae know of the orc’s lack of cunning? Their contentment to be ruled and trampled? If so, would they not be truly impressed to learn of a world where they were tempered? Turned into true courtly blades of finesse and scheming? Lifting one thick set of fingers to her nose, she rubbed the thick bulb. After a moment of gentle rubbing, flakes falling about her shoulders, It was smooth. Not a trace of bark remained. Looking down, her servant had likely completed the removal of the undesirable outer-skin she grew in response to stress.

  “Go, search out the most contentious happenings on this planet. I need to know.” The servant leapt up, bowed, and turned.

  As he took his leave, he spoke from the mouth hidden beneath the wave-like golden locks of hair which hung past his broad shoulders. “It shall be done, my lady. I suggest you begin your search with the rift itself, certainly the most potential for strife comes from the planet’s entire purpose for existing.”

  The door swung to and fro smoothly as her servant passed through it. His mana stopped any sound which might have hinted at its motion. She wasn’t certain what path he followed, not that it mattered.

  Turning her thoughts back, she accepted his advice. Not due to any respect for him, mind, but rather because she’d already been thinking the same. If anything was going to cause the inhabitants of this world to suddenly and inexplicably change it would likely be related to their source of livelihood.

  Reaching forth, Skathareek spoke softly, “Show me the rift of Sheerna.” Her left eye flickered off, its vibrant irises of swirling blue and yellow fading to a reflective silver. The next moment, the eye perfectly reflected a scene a few dozen kilometers away. She kept her attention rapt, searching for any hint as to what she would target, what weakness these people had, what they valued besides delving alone.

  

  Earnest Brock

  Sheerna Entrance, Outside Vesheen City, Shee

  

  Day after day, month after month, year after year. Every day was more or less the same for Earnest. One of the few humans who managed to seem old, despite being eternally in his prime. His dull hair was grey, his drooping eyes were grey, and subtle wrinkles lined his face. Plenty of non-humans, shocked at his less than youthful features, asked if he’d somehow managed to age. The question was always filled with horror, clearly worried the same might happen to them.

  “Yes.” He replied in the flat, bored tone that he’d used for the last hundred years while answering this inane question. “And if you don’t go through the rift, or get out of the way so others can, I’ll use the spell that causes it on you.”

  The latest gawker, some kind of lizard-monkey hybrid, stepped to sharply. He entered just behind the rest of his five-person party. He lazily called out the standard warning which he didn’t even remember moments after speaking anymore.

  “Fifteen minutes before the next party can enter. Attempts to enter before the rift instance cycles is considered an act of aggression toward the previous party. When you return from the rift you will be tried with either intent to party wipe, if the other party returns, or simply charged with party wiping if they don’t come back. We don’t give a shit about the actual circumstances and excuses, so don’t even try.”

  So far as Earnest was aware, the warning was entirely a bluff. The local ‘government’ had no law-offices, no enforcers, nothing. The couple times people had ignored the rules and entered behind other parties, one party or the other didn’t return. When the other party did come back through, Earnest, or Bookan if she was on duty, simply reported the initial party slew their aggressors. No one knew, or cared, whether it was true or if the second party had been the victors.

  Even so, the warning was mandatory between every party if he wanted to collect his pay check. More importantly, any instances where he forgot or neglected to speak it added an additional two months to his contracted period. He’d tried to flee his contract with The Luminous Home several times within his first ten years of arrival from Earth, but had easily been tracked down and dragged to work. Each time his contract’s term had extended by several years. His current term, after a bit over a hundred on the job, had three hundred and fifteen years remaining.

  “Yo, Tubems.” Bookan’s casual voice called as she waddled awkwardly over. The wāskan was a bit short, as her race went, standing around a hundred and twenty five centimeters. The majority of that height came from her backward-kneed legs. The frog woman’s wide waddling gate was only half as odd to watch as her less leisurely hopping. Above the legs, her body was squat and stretched as all wāskan were. A slimy looking orb-like body was topped by a head which artlessly mixed a human’s features with a frog. Massive brown eyes full of intelligence sat above a a pointed snout-nose, slit on either side of the tip. Her wide mouth split stretched from the snout down to her neck. Her mouth was constantly puckered, due to generously thick red lips. Human-like arms connected to large hands. Each of her fingers were adorned with with sticky pad finger-tips which she could use with startling dexterity.

  Somehow, the semi-horrifying mix of frog and humanoid was cute, in her own way. Not that Earnest would ever say as much to the cocky frog. “Bookan, my name’s Earnest. I don’t even know why you call me that, I’m not fat or anything. I’m normal sized!”

  “Sure, sure, Tubems. Boss says you’re Tubems though. ’Member?”

  He sighed, dropping the argument as quickly as he always did. Instead, he began packing up to go home. Back to his little shared hovel. Back to his bunk with its single chest for personal effects. Yay.

  All he had to pack were the containers he prepared and brought lunch in every day. He never bothered to pack them back up after quickly eating between delver groups. The few minutes chatting with Bookan were generally the highlight of his day, after all. Might as well extend the time.

  “Did ya get Toof to quit trying to start a prank war with you?” She asked, pulling her large waist-bag off. She began digging in it, pulling out a few items even as he packed up his own. She always brought a small collection of stones, which she claimed helped calm her when she stared at them. Besides that, she had a container with her dinner and a small pad to doodle on.

  With a shake of his head, he grumbled to her, “Never. That stupid gnome refuses to believe anyone wouldn’t enjoy waking up to a pile of cricket-things being poured on them.”

  “Mmm… Maybe we should swap bunks for a bit?” The wāskan asked hopefully, long tongue sliding from one edge of her plump lipped mouth to the other.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “It’s not always crickets, but sure. If you want, not gunna complain.”

  “What else does he do?” Her voice was more wary now.

  Snorting, he shoved the last of his containers into his backpack, “A couple nights ago he built a cage around my bunk. It took me almost twenty minutes to break out of the stupid thing. He used whatever magic he has to reinforce it, for some reason. When I got back that evening, he was laughing his butt off. He showed me there was a ‘simple’ mechanism to get out, so I hadn’t had to break it at all. The simple mechanism was to solve a three step puzzle that I would have first had to find and identify.”

  “Yeah, sounds like a gnome, they’re-” She cut off as the ever-present line of delvers started shouting. He’d just sent the last group through, so there was no way they were getting impatient for the line to move yet.

  Looking up, Earnest saw the rift doing something odd. It was pulsing. The edges were contracting, pulling in toward the center, before pressing outward. The sight was as mesmerizing as it was strange. He wasn’t the only one who thought so, as many people began murmuring oos and aaahs.

  The pace was slow and steady at first, but as he watched Earnest noticed the speed of the ‘beats’ was slowly increasing. That was concerning, though he wasn’t certain why.

  “Do you think we should report this?” He asked Bookan in a casual tone.

  He saw her swaying from side to side uncertainly. It was her way of shrugging, as she lacked the shoulders to do so normally. “Not sure, maybe? Don’t think our contract says anything about pulsing rifts, though.”

  He nodded his agreement. They weren’t responsible for much, which suited him just fine. But… “Think they’d knock off some years if we did?”

  Every so often they heard stories of people having their contracts shortened as a reward for ‘good behavior.’

  “Oh! Good point, let’s try! Shall we send the report at the same time?”

  “Sounds good. Let me write it up.”

  They both watched in silence as they drafted nearly identical reports, which they swapped and spot-checked for each other, through the UICI. A minute later, they were both ready.

  “Three…” Earnest began.

  Bookan continued, “Two…”

  “One.” They finished together, both sending their report at nearly the same time.

  Then, as if the rift had been waiting for just that moment, its pulse suddenly sped to a wild pace. Beating tens of times per second, the mesmerizing became worrying. The blue portal, which had been red and orange until mere months ago, shone a brighter and brighter shade. Moving from the dark tone of a deep-ocean, it moved through the range of brightness and contrast at startling speed. Finally settling at a shockingly bright and vibrant color which seemed as ‘perfect’ a blue as Earnest had ever seen.

  The next moment, the rift exploded outward in a burst of power. Without a whisper of sound, with the deafening roar of a million detonations. Removing all light, while shining like a star a millimeter away. Pulling and pushing at once. Reality bent. Then, everything returned to normal.

  Except, somehow, Earnest was laying on his back staring up into the sky and pain screamed through his entire body. Though, most of it was focused around his chest. Looking down, Earnest saw a large root protruding from his chest, his heart clearly visible through the wound. Worse, it wasn’t beating.

  Shit. They’re going to extend my contract for missing work.

  

  Golran Warbringer

  Monitoring Deck, Operations, Hemmnesty

  

  The role of monitoring was an inglorious one. One which Golran would have scoffed at and refused, given the chance. Unfortunately, he had no such chance. He was under contract. The very thought still made him sneer in fury. He’d accepted the annoying prompt to make it stop popping up, twenty or so years ago. He’d done so even as he demanded answers from the orc who had approached him immediately as he arrived.

  He’d learned a simple lesson the day he’d arrived: A friendly orc should never be trusted. The orc who trapped him in this horror had firmly and pitilessly instructed him in this lesson. No true warrior would ever use such a wheedling tone, nor would they abase themselves to apologize and reassure a stranger. Yet Golran, like the rest of his warparty, was defeated before he’d even realized there was a battle afoot that day. A single seemingly weak orc had tricked and subdued a dozen strong warriors of the Warbringer clan.

  Once the stranger orc had explained where he was, and more importantly what his new role was, Golran had laughed and charged. He’d died in glorious battle once, he’d do so again! He would not serve as some administrative slave. Instead of fighting and slaying Golran with honor, the too-nice orc had barked an order and Golran had found himself complying. The absolute fury he’d felt had done nothing to release him from the grasp of the much more powerful foe. One who he now served under and hated with his entire being.

  Worse still, Evveron was still nice. He ‘encouraged feedback’, ‘requested assistance’, and ‘understood’ everyone’s ‘concerns.’ Slowly, he’d even began to break the minds of his warband. Choovar and Klev were both so far gone that Golran hardly even recognized them. They worked ‘diligently’ and did as they were told without question. Golran might have thought the entire thing was a nightmare, but twenty years was too long even for the worst shaman-induced spirit walk: much less a common nightmare.

  Yet he couldn’t escape. He had tried dozens of times. The compound was both well secured, and confusing. Beyond that, there were no maps of the place, at least as far as he could see. There were so many restricted areas that it was impossible to even know which direction was toward ‘out.’ Golran wasn’t even sure if there was an out. He’d arrived through a portal every time he’d been forced to come back.

  The only method which had any success at all had been when he took the warrior’s escape. He’d tried twice, once with a decorated sword which he’d found hanging in one of the many halls of the compound which had become his prison, and once with a simple fork. Both times, he’d been greeted upon respawning by someone who demanded his name and faction. He’d tried lying and they hadn’t believed him. He’d tried to refuse to answer and they’d taken him to someone who read his thoughts directly from his mind. He was always ‘returned’ to his faction.

  Each attempt had ended with him back where he’d started. Worse, he’d been further restricted. The compound opening fewer doors for him each time. Currently, he could only enter the barracks he’d been assigned to, the mess hall, and the operative death processing center where he was assigned to work.

  A bright light blinked on the console Golran was responsible for monitoring. As always, he cursed as he flicked through the screens on his UICI overlay. He read through the alert which the light had informed him of.

  One of their operatives, one Jemer of clan Unduule, had perished. Following the links in the UICI overlay module, Golran pulled up her mission. She’d been assigned to track down a goblin ship which was flaunting a O.F.F. trade blockade. It had slipped past them on three separate occasions, bringing food and weapons to a world the O.F.F. had decided to destroy. Why the world was marked for destruction, Golran didn’t have ‘clearance’ to know, according to mission page he was reviewing.

  The entire package was fairly standard. As was the defeat of an operative, they lost operatives many dozens of times a minute. Which is why the department he was forced to labor in was a good thousand-orcs strong. There were even a few humans here. Though, they were too stupid to do anything right. Golran often had to fix their mistakes.

  With a soft grumble, Golran started to pull up the handful of forms required to let the various departments know they had new actions to take. He’d need to fill each one out and send it to the appropriate internal mailbox, without using the UICI, as the O.F.F. leadership were paranoid that the multi-dimensional overlay was too suspicious to trust anything ‘sensitive’ to.

  So instead he’d have to draft it in the UICI, then send it through the overlay module into the bulky device which was still blinking at him, and finally send each form off. He’d already gone through the same actions a dozen times today and he knew he’d likely have to get through another dozen before he was given leave.

  Before he began, Golran quickly reviewed the full alert to ensure there were no special circumstances to note. Sometimes there would a mention of a death-curse that would follow the operative through to their next respawn, or there’d be some a note that the death was suspicious and should be investigated for the possibility of betrayal. Usually, there was nothing under the notes section of the alert.

  This time, there was. Golran froze. This was the first time he’d read the line, ‘Operative opted out of respawn.’ The message was simple, but surprising. In the last twenty years, Gorlan had never seen that particular message. Hundreds of others, but not that one. It was chilling. He’d read about it in the training handbook he’d been forced to read through his UICI the first night he’d been ‘recruited’, but he’d never seen it.

  There was an entire series of extra forms and alerts he was supposed to send, all of which were supposed to allow the O.F.F. to quickly find someone to replace the operative so all missions continued normally. Beyond that, an investigation squad would be sent off to determine why O.F.F. properly had decided not to respawn. The most often cause was external interference, according to the handbook.

  Eyes shinning, Golran realized he’d finally found the right time to use the little trick he’d figured out. He’d found that his particular alert-deck was defective. If he bumped it on the left and right sides in just the right away, it would clear everything it currently stored. He’d figured that out on accident, having bumped it in just such a way once in the middle of one of his tasks. It’d been annoying at the time, and he’d have reported it if he hadn’t realized the possibility of using it to fuck the O.F.F.’s plans in some way.

  His main problem was finding a way to mess with them, which wouldn’t obviously lead back to him. If the number or forms he sent out suddenly dropped, surely it’d be noticed by the ‘internal efficiency and discipline’ department. Furthermore, if he failed to report any extra notes on death alerts, it’d be noticed when the operatives respawned and tried to claim their due dispositions or check in with a curse removal expert. So, he’d just kept his little find to himself until he could think of an appropriate use.

  As far as Golran was aware, the only record of alerts kept was local to the individual console, until it was backed up to some super-console once a day. The consoles were the source of record, so… He carefully reached his feet out on either side of the console, the part which extended under the desk, and sharply pulled his legs together. The soles of his boots thumped satisfyingly against the ball to which his metaphorical chain was tied.

  The blinking red light cleared. No one would ever know what happened to the operative Jemer. O.F.F. would never know they should investigate her death. The smugglers wouldn’t ever be pursued.

  Feeling more alive than he had in years, Golran didn’t even curse as the console began blinking again. Finally, he had a way to do something against the shrawvlings who dared to enslave a proud orc warrior.

  

  Wyshaami

  Information Gathering Center, Frazzlen Compound A1, ???

  

  All five eyes fixed on the array of output devices along the far wall, Wyshaami, leader of the Frazzlen faction carefully sorted through the data. Hundreds of other Hazzabi sat in the room, their own eyes focused just as his were. The I.G.C. was a marvel of magitech, allowing an incredible spectrum of data to be gathered and displayed at any given time. Only the Hazzabi had the combination of mental prowess and input processing capabilities required to take advantage of the unique construct. This was, of course, not a coincidence. Rather, Wyshaami had been personally involved in the technology’s creation.

  Noting something of interest, Wyshaami focused on a particular strand of particulates. They represented an interesting string of reports which the various AIs found no interest in, but their particular makeup immediately grabbed the attention of the faction head. Turning his focus away from the I.G.C, he pulled up the reports mentioned with his UICI.

  The reports outlined a modification to the contracts of two new recruits. The modifications were made by an administrator, and the AI marked the changes as parallel in value to the previous terms. They wouldn’t have ever reached anyone of higher authority than the administrator who had made the changes, except for that cluster of interesting particulates. Pride swirled within Wyshaami, a gentle feeling which he basked in for the few moments it remained.

  Feelings subsiding, he looked through the changes curiously. A slight frown formed across his wide mouth. The contract’s duration had been originally been set to the maximum seven thousand years, yet the new term was a mere hundred! How could the AI think this was acceptable? Turning on a debugging utility which highlighted the weight the AI put on each clause, he continued to read. If nothing else, this occurrence might lead him to finding a bug in the AI’s weighting system.

  Continuing on, most of the clauses were loose and would give the contractee a ridiculous level of freedom. In fact, they seemed to be allowed to do nearly anything so long as it didn’t directly harm the Fazzlen faction itself. Just as he was about to begin putting together a correction plan and look into who the admin was, he froze. The AI highlighted two sentences which were given a higher weight than the entirety of the previous contract had been, “You shall accompany and assist Madrick Lark’s new apprentice. Further, you shall report any potential acts of aggression made by master or disciple toward the Frazzlen faction.”

  It was well known that Madrick had been slain and fallen from godhood. Many of his old enemies had immediately moved to capture him, yet all had failed. It was a mystery as to how he’d somehow respawned without being reported, though Wyshaami suspected he had managed to either bribe or threaten whatever receiving team he’d respawned before.

  After all, everyone assumed the insane human would rise to godhood again, assuming he had the opportunity. Of the thousands of gods who fell from their lofty station, Madrick was singularly assumed to rise again. He’d broken several records of ascension in his time, had pioneered new methods of gaining power, and it was presumed that his vaunted ‘Path of True Domination’ provided advantages to advancement speed which no other path did.

  The presumption was an almost entirely safe assumption, too, given his body and soul should not be able to advance at the rate they did. In less than a year since his death he had regained his status as a ranker. Since, he’d continued to advance up the ranker milestones at a shocking speed. It seemed every time Wyshaami read a new report about the man he’d advanced through yet another milestone.

  Every time Madrick died, he seemed to respawn and advance faster than the previous time. His soul shouldn’t be able to handle such strain, much less his body. Yet, he did. If this monster of a man had an apprentice, then the administrator who attached two of their faction had been a genius. At the very least, it meant they’d be able to keep track of the apprentice’s position, which would give them a hint as to where the master was.

  A few moments was all it took to find the specific name of the administrator who had made such a bold and brilliant gambit. He’d have to look further into this Ki’ai’en. Perhaps he’s up for promotion. If not, maybe he should be.