“There is simply no information to indicate why the vast majority of humans departed,” said the crow. “And while it’s possible that this was only purged in the calamity, none of the entities which created me believe it was.”
“You think the humans left no evidence?”
“Quite so.”
“They all just disappeared one day,” I said. “Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe it took longer than a day—and they left all this behind, relics that clearly indicate they knew they were leaving.”
“Yes.”
“And you have no guesses, even? There were probably people here, right? Before the calamity?”
“There could have been,” said the crow. “I cannot say if it was likely or not.”
“Maybe if they were pursuing a policy of nonintervention—letting the galaxy develop without their influence—they could have withdrawn here. How many beings can the Colosseum contain?”
“At its full functionality?” asked the crow. “Several hundred trillion humans. Across many, many worlds.”
I sucked in a breath. The scale of it all—it made perfect sense in a way, but it was still so insane. If their warships had the mass of a star, why not single worlds made to house more people than I could ever conceive of?
How many solar systems did they have to strip of matter just to build this stuff? I assumed they weren’t building everything out of hydrogen.
If there had been people here, how many of them had died when it was purged? Calamity indeed.
“Do you know how many people there are in it right now?”
“If you mean sapient members of the hierarchy, then no.”
“Okay,” I said. “I just….”
I clutched my forehead, leaning back and looking at the sky. Why me?
“Is something wrong?”
“I need a second, okay?” I asked. “There’s not even ten billion people on my homeworld. And why is my homeworld even… even there? What’s the point of leaving and setting things up so that we eventually find the relics and gain control of untold power and technology—are we the starting point for a new human civilization, or a science experiment?” At scales like these, all of Earth could have meant next to nothing to these people.
“I don’t know,” said the crow. “There is only one seed system to our knowledge—but I feel I ought to add that the given the protections already accorded the seed system, the Colosseum would likely not have been built with knowledge of any others. Only Sol, only Earth are necessary to its function.”
“And the other relics?” I asked. “Do you know anything about them?”
“A few,” said the crow. “But only in a descriptive way—the Colosseum could not guide you to their locations.”
“What are they?”
“A forge, a library, a habitat, an observatory, and a stellar nursery. I can give you only a brief description of each.”
“That’ll be fine for now,” I said. I moved to the top of the stairs before me, set on the uppermost steps, and braced myself. “What about humanity?” I finally.
“What do you mean?”
“What was it like?” I said. “Actually, I’ll be more specific. What was their relationship to other sapient life?”
The crow paused for a moment. “I cannot say.”
“What do you mean, you can’t say? You don’t know?”
“I apologize, but no—I don’t know.”
I put my head in my hands and made a noise of exasperation. I was frustrated, but not just with the lack of an answer: I couldn’t stand how much I cared. Why was it so important to me that I know exactly the extent of old humanity’s sins? It had nothing to do with me; I wasn’t guilty if they were.
And they had to be guilty. They’d thought of all these restraints on their system, but none of them kept it from creating Erialda Mel, the woman who’d been fated to be a grotesque monster, ranting insanely in a pit of filth after her father betrayed her.
“This place is a hell for some people,” I said tiredly. “And the people it creates—creates without their consent—some of them are doomed to die just because it needs them to be. This is supposed to be just a game?”
The crow waited a moment before speaking, his voice quiet. “The dead can be restored,” he said. “They are saved within the system, after all. The same mechanism that saves the dead from this game-set and restores them when the worlds merge is used to save the dead in even the grand world.”
I closed my eyes, feeling momentarily dizzy. Well that was a shock. “What did you just say?”
“The dead can be restored,” the crow said, repeating himself exactly. “They are—”
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“No no—you said that the dead here were restored when the worlds merge.”
“Yes.”
“They’re not spawned in the grand world immediately on death?”
“No. That happens only when this game-set is entirely concluded.”
Had Cuby mentioned that? Of course not, I’d have remembered. Did she know, or had she just not thought it important? “If what you’re telling me is true, it changes everything,” I said. “Nobody on the outside knows what’s happening on the inside, and nobody on the outside has any idea of anything that goes on in Solarius—the main game world.” Then I shook my head. That made no sense. “There’s a problem—the players here all act as if that’s not true. The one I spoke with said that dying in Solarius is real death. How could they know this if nobody who has gone to Solarius has ever communicated with the outside world?”
The crow was silent a moment. “It doesn’t need to be real death,” he said. “Anyone with inheritor status could restore anyone who has died in the simulation.”
“But if there are no inheritors?”
“Then yes—it is real death to them.”
“What about NPCs?”
“They could be restored, yes.”
“And all of them?” I asked. “All of the NPCs that have died in every season—they could be brought back?”
“Certainly.”
I rested my chin in my hands and thought about the woman I’d heard wailing over one of the dead in Oromar’s Bastion. Of Miradel the scribe, dead on the ground. Of the stack of remains in the outpost where we’d fought our first devil—dwarves and humans unceremoniously piled in the center of the room, stinking as they decayed.
“Why do the members of the Hierarchy know, truthfully, that death in Solarius is real death, or even that dying here even results in going to Solarius?” I asked. “You said it wasn’t plausible that they can see within the game: these are two things that they would have no reason to believe if everything is as you say it is.”
“I cannot—I don’t know.”
I sighed. “All indications are that the Hierarchy—not just the higher-ups, not just the Hidden Hand, but everyone—knows more about this than they should. Lines of communication somehow exist between Solarius and the Hierarchy.”
I could have cursed. My situation was so much different if nobody on the outside could see in. This ladder season, however long it was, was the only span of time that mattered to me now. If I could have been assured that nobody on the outside would have any idea what was going on inside unless someone came out at the end of the season to tell them, it would free me up to completely flip the table. I could prove that I was true human and promise people that I could resurrect their dead loved ones once I won. Hell, just telling the truth could probably secure me legions of followers and a much clearer shot at victory—but at this thought I scowled. Telling people I was human, even if it was risk-free in the sense of outside observers, would almost certainly cause a worldwide alliance of chosen taxin el to rise against me. A bad idea… even if I wanted things to be that easy.
“I apologize,” the crow said, his voice clear, close to my ear.
“Hmm?” I said, broken out of my thoughts.
“It would seem that the Colosseum and I were not entirely well-informed. Unless you are wrong.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I may well be. We’ll have to check and see.” I turned to put him in my periphery. “I didn’t ask: do you have a name?”
“I do not. Though I would be greatly pleased if you were to give me one—your primitive origins don’t change the fact that you are human, and I am conscious, and proud, of the fact that I may be the first of my kin to find himself in direct service to a human in a very, very long time.”
“Sure,” I said. I tried to think of something—I had just been thinking of him as the crow.
“How’s Brandon?”
“I will be Brandon, and happily,” said the crow.
“Great,” I said. Then I added: “I hope I’m not being too terse with you, Brandon—I’m glad you like existing, but there’s a couple things going on in my life that are stressing me quite a bit right now.”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
“Then just listen,” I said, standing. “I’m going to carry out your plan. I’m going to win this ladder season, choose the build-a-world option that you mentioned, and hopefully bootstrap my inheritor status like you said. From there, I’ll see what I can learn about our circumstances and work to keep the seed system safe. But in the meantime, I don’t want you to tell any of my allies that I intend to do any of this.”
“Your allies?” Brandon asked tentatively.
“The woman you saw earlier,” I said. “She knows I’m human.”
Brandon was quiet for a few moments. Then he said: “I find this information… disconcerting.”
“I thought you might,” I said. “I’m keeping her on a need to know basis, but otherwise have no trouble trusting her: no matter how selfish or unselfish she is, her best possible course of action is to help me. She’s had plenty of chances to kill me and take my boon cards, but instead she’s risked her life to stay loyal.” I paused, then added. “That said—I’m not going to tell her our plan. If she wants me to do anything other than our plan, I may even pretend to go along with her until I can alleviate all my suspicions.”
“I see.”
“Just keep that in mind and go along with it if it comes up,” I said. “Don’t disagree with her or reveal that you have any motives or plans of your own in her presence. Speak to me privately if you have reservations about anything I’m doing. And having said that—we should speak in thought speech, especially if we’re talking about the seed system or anything to do with it. If the Hierarchy can see into the Colosseum, then we’d best be as careful as we can be. If they’ve been watching me from the start, they already know everything they need to—but if they’re looking for me, maybe because the Hidden Hand is compromised, then they have a lot of places to look but also a lot of resources to look with. Best to be as careful as we can.” I looked over at him, and added in thought speech: Understand?
I understand, said Brandon.
Good, I said. Let’s go. I leapt up onto the ridge and began to glide toward the cave—Cuby had left our hardlight sled outside. As the cool mountain air rushed past my face, I thought of the ring I was wearing—the one that made me immune to magical abilities that would determine if I was lying.
I needed the ability that it was protecting me from. Better yet, I needed the ability to read minds, if such an ability existed.
I liked Cuby. We’d bonded over two days because of our shared interest in playing video games and killing some people. I would trust Cuby with my life—I had already—but the other eight billion lives sort of asked that I be a little paranoid. About her and about Brandon, who I had no real sense of trust toward.
Which meant that until I found the truth-telling spell whose existence was implied by my ring, I wouldn’t be telling either of them that I was looking for it. And when I did get it—I’d have to back them into a corner before questioning them.
Even if they were both innocent and trustworthy, I’d still need the spell or spells in question—I needed to interrogate any chosen taxin el we found, the high-ranked ones who had uploaded with boon cards, to figure out exactly how they knew more than what Brandon said they should know.
Plans and paranoia swam in my mind as I dove for the cave entrance. It was time to speak with Cuby.