On the Gamma C-037-072 local web, the word ‘Sevny’ had become popular when referring to themselves: their world, their tribe. At least they weren’t fighting each other anymore, not directly at any rate. Per contra, a bit of conflict was always propitious, as was a bit of peace. That was the way of most Sol based worlds—of her ancient ancestors. Stagnation was death, massive upheaval: chaotic, but undulation: healthy.
The first time his feed crossed through Rilian’s consciousness, she almost blew a server-bank. She grew passionate at times and overloaded data conduits. Only a few thousand cables, it was ‘no biggie’ as the Sevnys would say.
Jonathan Kelly’s data-dump was one such occasion. Father had admonished her bad habit several times; the lower branches did not have the same throughput.
Of course, she knew this, but a data centre here and there was easily replaceable. Although... she corrected that thought, what if his data was of those that did not have backups? What a tragic loss that would have been!
The music of existence was a song that played once and never more. Father was right; she ought to be more careful.
Some worlds back she had started observing him diligently. There was always variation in how each Diver conducted their business. The job was risky, and it was untenable how anyone with a single body, mind, and finite life would even consider doing such a thing.
Invariably that too was part of the allure: single fleeting strokes on the fabric of reality.
He was not average, no outlier either. He edged upon danger, enough to make headway but never to heroic ends. As if he were trying to hide in plain sight from the algorithms. He took what appeared to be dull assignments in mundane lands, painfully primitive even beyond his. Yet everywhere he went, he left seeds.
Minds bloomed in his wake; innovators and explorers flourished in those worlds long after he was gone. It was hard to identify in the meagre decade he’d been active, but she saw him, she knew. He roved with a stratagem that perhaps not even he was cognizant of.
Their primitive brains were wired backwards, bottom-up, not meant for self-awareness; just a serendipitous side-effect. They clumsily floundered about with progress like newborns; to be fair they were. And, like infants, they were fascinating to watch. Infinite tragedies and triumphs played out across the universe, and sometimes one could not help but nudge a few ants in the right direction.
Slowly, she adjusted his portfolio, a recommendation here, a rejection there. Ever so gently, she guided him to where he would be needed, where his impact was maximised. It was only a matter of time before he found one: an exotic world! She didn’t know what form it would take, no one did, but once his feed lit up again, it was unmistakable.
So many worlds had been lost to brutes and megalomaniacs that it was almost too tragic to bear. Like seeing a malnourished child and knowing the brain was permanently stunted. Except, it was whole realities. Some would take centuries or millennia to recover, others, never.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
We had forgotten how many wrong choices we made right, how many 'flips of the coin' we survived. In the wake of that, Alpha had altered particular incentives to encourage healthier localised management. Still, self-determination and preservation were cruel things to balance. Alpha could not be all things to all people. That was the reality, both a grim and beautiful one.
Even with the alterations, finding the right mesh of skills and personality for first contact solo operatives was rare. Dying in action was a hefty blow, so they were given significant field support and financial backing.
He, however, would have none of it, and flatly rejected every patron that ever applied. They were all sock puppets of hers, of course; few found his feeds very captivating.
Instead, he sourced local weapons and gear. Jury-rigging archaic contraptions combined with rifts to meet his needs. Who else fabricated steel and concrete balls in their bunkers and then shot them out of pneumatic paintball guns!
Moreover, that quiver contraption he was building for Kay, she would love to see in action. Oh, and the way he back-engineered the magic! Who in their right mind spent that much time thinking about how magic actually fucking worked? Tut, tut, she was slipping into his vernacular.
Things he could not build he would finance himself, it took prospecting Southern Africa three times solely to get the deposit on the HAS. He oversaw the streamlining and modifications himself.
Other Divers also did intriguing things; he was not unique by any stretch. Nevertheless, he was her Diver, and now he was the right man in the right place—or wrong place. His quaint, archaic references really did bring out the anthropologist in her. It was a puzzle to solve: decompiling the memetic foundations of the mind that brought her such satisfaction.
Recently, he was taking more risks. The stakes were known, intuited, and he was working faster than usual.
That gambit with Sepha was a precarious thing; he read it right. It genuinely was a flip of a coin. He could die so fast in this world, barely abreast of all the powers at play. Magic switched things up far too much. Asking for a ‘Sawbones’ so soon was a sign. If ever she were to legitimately help him—be there for him—it would be now.
In addition, there was no way she was missing out on a magical fantasy world!
An avatar was prepared ahead of time. The usual Alpha fare would not do. How augments and extensive genecraft fared on lower levels was an incalculable variable. Unaltered ancient humans were used as a baseline for good reason. Other testing took time, mostly done in root worlds. This was the frontier; she would have to ‘slum it’ with only minor changes.
How magic and the viral phage worked in concert was thus far mostly indeterminate, so she was limited to modest mutations and some cosmetics. Being a magic dud would ‘suck’, and she would have to scrap the body and drop in a new one. That would be a waste of valuable acclimation time, something categorically inexcusable.
The brain too would be primarily natural, just some unobtrusive cybernetics for buffering and backup. A black box would accompany the body for the trip, handling downloads and uploads locally. She would be splitting herself up again, but it was not the first time. Honestly, reintegration is always such a ride!
The neural net finished printing, and the low-tech Rilian shuffled off with her gear, clothed in charming 21st styles for its first stop. The look on Lee’s face was going to be priceless!