12
Chanise Roland - Elselar, She Who Keeps the Peace, the Unrepentant Judge, the Goddess of Order herself - was tired of Henning’s melodramatic bullshit. The foppish twit was obsessed, and every time a season was hosted on Feyhold, he insisted that the entire Council subject themselves to his pretentious fucking playacting. She was the gods-damned Minister of Deviant Acquisitions, and instead of managing the logistics of tracking nearly ten thousand players - all Deviants - she was here, playing Goddess; wearing a ridiculous steel mask, dressed in an outrageous set of crimson silk robes better suited to some gods-forsaken Geisha. A prostitute, by the Path.
She eyed Henning, occupying his rotating throne in the exact centre of the huge, ring-shaped table, around which sat herself and the other seven members of the Council. The other ‘gods.’ In an act of precisely zero subtlety, Henning had designed the table so all its occupants faced inward, looking directly at him; for in all his resplendent glory, he was Vedict’Atohl, the First Father; the Godhead. From his position at the centre of everything, he would slowly rotate his chair to face whoever was speaking. Chanise - Elselar - had no idea how a man who had so little taste could stand at the head of a thousand worlds.
The man was a towering narcissist and a functioning tyrant. Of course he was; he was the Chairman, head of the Council, ruler of a government that oversaw not only Gaia One, but the thousands of functioning Derivatives whose resources were absolutely necessary to maintain the standard of life on the Planet of the Origin. None of them had time for this; they were the Council of Nine, the highest officials of the entire Governing Body of Gaia One, and instead of managing an inter-dimensional mega-state, they were indulging the whims of a man more concerned with a game.
They were atop the uppermost deck of the City-Ship Jericho, seated within a tower of indestructible glass and shining neosteel, with the massive ringed window that surrounded them looking down upon the brilliant blue-green sphere of Feyhold. They were orbiting the moon Henning had called “Lunara,” which in turn was orbiting the planet itself. Like most of Henning’s creations, the name was a little too on the nose for her taste. This particular view, however, was breath taking, and denied to all but the Council.The only view superior to this one belonged to Henning himself, whose personal quarters were, of course, above them at the apex of the tower. When most of these Meetings of the Pantheon occurred, Henning would naturally be the last to speak, and as he did, he always levitated his stupid space-god throne up into a circular hole in the vast ceiling that led to his private quarters. Just like the asshole was ascending to the heavens.
What a pindick, she thought as she gazed at the man. He was just hovering there, slowly rotating. Of all the masks that adorned the gathered ‘gods’, his mask alone was shining and golden, made in the likeness of a beautiful young man with flawless, though vacuous features, wearing an unreadable expression. The eyes were milky white, haunting and staring sightlessly outward. Atop the mask’s tangle of golden curls was a simple crown, a steel band, inset with a perfectly spherical sapphire nearly the size of a walnut. The gem pulsed with an insistent glow, like a tiny blue sun that seemed to brighten and fade with the man’s breathing. His silken robes were equally resplendent; golden and flowing, patterned with ridiculously ornate silver script and blue gemstones.
In Henning's left hand was an open book, bound in pure crystal with metallic pages that shone like platinum. In his other hand he held a sceptre, its shaft perhaps two feet long, which was polished and black, topped with a silver human hand that grasped a large crystal orb. The Book of the Origin, Chanise knew, and the Rod of Rule - symbols not only of Vedict’Atohl’s preeminence as the Godhead, but of Gaia’s singular power. The book of the Origin recounted the truth of the one Path, while the rod and the orb represented Gaia’s grasp of wisdom. Whatever mockery Henning made of the Council during these inane spectacles, the truth of the Path and the power of the Origin was unblemished.
A fool though its present leader may be, the fact of Gaia’s superiority remained. They were chosen. They were the first. The first to step through the veil; the first to glimpse the facsimile worlds and their broken paths - lies that made Gaia’s truth perfectly evident. No other iteration had invented the Looking Glass. All derivatives they had discovered deviated from Gaia’s path, some in small ways, some in bizarre and almost unrecognisable ways. They would discover them at different points in their histories, with vastly different levels of technology and dominant cultures, but none could match Gaia. In no other iteration had humanity learned the secrets of Matter Transfer. None could leap from universe to universe as they could. From world to world. Not one. Only Gaia. If they were the first, then logic dictated that their path was necessarily true. They were the Origin.
These derivatives, even broken as they were, could be leveraged. Subjugated. These Subjugate Worlds could be mined of their power, their people, their resources. As derivatives, they were things; objects, and they owed their very existence to Gaia; to the Origin. Their worlds were no more than property, their resources like crops tended by incompetent farmers. As they were falsehoods - flawed copies - they could be plucked indefinitely.
Not one single resident of Gaia gave a second’s thought to the ethics of exploiting infinity. Did Gaia’s residents not deserve abundance? Their power, a power which they alone, among all iterations, among all humans, had created. This fact was in of itself a justification; a testament to their righteousness. Power existed to be used. And besides, why blame a man for having taken a mouthful of water, when the spring was forever full? Why concern oneself with the value of a single unit, when the supply is endless?
The Fundamentalists held that exploitation of these derivative worlds was, in fact, a gift to the deviants. That, with effort, they might move closer to the Path. With each Transfer, with each Subjugation of a deviant world, the wayward souls were granted the opportunity to glimpse the Path as it was meant to be. Each deviant plucked for the games, the draft, the labs, or the labour camps was receiving a chance to grasp at true wisdom.
The population of each subjugated world surely couldn’t deny the truth of the Path when they saw what Gaia was capable of. What they had accomplished. The deviants were given the opportunity to see the world as it was meant to be seen - shaped by those who had walked the Path.
This opportunity was supposed to awaken them to the truth, but Chanise knew this perspective was optimistic at best, and downright delusional at worst. Expecting a deviant to accept the truth of the Path was like expecting blood from a stone. They inevitably insisted that they were individuals, that their lives had meaning, that their world’s lies were instead true and justified.
To Chanise, and the Realist Faction as a whole, these pleas only reinforced the idea that they were too far from the Path to be saved. Too far, too false. How could someone - something - so passionate about a lie be expected to accept the truth? They were hopeless, sad echoes, but their resources were real enough. For Gaia, for Potentia, another iteration, another crop, was just a Leap away. It was like plucking fruit from the tree of infinity. In Chanise’s estimation, it was far better to simply regard the deviants for what they were: useful. You might not be able to extract blood from a stone, but you could use a stone to extract blood.
She peered out from behind her steel mask, the gleaming face made in the likeness of Elselar; an impassive, coldly beautiful goddess whose gaze was intended to be judgement itself. In spite of her irritation, Shanise was relieved that Henning had been conscientious enough to give the masks FlowMod enhancements that allowed unobstructed sight and speech, so she wasn’t required to bathe in the hot moisture of her own breath for hours, or squint through the too-small eye slits. Access to the Flow was certainly one benefit to being in orbit around Feyhold. One needed to count one’s blessings when it came to Henning; enduring his pomp and preening was a test of patience. Angering him was unwise. He was ruthless when it came to defiance or disrespect.
She sighed. Narcissists were so predictable. So gods-damned insecure. But, once you identified them, they were incredibly easy to manipulate - provided they never became aware of the manipulation. Gently stroke their sense of self-importance, subtly emphasise the necessity of their role in all things, surrender to them credit for your own successes. Shore up their transparent insecurities for them.
Let them believe their fragile, paranoid personal narrative was actual truth, and in return they would give you exactly what you wanted. They’d want to reward you for your recognition of their greatness, because to them, incredibly, even their magnanimity was an expression of that self-same greatness. They would come to trust you because of your ‘good judgement.’ The strategy required a strong stomach, but it was undeniably effective. If one followed these tenets, then ultimately the fragile little tyrants would leave you the fuck alone so you could actually get something done.
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“The Professionals who aren’t already embedded will be planet side in six days,” said Viridian, standing and facing Henning, who watched the green-robed, fox-masked man impassively. “That should be more than sufficient for the deviants to acclimatise,” he went on, seemingly unfazed by the Chairman’s gaze. “The week one meta quests have been assigned for those who survived. All feeds are up and running.”
Chanise eyed the man warily. Viridian. She snorted softly in disdain. The ‘Green Mage.’ It was ridiculous that people still called him by his player name after ten years, ever since his run on Feyhold. When the season ended, the man had cunningly leveraged his fame into a political career, and his rise had been meteoric. Consequently, he was largely despised by the rest of the Council. His successes were largely due to his performance in the Games and the popularity that came with them; he had been at the forefront of the seven Professionals who had installed the Nithian Emperor on the throne.
By the season’s end, he had also become an Archmage. This had greatly pleased Henning, who regarded the Nithian Emperor as a favoured pet, in spite of his…proclivities, which Henning mistakenly believed he had hidden from the Council. That was another matter altogether. With Henning’s favour, Viridian’s success had been all but guaranteed. He now sat on the council as Minister of Social Introspection, a powerful ministry that had a near-stranglehold on Gaian culture.
Chanise hated the man. He showed just enough deference to Henning that he remained in the man’s good graces, but to his fellow Ministers he was rude and irreverent, and his inherent access to the Flow while they occupied this Derivative made him arrogant. And very dangerous. His title of Archmage had been earned; even she couldn't deny it. He was a prodigy, and he commanded a great deal of power when he could access the Flow. His character’s disappearance after the Nithian Emperor’s Ascension to the throne had shocked the whole of the Empire, and on Feyhold it remained a mystery to this day. But here the asshole sat, where he would inevitably be an acute pain in her ass. Even so, she presently had no need to lash out at him. That could wait.
She would, in due time, gently guide him to a cliff he would jump off of himself. His downfall would appear to be his own doing; fallout was more easily managed when blame shifted to the victim. She had allies here on the Council who would assist for their own reasons. Fuller and de Valois came to mind, and the canny bitch Liu, but they didn’t share Chanise’s foresight. They would need more obvious reasons to act against the so-called Green Mage. It didn’t matter, she had time. She needed only to keep them in her pocket until she arranged a proper moment to act.
In any case, the man’s downfall could be better appreciated in slow motion. The pleasure could be sustained, elongated, drawn out as long as she desired it. She could languish in the sweet, slow-drip defeat of an upstart who needed to properly understand his place. Standing above him - watching his strangled rage, watching him die a slow figurative death as his presumptions burned down around him - that would be very, very satisfying.
She shifted in her chair as she felt herself stirring into arousal. She would call for one of her favourites once Henning brought his stage drama to a close. Jana, perhaps. Yes, that would do. She drifted into a sensory memory of sliding her lips up along the rich, dark skin of the Shadaaran woman’s thighs, then higher still, of the gasps and insistent moans that followed. The creature was exquisite, highly responsive and very…enthusiastic.
She had been a gift from a cherished player whom Chanise had sponsored during season twenty four. He had the girl sent to Chanise following his victory, in appreciation of her sponsorship. A worthy gift, she thought. The Shadaari were passionate, nomadic warriors who strove to live forever in the present. She suspected it was this that made them such ardent lovers. She drew in a long breath, released it and pulled herself back to the moment, pushing away the increasingly distracting thoughts of her beloved pet.
Henning was nodding in reply to Viridian’s report and leaned back in his hovering throne-chair. “How many did we lose?” he asked in a voice that had little attachment to the answer. When Henning spoke, it was in a voice that was soft and nasal, except when he adopted that ridiculous voice he used for recording the Game’s lore drops. Viridian replied without looking at the notes on his data pad.
“One thousand one hundred and seventy six deaths. A little over ten percent. Slightly more than anticipated, Chairman, but there were some inherent risks in delaying class selection until after the encounter,” the green-robed man said with little emotion. “However, the sponsors and the premium viewers were pleased; the commonly held view among them seems to be that the program was made more…raw by the disadvantage,” he said. “They also seemed to agree that this approach would weed out the weaker players early, making those who remained more interesting to watch.” Henning shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the ridiculously large crystal-bound book he held.
“Mm. We’ll lose more before the week is out,” said the Godhead. “Be sure that Nith has what it needs to play its role,” he added, then seemed to relax into a more casual tone. “I’m told you were first-hand yesterday, Viridian. I must say, I was perplexed by your choice in candidates. Some others have said it was…curiously underwhelming; reckless even, considering the wealth at stake” said the Godhead, leaning forward just slightly. “Some say you may have grown too arrogant.” There was an enticed, growing appetite in Henning’s voice. To him, this was sparring. This too, was the game. He naturally had a candidate of his own, yet to be revealed. The Chairman’s candidate ostensibly received no additional aid or favour, but they had a way of making their way to the latter stages of Act Three unscathed.
Professionals enjoyed a great many advantages as it was, and Henning wasn’t enough of a fool to engineer a win for his candidate every season, but he couldn’t resist indulging himself now and again.
“What does the ‘Green Mage’ say to that?” he asked, and Chanise could hear the smirk in his voice. When Viridian replied, it sounded like he was smiling, perhaps even wearing that wolfish grin he always gave her when he wanted to get under her skin.
“There’s no mistaking that the criticism is growing…pronounced, Chairman. I do wonder where these rumours originate, but naturally you know how rumours can be; unreliable at best. That said, I'll certainly look like a fool should it fall apart within the first week, but I have hope time will kindle a brighter flame. It’s still early.” He lifted his head then, as if something had just occurred to him. Most certainly an affectation, Chanise knew.
“Speaking of early, did you happen to stream the opening of the first Divine-level rewards, Chairman? It’s incredible they were awarded on day one; curious, even, though the Central System assures me it was a random encounter. I thought the result would be of particular interest to you,” said the fox-masked man, and Chanise knew exactly what he was doing; gently taunting the Chairman, playing into Henning’s obsession for the intricacies of the game and its narrative. His prodding may even be interpreted as a challenge, if he wasn’t careful. She was certain Henning would swiftly stamp out any overt challenges, but he clearly enjoyed the dance. She eyed Viridian with a slow smile and wondered if the man hadn’t just taken his first step towards the cliff.
“Yes, yes!” said the Chairman, leaning forward further as he slapped his hand down atop the book emphatically, his gaze fixed all the while on Viridian. “Twists of fate like this are what make this so invigorating. That the mask would appear after all this time - exquisite! Could you imagine if the sword were to spawn?” the golden-masked god asked, his tone dripping suggestion. Chanise, and everyone else in the room, knew that the sword would now most certainly make an appearance. The mask, and Viridian’s reference to it in particular made it inevitable. Henning couldn’t resist. Chanise imagined the man was drooling beneath his own golden mask. Viridian clasped his hands behind his back, sighing as though resigned.
“We all know how it ended for the last bearer of the mask, but even I have to admit that a rematch would be very, very highly anticipated by the viewers. I’m not sure the current bearer is up to the task, in spite of this very early advantage. It’s a slight imbalance that I’m sure fate will conspire to correct,” he said ruefully, then added, ”and if not fate, then the Central System.” Henning let out a reedy laugh, and leaned back in his throne. He nodded for Viridian to be seated, then appeared to gather himself into his godly role once more. He slowly rotated until he faced Chanise, then halted.
“Elselar,” he said formally, watching her with the unblinking milky-white eyes of Vedict’Atohl. “Do we have sufficient stock in reserve should the conflict eventually deteriorate into attrition? We may have the need for a second wave during Act Two if it becomes necessary to turn the tide one way or the other. Are you adequately prepared?” Chanise groaned inwardly as she straightened into her own celestial role to match Henning’s gravity, then replied with the prerequisite bow, speaking in a voice that was clear and confident. She was prepared. She was always prepared.
“Yes, First Father. I have five thousand additional Unproven sleeping in stasis should they be needed. I can have them awakened and ready for use with but a week’s notice. I’ve also arranged for a list of Tier Two prospective…adventurers that can be called upon should we need to adjust the balance more directly. Simply say the word, First Father, and they will pierce the veil at your behest.”
Verdict’Atohl nodded, pleased. “You never disappoint, child. I count myself fortunate to have such capable subordinates.”
She smiled, knowing precisely what the man wanted to hear. She would deliver.
“Our successes are ever a testament to your own wisdom, First Father,” she replied deferentially, and bowed. Her smile remained fixed beneath her mask, though it was now joined by the gleam of a predator’s eyes.