Stick's mind raced as he scrambled to grab his spear. "Imps?" he yelled back at Typist, trying to spot the threats among the rickety boats that were hurtling toward them within the Stream's cylinder length.
“Zakamel's spawn! Tricky little fiends infused with fey influence! They're nothing but trouble, armed with malevolence and uncontrolled magic! Don't let them near the ship, or they'll dismantle it!” Doran's voice boomed over the commotion.
Stick’s eyes widened as he spotted the figures now coming into clearer view. They were indeed small creatures, but with a wildness in their movements that seemed almost unnatural, they were too energized. Almost comically excited, like they were play-acting at their roles and hamming it up. They were clad in ragged clothes that had clearly been stitched together from larger, stolen garments. The tallest of them couldn't be larger than thigh height to him. Their skins were various shades of red and brown, and pairs of stubby horns sprouted from their heads. Finally, they brandished... musical instruments? Banjos, fiddles, and other instruments that Stick didn't have words for. Playing them for music and launching orange musical note constructs into the air as projectiles.
Their ships were tiny, a quarter the size of the Wolfgang. But there were eleven of them to Wolfgang's one. The musical notes blasted over Stick's head and rammed into the Wolfgang like they were arrows- thankfully with little effect beyond scuffing the front of the ship.
Doran shouted. "[Rapid Turn]!" The ship groaned as it suddenly turned hard, obeying the [Captain]'s skill card. It shifted to present its broadside to the oncoming ships, and as it did, Doran shouted again. "Cascade! Tork! Get to reloading the cannons! [A Volley a Day]!"
With Doran's Second skill, the four cannons fired all at once, scattering two loads of grapeshot and two normal cannons balls at the approaching fleet. The two cannonballs whizzed through the thick of the enemy flotilla without making any impact, but the two waves of grapeshot struck a boat each. The first storm of metal was too high as the enemy ship dropped to dodge the incoming fire, and the grapeshot turned some of the most forward imps into red mist and splintered the little vessel's mast leaving it otherwise unharmed.
The second blast of grapeshot performed better, striking a vessel head-on. The rickety wood of the boat was lost to the storm of projectiles as the vessel crumpled with pained cries from the little musicians inside, their musical attacks cutting off. The boat shattered from the shotgun-like blast, and the force of the impact sent its scattered, ruined husk hurtling back the way it had come. The Stream didn't seem to bleed off much momentum from things that traveled it, and Stick suspected some ship further down the line would eventually come across the grizzly sight of the ruined craft.
Typist retreated below deck- and Stick nearly went to join him, but then Doran would be alone above deck. So Stick held his ground as more musical notes peppered the deck, the magical, note shape constructs dug into the wood like arrows, half notes sticking in by their heads which behaved like edged weapons, and quarter notes sticking into the deck like darts via their stems. Stick winced as the flag of a quaver note slashed into his pectoral. Regardless of what the notes impacted, the note began to fade shortly after, leaving only the damage they'd caused behind.
Thankfully Typist returned shortly, a pair of sheathed swords over one shoulder and a halberd hanging free in the other. He tossed the halberd to Stick and called out. "Stay calm. They aren't dangerous without numbers. Don't let them swarm you."
Stick caught the halberd awkwardly but quickly fell into a combat stance. As he did, two of the cannons fired again- more grapeshot. That must be Tork and Cascade at work.
Virid climbed above deck, with Rep following shortly after her. Rep was wearing Doran's cooking apron, and Stick wanted to shout at her to go back below deck. She looked afraid and unprepared for this. But as soon as she placed her eyes on Stick, he knew he would be pointless to shout as he saw her terrified resolve as she hefted a sizzling pan she'd just been cooking in and now was using as a weapon.
Stick stood in front of Rep; He could feel his microunits buzzing as his systems ran at full capacity, preparing him for combat.
As the imps’ boats drew nearer, a cacophony of music assaulted them. Discordant tunes and screeching notes filled the air while the imps brandished their instruments menacingly. The cannons answered them six more times before they'd closed, disabling four more vessels and bringing the enemy down to six.
Leaving one vessel full of monsters for each member of the crew to handle, counting Rep and Stick- if he could nervously sweat, he would be.
On the new lead-most ship, one of the Imps, seemingly the leader due to his slightly larger size and ostentatious attire- a large green coat and a tricorn hat, stood at the forefront. He raised a fiddle high, and a surge of energy burst from it shaped like a semiquaver with a long blade replacing its beam, heading straight for Wolfgang's mast. Suddenly, Stick’s reflexes took over. Without thought, he leaped into the air, his polearm intercepting the musical note mid-flight, dispelling it with a loud crack. The halberd's metal head vibrated with such intensity from the impact that Stick worried it was about to shatter.
As he landed back on the deck, Stick saw the imps breaking into cheers and laughter. The leader grinned widely, revealing a mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth as he pointed at Stick. "Manirir!" the leader cried out in a high-pitched voice. "Nelatonam sifozon! Pasi, runorath! Pasi runorathaf pithasik!"
Stick couldn't parse a world of what they said and would have to ask one of the crew members later- he couldn't now as the imps erupted into a more coordinated frenzy of music, and the atmosphere around them seemed to thrum with energy. Their songs created whirlwinds; their notes became tangible attacks, and their tempo scent waves of force energy assaulting the ship. Stick could hear the wood beginning to groan from the strain of the weird arcane energy.
Doran responded by unloading his pistol on them, picking one off after another, though he held it by the ship's wheel as if he was afraid the Imps would try to claim it.
Cascade and Tork pulled themselves above deck, and Stick saw Cascade summon forth a trio of ice spikes that shout forward and slammed into an imp each on an approaching vessel. Tork, on the other hand, pulled a short and stubby-looking rifle off his back, leveled it at the same boat, and unleashed fire and thunder onto the closest Imps with it.
Virid leaped aboard one of the ships with a terrifying shriek like a banshee and vanished into the thick of the imps on the boat. Typist cursed as she vanished but didn't follow her, not as one boat unloaded its crew onto the Wolfgang. This boarding crew threw aside their musical instruments in exchange for daggers or, in a few cases, began to use their instruments like bludgeons; Typist entered the fray among them fiercely, deflecting and countering the imps' assaults, his swords dancing through the air like an extension of himself.
Stick, his focus razor-sharp, fought behind Typist, his spear striking at the musical notes and countering the imps' weird magic that they sent towards him and Rep- mostly Rep, who, much to Stick's annoyance, the Imp's maliciously seemed to target.
The Wolfgang shook as one of the little Imp vessels smashed into it, wood groaning and metal straining. The little monsters dove off the boat and charged Rep and Stick. Stick stepped forward and earned his first kill, bisecting the lead most demon, and quickly found he didn't have to worry about his short stature anymore- If anything, his reach was suddenly too long as he pulled the halberd back and used it with a short grip to try to get at the little monsters swarming around at his thighs.
A dagger sprouted from his hip as one ducked under a short-gripped slash from Stick. Micro units like little mites pooled out of him, self-destructing as they fell out of his chassis. As Typist had done to him in training, he kicked the imp, knocking it prone, and swung the halberd down on it. As he did so, two daggers dug into where his spine would be if he had one. More microunits pour off from the wound, making faint popping noises. Damn them, if only he was a Replicator! He could swarm outside this fragile chassis, devour them all, and sweep them aside like nothing!
A trio jumped on Rep and began hacking away at her with a cleaver and a pair of daggers.
Stick screamed, hacking and whacking at those nearby with either end of his polearm as he tried to close the gap the Imps had forced out of him to get back to Rep.
Then the Imps screamed as Rep let loose her micro units into them; A layer of them began to vanish as microunits scored the fleshed from their bodies, layer after layer, skin, then muscle, as she devoured them. The three Imps jerked back and retreated, blinded, their eyes half-devoured and pained beyond sense as their bodies took on an appearance as if they'd been peppered with bird shot, and Rep's micro units retreated in kind as they gave her breathing room, her expression looking disturbed as dozens of crushed and damaged microunits fell to the ground like black sand.
Stick felt a sense of exhilaration- she was fine, of course she was. He ignored the mewling Imps she'd brutalized. With wounds like that, they were already dead. He turned and finally paid attention to himself again, pulling an imp that was crawling on him off as his microunits began announcing the stabbing alerts of pain as it shanked him repeatedly in the back. He slammed it into another nearby Imp as a clumsy bludgeon, nearly falling in the process as the force of the action unbalanced him, only catching himself thanks to Steady Feet. Before any of the remaining Imps could take advantage of the moment of unbalance, Rep charged in and was smashing around with her pan. She didn't hit a single imp, but her wild swings threatened them into backing off.
Stick took the moment to calculate. Two were dead by his hand, three disabled by Rep, two presently untangling themselves from each other on the ground where he'd slammed them into each other. Four were left standing. He jabbed the halberd down into the two attempting to untangle themselves, piercing them both. As he tried to pull the weapon free, he found he couldn't, having struck down with enough force to get in stuck in them. He rested his weight on it and stared balefully at the remaining four Imps, who seemed more cautious now.
Stick was so tired already; this was much more exhausting than the training. He straightened himself up, filled his lungs with air, and threw his weight into pulling the halberd free with a grunt, which came loose with a splattering of strangely blue blood. The speed and reflexes he had honed through relentless training were being put to the test, and despite the damage he'd taken, he felt capable and alive as he stepped forward and stabbed the beak of the halberd into an Imps skull.
Suddenly the music grew discordant and unorganized, and Stick looked over to the source of the shrill note that seemed to have broken the music's organization.
Virid had apparently moved on from her first ship, covered in blue blood and imp... parts, and was ripping the throat out of the Imp's leader with her teeth. Her form seemed different now- not in size or shape, but in color. Stick could see veins in her plant-like skin, and they ran blue with blood. She plucked up the leader of the Imps and bit into him, shaking his body like a dog would shake a toy. The leader imp gasped, his eyes wide as the life drained from them, and his instrument fell to pieces like anything holding it together had suddenly vanished; the imps’ music faltered and then snuffed out entirely. The energy of the remaining imps seemed to wane as they suddenly seemed confused by the instruments they held, as if they didn't understand what they were.
"Ralipol! Ralipol!" An imp cried out, and just as quickly as they had appeared, the imps’ boats that still had crews turned and started to speed away, leaving their fellows behind. This... did not work out well for them, as soon the thunderous beats of cannons began to sound again after Cascade and Tork retreated downstairs, forcing a blood tithe from the retreating creatures.
In the chaos, Stick fell on the Imps remaining nearby, who had been deserted by their comrades, cutting them down in their confusion. Once that was done, he turned to the ones Rep had disabled and gave them the mercy of his halberd.
Silence fell over the deck of the Wolfgang as the crew caught their breaths.
Stick stood panting, his halberd now left behind in the last Imp. They'd seemed ridiculous at first, but the little monsters had proven to be ruthless and dangerous. Stick surveyed the carnage on the deck. The remains of imps lay scattered, with blue blood painting the ship's wooden planks. His crewmates, too, were covered in blue blood, shallow cuts, bruises, and scratches.
Rep stood nearby, clutching her pan tightly. Her breathing was erratic, and she seemed in shock from the violence she’d both endured and inflicted. He could see her microunits speedily closing her wounds and repopulating themselves after the fight and felt a spark of envy at her ability to intentionally command them.
Stolen story; please report.
Virid, who looked like an entirely different creature in her primal state, was ripping apart bodies and draining them.
Doran approached Rep and Stick, a grim expression on his face. “That was a close one,” he admitted, “But we’ve fared better than some. The Stream is an unpredictable place.”
Stick nodded, still trying to process everything that had just happened. His own exhaustion made his body feel heavy, and the thought that this was just one of the many dangers in The Stream made him apprehensive. "What was?" He croaked out.
Doran grimaced. "A type of demon, the enemy of the Spellborn- the enemy of everyone, really. Those were Imps, a variety you can deal with sometimes, but they're pirates, one and all. little monsters."
Rep found her voice, much to Stick delight, as it meant he wouldn't have to keep talking. "They use musical instruments as weapons? Were they shooting music notes at us?"
Doran shrugged. "They use wild magic- it takes many forms. They don't hear the voice of the Atherium; they get their bizarre powers from pacts with creatures that do. These ones must have made a pact with a musician of some sort."
Rep sounded offended. "Someone... empowered those things?"
Doran nodded. "If you're captured by them, you either make a deal or die. Their magic is strange. Their leaders can take on the powers of one of your cards and spread it out to their crews."
Typist, who seemed relatively unscathed, looked towards Virid. “We need to get her back to normal before we continue,” he said.
Doran nodded. “Cascade, knock Virid on her ass!” he shouted.
Soon, Cascade emerged from below deck, holding a floating orb of water between two hands. Without warning, she tossed the water onto Virid. The plant-like creature hissed and clawed at the armored water woman, who quickly backed out of her reach. Virid shook herself, now soaked- but not in the midst of rage anymore, just regular annoyed.
Stick felt a tap on his shoulder as they got busy clearing the deck, repairing the damage, stacking the bodies, and figuring out what to do with the now-depopulated Imp ships. He turned to see Rep standing beside him, her face pale but her eyes determined.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Stick nodded, not quite sure what to say. In the chaos of battle, they had both fought to protect each other.
---
Rep watched as the last Imp bodies were piled up in the ship's center.
"Well," Doran spoke. "Looks like we found something for you to make Replicants out of."
Rep's eyes widened at Doran's suggestion. The bloodied corpses of the Imps lay in front of her. "You want me to eat them?"
Doran cocked his head. "They're just meat now- and you experienced how dangerous that was. We could use the extra hands."
Rep eyed the mass of bodies again, and the law seemed to clench around her.
> First Law: A replicator must consume fauna and flora and use them to produce additional replicants, which must follow the second, third, and fourth laws.
"I don't... I don't want to do that." She said it more to the laws than Doran. Sure, they weren't human bodies, but they'd been intelligent and looked human. Two arms, two legs... but mostly, it was the faces. They were twisted in a rictus of death and the tormented expressions of dying. But they were very much human looking.
She felt the BOSS system- the program that would kill her if she deviated from the laws, ready a dagger at her metaphorical brain stem. 'will you disobey?' it seemed to ask, with almost predatory interest.
Doran continued, unaware of her mental battle. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, Rep. But you have to understand that sometimes we have to do things we don't want to contribute to the greater good."
As he spoke, BOSS prodded at her. 'You could have stayed on the island and would have made hundreds of Replicants by now.' it seemed to say. 'I have been patient and will not continue to be.' She swallowed hard, steeling herself. Her microunits had already repaired her injuries from the battle, but her heart raced in her chest at the thought of consuming these creatures. Slowly, she knelt beside the pile of imp bodies. Her microunits began to extend towards the bodies, forming tendrils that started to envelop them.
"We can cook them if you'd like. It would take a while, but I'm sure Virid wouldn't mind helping you?" Rep bit at her tongue as she stared at the bodies, and Doran looked uncomfortable, kneeling beside her. "...you don't have to. Perhaps I've just gotten used to Virid. If this makes you uncomfortable..."
Rep shook her head. It was kind of him, but he couldn't stop the laws. It did make her feel quite a bit better, though. Doran frowned and stepped back, giving her and Stick space. Before he left, he patted her on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you," he said softly. And that made it so much better as to make it almost okay.
Almost.
Stick stood beside her and kneeled beside her as Doran left. "Make big."
Rep looked in confusion. and he elaborated. "Big replicant model."
Rep nodded; that made sense. Big models- as big a Typist then. They'd be safer if they were big and strong, and she'd have to teach fewer Replicants at once. "That's a smart Stick, good idea."
He didn't preen at the praise; he instead took a piece of Imp meat and began to eat, joining her in the meal. Moments later, Virid joined them as well, taking the new empty space beside Rep. She didn't partake as Stick did, but Rep suspected that was more because she'd already gorged herself and not due to any disgust.
'Will you disobey?' BOSS seemed to ask again as her micro units hovered above the corpses.
"No, I won't," she muttered under her breath. The taste of the imp was... she wanted to pretend it was bitter, but it was delightful, glorious. So much so that she knew she'd gain another [Gourmand] level from it, but she pushed through the sensation. Her microunits started to produce a blueprint of a larger, stronger model. It was more imposing, capable of defending itself and the others.
She felt BOSS retract, satisfied, as she abided by the first law. 'Good,' it seemed to murmur.
The micro-units broke down, digested the fiendish meat, and found the creatures odd. Beyond hearts, brains, muscles, bones, skin, and veins that carry the blood seemed just... empty. No complex internal organs, just a pile of meat, blood, and bone. Rep wasn't sure how they continued to exist or live. Half her microbots poured off dozens of pile bodies like a wave. It had been a good suggestion from Stick. Even with the small Imps, this was hundreds of thousands of calories. If she made a small model like Stick, she'd have dozens of Replicants to deal with all at once. Instead, she aimed to make them as large and complex as possible while still allowing them to squeeze into the extra jumpsuits she had.
She wished she knew more about biology; she might be able to grant even more upgrades- but as it was, she resorted to using Replicant models meant for war models. Such models would normally be locked away from her, but those restrictions had been lifted like all the others when she came to this world.
Then, she began to modify. She'd seen the issue Stick had dealt with in battle. Like Rep, Stick is mostly just a container filled with microbots. Like the imps, Stick had no complex internals, just the combined bones, exterior, lungs, and microbot highways-like veins. His internals was just like hers presently were. But unlike her, he couldn't change them. She'd have to do better for these new Replicants.
For a start, dedicated musculature. Rep and Stick's micro units functioned in a manner reminiscent of an ant colony. When either needed to perform any physical activity, the micro units would assemble themselves into a cohesive mass. Each microunit operated as a distinct entity yet seamlessly connected and communicated with others, creating a synchronized network within the system. For Rep, this was a perfect system. But Stick's units were trapped within his chassis, programmed to self-destruct if they left it. Considering this limitation, a dedicated 'muscle' would be much better.
So Rep began to rework the blueprint for the soldier models. Using the Imps as inspiration, she developed actual muscle and 'blood' veins- which would have no real blood, just a slurry of liquid they could use to accelerate the travel of the micro units through the model's bodies. From there came a heart to pump the 'blood' more quickly and a memory bank. Rep and Stick stored their memories across many backup microunits, meaning they stored memory poorly for their potential. Rep instead placed a small core in the chest of the Replicator, opposite the heart.
Like with Stick, it took several hours, and she commanded Stick to bring her all the wood he could from the nearby shattered ships. She'd at least be able to make these Replicants have a harder exterior shell than hers and Sticks. Despite all her modifications, it didn't take much longer than it had with Stick to make a trio of large, wooden-looking Replicants. Aesthetically they'd taken inspiration from Typist and Virid, their wooden shells almost looking like plate armor. Their microunits would need more calories to maintain this form- but they should be able to chew through the leftover pieces of the small Imp crafts.
As before, a source microunit went to each. This time, they know not just language but everything Rep had gathered about the Atherium. There would be holes in their memories- there had to be, or she'd be risking cloning herself.
These thoughts, however, were put aside as the newly formed Replicants started to move. There were three of them, massive in stature, reminiscent of ancient earth golems in form, with hardened wooden exteriors carved into armor plating. Rep took a step back, watching as they rose to their full height. Their eyes, crafted of crystalline microunits, bore into her as they awaited her command.
She felt a surge of responsibility again, just like she had with Stick. These beings, borne of her own micro units, looked to her for guidance and purpose.
Rep looked around before settling on names. "I shall name you: Keel, Mizzen, and Timber,” Rep declared. The three Replicants nodded in acknowledgment of their names. "You are here to learn to sail and gain levels till you eventually figure out what you want to do for yourselves."
The Replicants moved as one, their movements synchronized in an eerie way. “Understood,” they intoned in unison. Rep grimaced. They'd divulge soon, but to start with, the three would be eerily alike.
Doran and Virid had been watching from a distance, and now Doran approached with a smile on his face. "Well done, Rep. You've expanded our little group substantially.”
Virid was busy picking through some scraps but called out, “More to guard and help. Good.”
Stick, who was still beside Rep, patted her leg approvingly. "Good job, Rep."
Rep looked at the trio before her, then back to Doran and Stick. She felt a certain sense of accomplishment, pride, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. There was also an undercurrent of relief. She'd been afraid of this task, but it seemed almost simple now that it was done. They were just Replicants, after all. Like her. Like Stick.
She stood taller, pushing away the dread of BOSS's looming threat. The rest of the imps were consumed, and the newly formed Replicants started to explore the ship. Keel was fascinated by the interior structures. Mizzen started testing his strength against the remnants of the imps’ ship. Timber followed Virid around curiously, trying to make sense of her actions.
"They have a lot to learn," Doran observed, looking at them.
"Yes," Rep replied and smiled. "Look at them; they're already trying too. You'll help me teach them?"
Doran smiled, "Of course."
She watched as the Replicants interacted with their environment, learning and understanding their roles and responsibilities. She looked at Stick, who was still beside her, silently offering his support. She placed her hand on his head, acknowledging his help. "Thank you, Stick."
Stick gave her a wide, satisfied grin. "Stick help."
Rep turned back to the Replicants and said with a confident smile, "Let's get to work."
---
Doran leaned against the railing of the ship, staring out at the vast expanse of the Aetherium as the ship sailed through the starlit sky. The crew had grown considerably with the addition of Rep's new Replicants, and the dynamic on the ship had changed. Keel, Mizzen, and Timber were an impressive force to have on board, and even Stick had grown to be a valuable asset in his own quirky way.
"Such potential," Doran muttered under his breath. Doran couldn’t help but notice what lay with Rep. He was no stranger to power, having navigated the politics and brawls of the Streamports for years. His own ambitions had always been tempered by the reality of his limitations; there was only so much one man could do in a universe teeming with wonders and horrors with only the strength of his hands and levels.
Typist leaned against the railing beside Doran, jotting down the day's happenings on a piece of parchment. And was now keen on capturing the thoughts of the man guiding the ship through the Aetherium.
"What potential do you speak of, Doran?" Typist asked, causing Doran to smirk. One should never underestimate Typist's ability to overhear.
Doran gestured towards Rep and her Replicants. “Do you see it, Typist? The sheer power that rests with Rep. She could create an army, change the entire balance of power in the Aetherium.”
Typist nodded slowly, eyeing the three knew Replicators. "They're large, powerful. Even without training, I'd measure them as a threat to a level-five Spellborn warrior. What would you use them for, sir?"
Doran's eyes gazed into the starlit horizon. “At first, I thought of conquest, of kingdoms. ‘Doran Kingsbane,’ Emperor of the boundless Aetherium.” His voice had a whimsical tone, “But then…” He looked down at his wrist where a crow tattoo sat, ink moving as if alive. “Silence, 'Cici,'” he muttered.
“Ah, Rep’s name for the crow,” Typist noted with the Forged equivalent of a smile appeared in his voice. “Greyhead must hate that.”
Doran smirked. "it does!" He'd grown an affection for mocking the bird with the title Rep had given it; it amused him greatly. He silenced the voice of ambition that it whispered in his ear. His face sobered shortly thereafter. "Despite how... zealous it is. It does have a point."
He looked back to where Rep was laughing with Stick. “They're too useful not to make use of them. But look at them, Typist. They’re not tools." Doran palmed his face and sighed melodramatically. "When Cici first reported her to me, I'd hopped for less... person.”
Typist regarded them thoughtfully, his quill dancing across the parchment. “So, what then?” he asked.
Doran's voice grew firmer. “I can't make them into an army; I feel like a villain from a port-town copper novel even thinking it."
"You'd make yourself into a labor if you did that."
Droan rolled his eyes. "I thought I was the superstitious one?"
"You are. It's not superstitious if I'm right. Think of it as a conspiracy from The Weeping King if it makes you feel better. The why doesn't matter, only that you'd be dead at the hands of a pantheon of demigods."
Doran waved off the old argument. "We guide them. Not as a weapon or a tool but as allies. We help them find their place and protect them from the likes of the Weeping King. We build a sanctuary in the stars for them.”
“How noble, sir," Typist said dryly. "And perhaps,” Typist added with a smirk in his voice, “A fair bit of profit for a certain [Merchant] [Prince]?”
Doran grinned back. “If one were to build an empire, it doesn’t have to be literal. Instead, I can keep my [Prince] class content with a thriving merchant empire.”
Typist chuckled and scribbled the last lines. “Merchant Prince Doran, guiding a new race to freedom and prosperity, with a dash of wealth and splendor. That does have a nice ring to it- better than Kingsbane. And less likely to get you smote by demigods- labor or not.”
As they stood watching the night sky and the newfound family that sailed through it, Doran felt the weight of his ambitions lighten. Among the stars, there was room for dreams greater and different than crowns and conquests.
He wasn't a slave to his [Prince] class; it would just have to be satisfied with a merchant empire instead of a literal one. Yes, that would do nicely.