Yaniss flipped up the welding mask and inspected the join with dissatisfaction. She still wasn’t nearly as good at welding as she wanted to be, but then, she was learning it the old-fashioned way. No System to grant her Skills, and no downloads to modify her muscle memory. Not that she didn’t take advantage of Cato’s technology; it was one thing to properly learn things, it was another to live in discomfort or squalor.
She had built her way up from practically the stone age, but only in terms of mastering the skills and building functional models of things like mills, looms, log cabins, watches, and all the other sundries that went into the story of civilization. Since she was essentially by herself – she spoke with Cato and various versions of Raine and Leese, but they didn’t permanently stay on her station – it wasn’t like she could parley such things into a true industrial base. Instead, once she had something done her satisfaction, she had a version fabricated and installed.
After ten years, she was sleeping on a bed she’d made herself, on a mattress she’d likewise crafted and supported by springs she’d wound, under blankets she’d woven. While maybe not technically as comfortable as the stuff turned out by Cato’s autofactories, there was a certain satisfaction in not only knowing it was hers, but knowing every single step of how it had come to be.
A similar balance was necessary for food. She had a small garden, enough to feed herself, but it was more automated than not, given how much work agriculture could be without industrial technology. Protein was mostly printed, though she had a few farm animals around for fibers and feathers. Cato called her setup a form of luxury ruralism, which was not a denigration of the term, but more an acknowledgement that eking out a living with no help left little time for other pursuits.
“I think we’re keeping the flame on each spot for too long,” the Bismuth version of herself suggested, watching via camera thanks to Cato’s chromatophore viewscreen down below on the planet. “I hate only being able to watch. There’s nothing to do down here! Can you think of anything?”
“No,” Yaniss said, knowing exactly what the other her was thinking about. All the System stuff that seemed no longer relevant, especially since there was no need to try for Azoth anymore. Even most of her old friends and contacts were gone offworld or, worse, dead, thanks to the [Crusade].
“I think it’s time I go up there,” her Bismuth-self concluded, following the exact same chain of thought. After all, they were the same person.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Yaniss said, putting aside her welding torch. She regularly reconciled with her System-side self, so she felt the exact same frustration, but so far she’d held back simply because of a feeling of obligation toward not only Cato, but her contacts within the System. Yet of late that had changed.
Not only had Cato’s agents returned, but they were far higher rank than she’d ever been, and going places she knew nothing about. Beyond which, he now could talk with the gods directly, and they surely knew more than she did. Her value as an informant about the System was essentially gone, and with it, any real reason to stay.
Now she was most useful outside the System. Her progression from rocks to industry was not mere vanity, although she had to admit there was a good amount of it in there. It was also a way of understanding Cato’s world, base reality, from the perspective of someone who grew up in the System.
Her thoughts and approaches, justifications and frustrations. All the little details that nobody ever thought of, like how to properly keep your house and your own self clean, or techniques for keeping food interesting without the System’s adjustments. Obviously she hadn’t kept it to herself, and all of that was being dumped into what Cato termed a virtual intelligence, a complex but not actually self-determining framework that helped turn her lessons into teaching tools.
It was her legacy, and one that she’d keep contributing to as she continued to expand through the technology web, in all its complexity and possible connections. But it was completely outside the System, so her Bismuth self had very little to do with it. And was tired of it.
“Glad to be done with it,” her Bismuth-self muttered, and Yaniss nodded agreement before her Bismuth-self signed off from the connection. The process of permanently exfiltrating a Bismuth from the System was unnecessarily complicated, to her view, but Cato insisted on a continuity of thought up until final transfer, which would occur when her Bismuth-self literally flew outside the System’s aegis.
She made certain all her equipment was safe, then rose and made her way out of the experimental section of the station and toward the biolabs. While she was technically fully organic in order to make sure she had the full experience of reality, she also had all the extras built into her brain to perform reconciliations, or swap out to a different frame. After over ten years, she was entertaining the idea of moving into a more augmented body, as she had very much grounded herself in the experience of a natural one.
As she also had the experience of life as her Bismuth-self for those years, she’d had something close to an augmented body during that period, but since that was coming to an end she’d have to see what was available. Yaniss settled into the reconciliation cradle, something only necessary when dealing with the difficulties of reconciling with the hardware needed for her Bismuth-self, and with a blink she was in two places at once. The events of the past fifteen or so hours of her Bismuth’s-self life clicked into her mind as she merged together.
Her Bismuth-self was wearing the weird, uncomfortable, and intrusive bio-helmet that Cato needed to perform the so-called mind-rip. It had taken some time and effort to let the information flow the other way even a little bit, but now she was just her, in two places. She decisively flew toward the System’s edge, pulling back into herself as she abandoned her second, false body, and was at last whole and complete and free of the System permanently.
She shuddered and sighed, a shiver running along her back and ruffling her feathers as she rose from the cradle, feeling light and heavy both at once. Finally, there was only one of her, and she was glad to be rid of what seemed an increasingly untenable life, rotting away in the confines of the System as she watched it crumble from the pressure Cato put on it.
The communicator Yaniss wore at her waist chirped, an odd little ditty that announced the caller was Cato, and she reached for the reception stud. For a moment she considered toggling it off, but then she flipped the switch the other way, accepting Cato’s call. The comms system was all throughout the habitat, so she didn’t need to stop at any particular screen or hold the communicator to her beak.
“I didn’t realize you were fed up with System life,” Cato said, his voice sounding through the speaker as she made her way back to the living area of the habitat. He didn’t sound like he was complaining, merely surprised.
“Yes, you did,” Yaniss argued, stepping from the high-tech halls out into grass and greenery. “You just didn’t know that I was so ready to abandon it.”
“Either way, you’re out now. Any regrets?”
“No,” Yaniss said firmly. “Everything here is better than being a Bismuth. I was already finding the limits imposed by the System, even if I didn’t realize exactly what I was seeing. Maybe I could use some more company, though.”
“You might get some,” Cato replied, which made her stop in her tracks for a moment. “Getting a small seed of your people ready to instruct the others when I finally do liberate the planet is not a bad idea, we just need volunteers. Something I might have asked you about earlier, but I didn’t realize you were ready to leave.” His voice trailed off for a moment, then came back. “If you have anyone you want to invite up, we can still do that.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Yaniss said, though it wasn’t like she hadn’t idly considered it, over the past few years. She had simply rejected it because of both the logistical difficulties and the risk of condemning Ikent to be purged. Now that there was an answer for the latter, it wasn’t nearly as terrifying a possibility.
“Also, thank you for the tutor matrix,” Cato said. “I really needed a VI like that, especially since we’re going to have more and more worlds needing to be transitioned over. Most of them will be going through a staged transition, but that tutor matrix actually gives me the order of operations I need for it.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Yaniss replied, still a little surprised even years later how much like an ordinary person Cato seemed much of the time. Up until he casually discussed resurfacing entire planets or, of course, destroying the entire alternate reality of the System. She wasn’t certain he quite understood that most people didn’t think of engineering entire worlds, and worse, thousands of such.
“Sure I can’t tempt you into sharding yourself off to run support on some of these worlds yourself?” Cato said, though it wasn’t a particularly serious question. It was something she might have agreed to before actually experiencing what it was to live a few hundred parallel lives. It had been easy to think of another version of her as not her, until she’d actually been them all. If she wasn’t interested in taking a post anywhere other than Ikent, every version of her would feel precisely the same.
“I’d rather that you get Ikent out of the System.” Yaniss stopped at her machine shop, giving it a brief survey for the sake of safety before entering. She’d made a few mistakes when she was first starting out, and while she was essentially immortal and Cato’s technology could fix up damage to her body – or in extreme cases, replace it entirely – it still was not an enjoyable experience. Especially outside the System, where it had nothing to do with combat.
“It’ll happen eventually.” Cato sighed, the audio echoing oddly inside the workshop, bouncing off the flat metal walls and the low roof. “Probably later rather than sooner, as there’s no rush when it comes to Mii-Es. I hate leaving people in the System when I have the ability to pull them free, but the costs are too high right now.”
“Well, if it’s not a problem to bring people up anymore, I certainly have enough room here.” Yaniss was in what Cato referred to as a Stanford Torus, and while it wasn’t as big as some of the habitats that she’d seen in Cato’s archives, it was more than big enough for a few hundred or even a few thousand Ikent to live comfortably. Even better, it had slightly lower gravity than the Sytem’s worlds so they could fly without the benefit of Skills.
“I have to talk to Mii-Es first, but I will let you know,” Cato said. “And if you need anything I’m just a thought away.”
Yaniss clicked her beak in amusement. In a way that was literally true, as she could, if she wanted, engage with the comms system directly, though she preferred not to. She liked the tactile nature of technology, and more, having a physical thing to interact with helped distinguish it from the System’s reality. It was tempting to try and keep things System-like, as it was more familiar, but it was also misleading and undermined the ultimate goal of leaving the System.
She wasn’t sure how much she liked Mii-Es being in charge who was allowed up to her habitat, but the unfortunate reality was that, at least at the moment, nothing could be done without her help. It was only after Ikent was outside the System that the question of Ikent sovereignty should be addressed — though at the same time, it was not like Mii-Es had done a poor job of managing the planet. Perhaps once Mii-Es was out of the System as well, and the same as anyone else, Yaniss could form a better opinion.
“Thank you, but if I’m going to be expecting company, I’ve got some cleaning up to do,” she said, and Cato chuckled before signing off.
***
“And you will go to Deity Urshal,” Core Deity Misse said, pointing at Marus’ group. Or rather, Deity Ikel’s group, as Marus wasn’t even in charge of the small committee that was supposed to manage a narrow swath of frontier worlds. The supposed promotion into the Inner Worlds had really only served to further restrict his future prospects, and the way the conflict with Cato was going only made things worse.
Marus really didn’t like the idea of going around handing out ultimatums to the independent gods. Not because he didn’t believe they needed to be brought to heel — they clearly did. The last few months had amply demonstrated that all the non-Clan types were disasters in waiting. After all, Meshan and Neyar had killed a number of their fellow Deities when pressed too hard; the former when his world was condemned, and the latter in the confusion of a sudden incursion of Cato’s forces, sabotaging any attempt at a coordinated defense and allowing more clan worlds to be taken.
Once was a catastrophe, but twice was a precedent, and it certainly did not help that it was rumored that practically every god outside of the Inner Worlds was now somehow subject to Cato’s whims. The coalition of independent gods had pounced upon both the rumors and very effectively defanged the initial reasoning for bringing the independents into the clans, making even basic negotiations fraught. A brief look around showed how many of the gods in the room were obviously terrified to go and confront the independents, even with Misse’s backing. That weak-spined reaction meant that instead of being able to sweep through in a single, decisive masterstroke, they had to negotiate, very carefully, with each target.
“Come on,” Ikel said, standing up and beckoning to his three subordinates. As if they were children, Marus thought. Ikel could have been far more insufferable, it was true, but he could also have been less. Marus wasn’t some idiot screwup, nor some complete neophyte that needed everything spelled out, or even one of those gods who couldn’t handle the requirements of being a proper Deity and went strange and unreliable before vanishing off wherever. He was just another victim of Cato’s crusade — more, he was the first victim, having to deal with Cato long before anyone realized what he was. With all the death and disruption in Cato’s wake, Marus had clearly been more than correct to abandon Sydea, but nobody seemed to realize that.
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Nevertheless, he shuffled off after Ikel, sorting through the various arguments and facts in his head. Not that he was expected to actually do the convincing himself, which was another insult. Marus was capable of stringing more than three words together, as was Ikel, so it wasn’t like they needed to go in force. He was aware that being part of Ikel’s retinue gave the other deity more legitimacy, but Marus had interacted with Initik enough to know that the independent gods didn’t really see things that way.
At least the Urshal’s world was not out near where Cato had rampaged. It was on the other side of Eln space, in fact, just outside the Inner Worlds, a dead end on the portal network that wasn’t really of much significance. Which was one reason why they had never bothered to consolidate it into their holdings; though of course, things were different now. Not only did they need to ensure they presented a united front, but with the number of worlds that had been lost to Cato, the holdings of such independent gods were the only way displaced deities could find a new posting. Not to mention all the lost essence that needed to be recouped and apportioned.
Traversing the network that connected the gods was merely a matter of course, following one link to the next. Within Eln space it always seemed more welcoming, even if all it ever took was a simple thought to move from one link to another. It wasn’t like they had to do something as mundane as walk between the worlds.
They fetched up at Urshal’s massive stone door, Ikel leading Marus and two others, a pair who had been plucked from the crowd of spineless deities and forced to go along or suffer Misse’s displeasure. Ikel himself waved impatiently and Marus sighed to himself, then activated the entry chime with a flick of essence. It was demeaning, but Ikel would have no compunctions about complaining about any recalcitrance to Misse. Who surely would find the time away from doting on her pet mortal to make his life more miserable.
The stone slab grated open with a sound that set Marus’ teeth on edge, and they stepped forward into a massive, torch-lit stone hall, everything polished and gleaming. Despite the almost oppressive nature of the weight of stone, it had an oddly homely aura. Urshal himself sat on a throne at the end of the hall, a massive hulk of a being with only a few scraps of armor covering an astonishing pelt of gleaming amber fur.
“Deities Eln,” Urshal greeted them, not with pleasure. “What brings you to my halls?”
“Come now, Urshal,” Ikel replied. “I’m sure by now it has to be obvious why we are here. There is nobody who has not become aware of the threat Cato poses, and how it means we can no longer afford to allow all the splintered factions of the frontier.”
“So you want to bully me off my world,” Urshal rumbled, not budging from his throne and regarding them with hard, purple-flecked eyes. “It seems to me that you’re far more of a threat than Cato is.”
“We merely wish to merge you into our clan,” Ikel lied. There was really no place for outside forces anywhere of note within the Eln Clan; they couldn’t be trusted. The independent gods who accepted the deal would be shuffled off to somewhere minor where they couldn’t make trouble — although perhaps a few would be allowed to retain their world, if the world in question was inconsequential enough.
The problem was that anyone could make that calculation, so all the reassuring words in existence wouldn’t do much to convince anyone who was paying attention. They’d already acquired a few independent worlds, but many of the non-Clan gods were crude, undiplomatic, and fiercely protective of their holdings. Convincing them was difficult, and threatening force tended to end in only one way.
“And I merely have no desire to bow and scrape to deities who were born to their power and have no care for anything but their own lucre.” Urshal said pointing a massive paw at their party. “Go ahead to your next point. Threats, I assume? Accusing me of working with Cato, and promising to save my world from condemnation if only I submit?”
“If you have no willingness to join us, it does seem suspicious,” Ikel said patiently. “And you have to understand that we can’t leave a potential weakness so deep in our territory.”
“The rumors I’ve heard is that Cato is less of an enemy than you are,” Urshal said, leaning forward, his heavy frame seeming even more massive despite barely moving at all. “I’ve heard that he welcomes any gods who wish to leave the System, and that he doesn’t even want our planets. I’ve also heard that’s why you’re trying to come down on people like me so hard. Because you’re bleeding people from your own ranks.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ikel said dismissively, but Marus hadn’t heard those rumors. For obvious reasons, given that he was usually deep inside the region of Misse’s greatest influence, but he had to wonder where the rumors had come from. To his ear the propaganda was obvious, but it couldn’t have appeared from the imaginings of random, unconnected deities. The question was whether it was a campaign by one of the other clans, to stymie Misse’s consolidation of power, or something distributed by other forces. Or perhaps by Cato himself, somehow.
“Is it, though?” Urshal chuckled, a deep rumble that echoed off the stone. “Clan Hokar just lost a dozen worlds only months ago when Neyar was pushed too hard; some of them Inner Worlds and not just on the frontier. And you lost eight before that. Maybe not many compared to your thousands, but they are truly gone and not just temporarily exchanged in your inter-Clan games. I’m sure that hurts.”
“That sort of loss is exactly why we have to consolidate—” Ikel began, but Urshal’s growl cut him off.
“Your losses are not my problem. From where I stand, the weaker the Nine Great Clans become, the better.” Urshal’s tone and manner were as blunt as a hammer. “If you have any offer to make me, lay it out clearly and cleanly. If not, take yourselves back to the Core and attend to your own affairs.”
Ikel launched into a longwinded pitch that, stripped down, gave very little to Urshan in exchange for not being condemned, though more than was originally intended. While the independent deities could not, in the end, do anything against those who were in touch with the True Core, it wasn’t worth pushing them too far. Not when it gave those gods full reason to attack deities within the clans.
Only gods could kill gods. Aside from Cato, that had always been the case, but it was rare that it actually came up. Immortals didn’t want to risk their immortality over a small spat, some modicum of resources, or control over a few mortals. Not that it was easy to kill a god, even for another Deity, and for the most part the only ones who would dare to even bring it up were the uncivilized sorts who had clawed their way up when a new world entered the System.
Urshal was that sort, and while it didn’t look like the big shaggy god was about to attack them, Marus didn’t really want to take any chances. He composed a brief message to Ikel and, contrary to his actual observations, suggested that Urshal was growing violently impatient. They could return with a better offer later, considering how obvious it was that Urshal wasn’t interested in the initial compensation. Perhaps something like vassalage rather than outright transfer of ownership — the details could be considered later. Either way, anything further right now was just a waste of time.
Predictably, Ikel didn’t listen to Marus, at least not right away. It took another several minutes of circuitous, useless argument, before Ikel disengaged and led them back out of Urshal’s presence. Once they were outside the stone halls, Ikel snorted and shook his head.
“We will have to try again later, perhaps with some different terms. It’s clear that he’s not interested,” the other deity said, without even looking at Marus. “We’ll see what can be done.”
Marus hid a scowl as he followed after Ikel, his mind no longer on the here and now. He was considering the rumors, and what they might mean. Somehow he would have to track them down; he knew he could turn it into an opportunity for the success he had been denied. So long as he was beholden to people like Ikel, passing anything up the chain would be a complete waste of time. Any credit would be taken, and anything else would just see him snubbed — or worse, noticed.
In all the chaos, one thing had become obvious: Marus had no future the way things were going.
***
“Once you’ve passed the working end into the loop, make sure you leave plenty of room for the loose end,” Raine instructed, guiding a group of Urivan youths through the basics of a bowline hitch. “That determines how tight the knot will become.” She stood back to let them practice, half-closing her eyes to enjoy the breeze coming off the nearby river, carrying the scents of water, trees, and flowers.
Light shone from the central axis of the O’Neill cylinder, imitating a sun overhead and shining down on an artificial, yet still natural-seeming, slice of wilderness. Trees, grass, plants, animals, fish, and a few sailboats bobbing in the river. A small village rested by the side of the river, mostly built of wood, outside of which was a small group Urivans and two Sydeans.
The insectoids had, of all things, found great purpose and resolve in sailing, and several billion tons of water ice had been maneuvered into orbit over the past few years in order to construct a massive ocean habitat. Of course, that meant that Raine and Leese had to become experts, too, but that was no great hardship. It didn’t come as naturally as other things, but they had time enough to learn in sims and not just base reality.
While Raine would rather be sailing the tiny sloop she had around the artificial bays and reefs, she did have to spend some time making sure the Urivans had the knowledge required to match her prowess. Leese preferred snorkeling and diving, and despite the ocean habitat being entirely constructed, it was still a lot of fun to go poking around the sea life that had been seeded across the – admittedly relatively shallow – sea bed. It wasn’t like they had hand-placed every feature themselves.
Of course, the Urivan uplift wasn’t all sailing around and enjoying the natural beauty of the habitats. There were a lot of times where they had to solve hard problems of how to teach things, or deal with odd pieces of social ennui, or even deal with Urivans gone suddenly violent. Violence was simple enough to deal with, but they were themselves grappling with all the gaps in understanding when it came to a society. It made it difficult to come up with answers, but they at least had Cato’s databases and Yaniss’ teaching matrix to draw upon.
Her students were all young Urivans that had actually grown up on the station, in rotating gravity and seeing the planet below from the enormous windows in the sides of the orbital habitat. She and Leese had watched over them for almost two decades, unaging and immortal fixtures in the Urivan community, helping to translate between the System the parents had known and the world Cato had brought. It was a trying time for everyone. All the usual lessons and methods didn’t work, and more than one person bemoaned the lack of [Clean].
On the other hand, the young Urivans were fine with learning skills the natural way, and showed interest in the various tasks needed to keep an actual civilization running. Food, industry, entertainment. Technological progression was managed as best they could with a combination of Yaniss’ VI and Cato’s uplift protocols, which was why the Urivans were sailing around rather than using motorcraft. The culture had to internalize industrialization first, and there was no telling how long that would take.
Raine corrected some of her student’s attempts, smiling as a particularly rambunctious duo got into an impromptu competition over who could get her to acknowledge their attempt first. She and Leese probably had several hundred years worth of work to do, if they wanted, but they didn’t mind at all. Working with Urivan children was more satisfying than the nebulous idea of ranking up and gaining power, and generally more pleasant, too. Like indulgent aunts, she and Leese didn’t even have to spend every waking minute managing people; if it got too overwhelming, the two of them could just framejack and spend a few subjective days off without actually abandoning their charges.
“Huh, we’ve got a video message,” Leese sent over radio, from where she was braiding rope with a group of younger Urivan children nearby. That way she didn’t interrupt the question and answer session. “From the Elder Lineage.”
“Odd,” Raine replied, a sense of unease making her tail curl in on itself. None of the Lineages really directly communicated with each other, even if they all worked on various projects and provided various creations to the others. It wasn’t anything that anyone actually enforced, it was just that nobody particularly wanted to deal with the weirdness of talking to another version of themselves. For the Elder Urivan Lineage to break that precedent was worrying.
“We have to go check on something,” Leese said, handing her rope to the oldest of the kids. “You keep practicing, alright?”
“Yes, Teacher Leese,” the child said, gripping claws clicking as he seized rope with them, holding it up so the unbound end dangled in front of his face. Leese smiled and rose from where she sat with an unhurried motion, but Raine moved more quickly, handing off her own lesson to a startled sailor while she checked her data-node and headed for the habitat pillar. Normally she kept it to emergency mode only, so of course she hadn’t noticed the message, but there it was, sitting in the inbox like a ticking bomb. She could have watched it right then, but this seemed like something that required more than just a retinal feed, and she wouldn’t want to upset the children if it was some kind of bad news.
Raine followed her sister as Leese opened the door into the habitat pillar, the two of them settling in front of the wall-sized viewscreen that occupied one side of their living room. They glanced at each other for a moment, then Raine pushed the video message to the screen. It lit up, opening on a view of another version of themselves, yet looking different. Not exactly older physically, but there were subtle differences in their frames — and not so subtle ones in their eyes.
“Hello, you two,” Leese the Elder began. “I know this is out of the ordinary, but I thought we owed you more than a brief message.”
“Especially since you might want to follow our example at some point,” Raine the Elder interjected.
“But given your work, maybe not,” Leese the Elder continued. “Regardless, we’re calling just to tell you that we’re out. We’re done. There’s no military action to oversee and we already have all the infrastructure set up for everything else that might need doing. There are so many factories out here in the outer planets that we can fend off half the System. So, we’re just retiring.” She stepped back from the pickup and gestured behind her.
The sight of a habitat was not new, of course, but what was surprising was the village in the distance — modeled off the Sydean architecture Cato had found in his initial surveys, but updated for a technological life. And it was populated by Sydeans, all manner of forms and colors visible in the distance, going about their own business.
“The process we used to create a Sydean settlement will accompany this message, and that will go out to everyone, but the point is we’re not Cato. We can’t just go on forever, and we want to live our own lives. So we will, and while we aren’t going to be impossible to contact, there’s just no point with us keeping up with everything all our Lineages are doing on hundreds of thousands of planets.”
“Honestly, we have better things to do,” Raine the Elder added, with a bitter curl to her tail. “We did our part for Cato’s campaign, but now? I just want to be among my own kind and not worry about the big things.”
“I know you still have your own tasks, so I doubt you’re in the same place as us,” Leese the Elder concluded. “And genuinely, we wish you all the best with that. It sounds like a tremendous undertaking. But for ourselves, we’re going to live a real life.”
“Good luck,” Raine the Elder said, and the two of them turned away from the pickup, heading down toward the village. The video ended, and Raine and Leese the Younger looked at each other.
“Well,” Leese said after a few moments.
“I can understand it,” Raine mused. “I’m enjoying what we’re doing, but we’re going to watch these kids grow up, grow old, and die, and the next generation, and the next. How long do we want to keep doing that? And what happens when the uplift is done, and we’re not needed anymore?”
“I’m quite content to put that off until much later,” Leese said firmly. “That’s a long time from now, after all. But it’s good to know there are options.”
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