Beneath the tower of Ludopolis there plunged its inverse, tunneling toward what might have once been the heart of what might have once been a planet. Its entrance was concealed beneath the Lower Court by a means I am not permitted to write about. Revealing the secret to its entrance may bring yet unseen disaster.
I was, however, permitted to accompany some of the Princess’s trusted operatives in reopening the War Room. Down a reverse staircase we descended, the game-persons all carrying lanterns or candles or personal fairies, depending on the method of illumination best suited to their own gameworlds or whatever was on hand. In this matter, Helmgarth proved a utilitarian companion, as he produced for Commander Zideo what appeared to be a simple electric flashlight. For his own light, Helmgarth carried one of the gas lamps confiscated, I presume, from the merchant Kriegsgeswinnler, and would only return a sly smile when asked where he had acquired it.
If the above-ground tower was dark, the below-ground one was darkness itself. Even my canine senses failed me beyond twenty or so steps, the subtle outlines of hewn stone blurring to oppressive blue-black. Through our small aura of visibility passed a number of what looked like windows, although instead of giving us a view out upon some external courtyard or other, they were filled in with rocks. It gave the impression of a tower that had sunken into the ground.
Helmgarth rummaged in a side-satchel and brought out a ring of keys much larger than the ones Lisa used for the house in Airy Zone. The others chimed dully as he swept back cobwebs so thick that the lock beneath them was not visible whatsoever, and pressed his key into the lock. “Oi!” came a small, irritated voice. “D’ye mind?” Helmgarth jerked the key back out, and a spider larger than Zideo’s hand crept out, shaking two of its legs in the air. “Tha’s me living room!” The enormous thing crawled up the wall and crossed several pairs of arms or legs, waiting impatiently.
“My apologies,” said Helmgarth, and lifted his hat politely as the spider muttered something about “great ninnies.”
The hall within swallowed up our lights hungrily. Zideo’s prison warden bumped into something noisy, which clattered to the floor, and he swore.
“This place got a light switch?” asked Zideo, his flashlight sweeping slowly over simple wooden furniture, chairs pushed aside and stacked.
“Just a moment, chaps,” he announced, then returned to his whispered profanity. He found a lamp and used a long match from his pack to transfer a flame to it from his own lantern. He then set about moving around the great domed room, igniting lamps and adding substantially to our ability to make out the details. There were dozens of the wooden chairs, and a much fancier one on an upraised dais, just short of a throne—although I still had seen no throne room in the city, or any part of the tower. “There we are.”
A vaulted ceiling arched over our heads, where scenes from what I presumed was the city’s history decayed above us. The lantern light barely reached the faded tableaus above, and I was able to make out what appeared to be a different princess altogether greeting her people from a taller, sturdier tower flanked by other towers of various colors. I could not discern much else, but this confirmed to me the scenes from the golden coins my human had suddenly come into possession of—the suggestion that the city had lost much of its former glory, and had once been majestic indeed. In the newfound light, I was startled to see a row of faces observing us from the walls—busts or casts perhaps of the heads of roughly human (though not entirely) and generally feminine (though not without exceptions) with calm but serious and unpainted eyes.
“Gah,” said Zideo. “That’s macabre, bro.”
Helmgarth removed his pack and retrieved brooms for them to begin clearing out the cobwebs. “The busts of Princesses past,” he said, handing a broom to Zideo. My human was leaning over one of the marble faces nearer to a lamp.
“There’s no names,” observed Zideo. “I feel like… you would want to include their names? Isn’t the point to memorialize them, and stuff?”
Helmgarth snorted through his nose and began sweeping. I noticed some variation, princess-to-princess, hats of different shapes, hair of different lengths and curliness, embellishments such as earrings and overwrought necklaces as must befit human-ish princesses. But always that same unperturbed but forceful glare.
In the center of the room stood a huge, stone flower—a round table that seemed familiar to me, although it took some time before I realized it was a miniature of the world on which we stood, surrounded by long stones that must have been the Genre Shards, radiating outward like monolithic petals with a miniature of the landscape I recognized from our escape from Fort Weepus. There was a wooden model to represent a tower in the center, and rolling fields and crinkled mountains. There were forests so lifelike that I thought I could grab them in my teeth and peel them from the tabletop, and was tempted to look for a dark corner where I could gnaw it in peace. A surly spider lumbered across the tiny frontiers of the Screenwilds. “Pardon us,” said Helmgarth. The spider gave him an audible raspberry and took his time, but eventually scampered off to some other chamber in the tower, complaining about “prime real estate” near the lamps.
The other agents of the Princess began arriving in twos and threes. Luciano the Cost Cutter and Acornite Dylan trailed behind an enormous man with a short beard who was, for lack of a more informed vocabulary on the subject, covered neck to toe in impressive and technological-looking armor. His smile was haughty, and his voice carried. Zideo recognized him at once, and turned to Helmgarth. “That’s Torrence!” he whispered noisily. “From Corporant (20♫0)!” He had one cybernetic eye, and on his shoulder perched a crow with the same glowing cyber-eye.
“Here, he serves as the captain of the Irregulars,” said Helmgarth. “You’d do well to steer clear.”
“Tell me about it,” said Zideo. “I got real competitive with Corpo back in the day. People think he’s a tank, but he’s really designed for defense. I’ve learned not to get within striking distance.” Zideo stared and forgot about sweeping. “I can’t believe he’s just… right there.”
Luciano and Acornite Dylan dragged the merchant with them in chains, who complied plaintively. His presence made me think they must have seen some value in his insight and resources even though he was under lock a key, and they shoved him, stumbling, into the chamber.
Others entered, a variety of shapes and sizes. Once more, I was struck by the fundamental differences between this city’s occupants. (To my human readers: You may wish to skip ahead in case you find this next sentiment disagreeable.) One belief I have always held is that, with the exception of my human, there are in actuality very few differences across the full breadth of human phenotypes. Their eyes and coats may differ, but what is remarkable about that, especially if faced with the gulf between a Yorkshire Terrier and a Rottweiler? Consider the Great Dane and the Shih Tzu, whose traits scarcely qualify them as the same species. Humans cannot claim this kind of versatility—at least, few can whom I have seen in the land of Airy Zone.
A withered old magician entered in conversation with a wide-eyed drop of floating, green slime. A gaggle of five miniature humanoids whose heads reached Zideo’s knees, dressed in garb much like Helmgarth’s previous clothing and some sporting pointy ears, climbed solemnly into two chairs and greeted newcomers by saying “Well met.” Among them was their own halfling, who, though he shared their other bodily proportions, was short by their standards. Numerous two-dimensional types filed in and tended to sit near one another, conversing in low voices, their bodies never quite managing to turn away from my eye. Although their flat appearances suggested a kinship of some sort, they looked quite different and carried sheathed blades and more advanced energy weapons like Addrion’s. Soldiers similar to those I had seen on Lisa’s glowing rectangle swaggered into the room, men and women both, their long rifles pointed at the floor but their eyes alert over face-paint. One was dressed in grasses, such that when he stood still he appeared to be a bush.
They were followed by a man wearing glasses, carrying a crowbar and saying nothing. Seeing nothing to pry open, he put it away immediately and took his seat.
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Animal-people arrived as well, some wearing human clothing, some wearing only pants, some wearing no pants, and a couple wearing nothing but shoes. I have never held with the human concept of nudity, but their liveliness and the very human gestures on their faces caused in me a sense that I should turn away and give them privacy.
In this way they filed in until there was a small crowd. I did not count them—it is not that dogs do not count, it’s that we very understandably become bored after counting past five. What difference does it make if there were a dozen of these incomprehensible people, or fifty? Let it suffice to say it felt like a large gathering, but all seemed to know one another by name.
The spiky-haired youth, Shiori, entered at last, taking in the room and looking unsatisfied at the turnout—or, perhaps, looking for someone specifically whom they did not see. (Who can discern the finer points of human gestures? I just call them like I see them, and let my human readers interpret for themselves.)
The Princess and Addrion entered, their whispered argument spilling through the entrance with them. A hush fell over the chamber, and Addrion took her place by the chair on the dais that was not quite a throne. The Princess took a small bag out of Shiori’s hands and went directly over to the great stone flower, the miniature version of her world. She reached into the bag, pulled out a small red token. She held the token up for all to see, and then clicked it loudly down on one of the stone “petals” of the flower, the masses known as the Genre Shards. She clicked another one down, a few more on another stone, and set about setting the red tokens out across all the stones.
She put many of the tokens on the Shard that I recognized as Platformia, near the spot where we had arrived. With a click that echoed through the chamber, she clacked one final token down on the rim of the miniature Screenwilds, in the shadow of Platformia—exactly where Fort Weepus was located, the prison from which we had escaped. I surmised that these red tokens must represent the forces of the enemies of Ludopolis, and that all attendees knew that only too well. She let her mirror gaze pass around the room, letting the gravity of their situation sink in. Then, she put two tokens inside the circular walls of the city model. I heard an intake of breath from several of those present.
Helmgarth and Zideo, having found their seats, shared a knowing look.
One of the soldiers spoke up. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am,” she said. “The Boss Council just took our primary solar entity.
That’s our main objective right now.”
“And I heard it’s his fault,” said one of the flat personages. It was hard to tell where he was pointing due to the fact that his arm did not extend from his two-dimension plane, but it looked to be in our direction. All heads turned, and I felt the weight of attention on Commander Zideo’s shoulders. “He killed the Purple Prince.”
“Chill,” said Zideo, frowning. “It’s not my fault.”
“Not your fault?” said a voice, though I could not see whose. “You brought the Boss Council down on us.”
“I was just trying to solo a raid boss on-stream,” protested Zideo. “I don’t know what any of this is. I’m not supposed to be here. I was grinding my grind, and one of you people sucked me right out of my room.” He hastened to add, “and my dog.”
“We live in darkness because of you!” called one of the knee-height elves, cupping her hands around her face so that her little voice would carry.
“The Boss Council brought him,” said someone else. “He’s one of theirs!”
There was shouting then. There is no other noise in the world like sentient voices disagreeing. In the animal world, we just fight this out and be done with it. But then again, in the animal world, their are more immediate scores to settle—food, mates, and so on. Nothing so abstract as whose fault something is.
A white-gloved finger silenced them. The Princess pointed to the ceiling, where the old paintings swirled against the concave surface. Lines of crackling old paint snaked across one another and formed a new image—an great circle in space, a planet. The dark tower we had so recently seen in the sky was depicted arriving, and the world was criss-crossed with glowing cracks. It shattered, but slowly, its pieces either turning to dust or mingling with those of other sundered worlds, coalescing into a new form, oblong and crooked—one of the Shards that I recognized on the table in the center of the room.
The ensorcelled painting showed many more of these Shards sailing through infinite space, through the dust and debris of other destroyed worlds, careening and converging with its brethren toward one untouched planet. They struck at once, or close enough in sequence as to be one single assault of incomprehensible scale. They broke the world they smashed into, carving off chips and chunks that floated off like icebergs into space. (I only know about icebergs from Lisa’s glowing rectangle.) Entire mountain ranges went with them. Soon nothing was left but the final, solitary chunk of land that I knew we now stood upon, encircled by the very missiles that had caused its destruction. The stone flower rested on the ceiling, a twin of the miniature on the round table. The Princess dismissed the illusion.
“What was that for?” shouted the merchant from the back, who really ought to have learned by now when it was time to keep his mouth shut. “Why’d you have to remind us?”
“Some have you have forgotten,” said the Princess, walking to the dais to take her seat, “what we are fighting for. What little we have, and yet may lose to our enemy.”
“So we turtle up,” growled Torrence. He stood and planted his hands on his hips. “My Irregulars have kept this city safe so far.”
“Safe?” snorted Addrion. “The Princess was attacked in her own tower. If this was my squad, you’d lose your job.”
Listening to Lisa and Zideo—and at times, to his sister Krystal, when she would visit—squabble over the years, I have become adept at detecting the rhythms of a pointless human debate that is going nowhere. It is shocking to me that other, more developed beings than dogs fail this simple exercise pattern recognition. Voices become heated, but nobody wants to hash it out physically, so they lose some kind more abstract stock in one another and get offended. This results in someone storming out, one hundred percent of the time, which is followed by a period of awkward silence and then even more awkward quiet when it becomes necessary for humans to share the same spaces again while the insults they have caused to one another continue to hang over their conversations, until they are eventually distracted by other issues. It never fails to amaze me. So much energy wasted, when they could simply wrestle one another for primacy and have done with it.
My mind began to wander, and my feet with it. I meandered between the legs of chairs, passing feet, boots, paws and more, unnoticed by most. (The short humanoids stared in horror at me as I passed by, and I heard them debating something about a “charisma check,” although this meant nothing to me.)
A smell caught my nostril before the sight caught my eye. A dog peered out from beneath the scratching fingers of a human’s hand. The brown dots above the dog’s brow, the ears straight up as she saw me, the white chest and snout emerging from a black top coat, like a mask—an Australian Shepard, surely. The ghostly blue eyes that clocked me from across the chamber. I trotted over.
Much like the blocky wolf, this creature was not made from the same stuff as I myself was. She was more relatable than the wolf, but the contours of her body were angular, suggesting she was made up of a few dozen polygons. Instead of the perfect cubes of the wolf, she was made of rectangles and triangles that had gone wrong. The edges of her fur, her very being, looked rough and jagged up close. She was like a drawing come to life… but not all the way to life. Still, she was friendly.
“Fur brother,” she said.
“Fur sister,” I said, and each permitted the other to explore their smells.
The hand hung down had some kind of crossbow mounted on the wrist, and the fingers searched for the dog and could not find her. This got the human’s attention. She had black hair and long garments like Lisa’s “athleisure” wear. She smiled, and was delighted to pet both me and her own animal.
Thank heavens, I thought. A dog person.
We stood on either side of her chair, each afforded one hand for head scratches and ear rubs, and conversed. The Australian Shepherd’s name was Angelica, which was not nearly as important as her inexplicable smell: feathers, fields of flowers, wide open skies, long days outdoors on dusty roads.
“You are different,” she said.
“I am real,” I told her.
“So you say.” Her tongue was crimson. “Which world did you come from? And to which Shard has it gone?”
I told her that Airy Zone was not among the worlds that were destroyed and remade into the Shards.
“So it was spared,” she said. “I had always hoped that mine had been spared. That it was all a bad dream.”
I huffed my sympathy, and politely changed the subject by asking about her human. “We are from the same series as the Harlequin Emperor,” she said with a clandestine thrill in her voice.
“Who is that?”
She could not keep the growl out of her voice. “The madman who stole the sun.”
“Does she know him?”
Angelica did the dog version of shaking her head no. “They’re from different entries, and there is no continuity in Ultimate Requiem.” She sat upright, proudly. “We are from a later entry. More sophisticated in every way.”
The debate around us had grown spirited. “Geez,” she said, “Sentients.” She rolled her eyes. Attendees were shouting and pointing, and Zideo’s arms were crossed. He looked embarrassed and angry and—three, two, one—stood up to storm out. Right on time.