4.3 Scenario 67
Outside, all was chaos. Many of the little mud buildings beyond the academy that Silven loved so well were on fire. Thieves in brown cloaks assumed the arcane knees-bent posture of their dark guilds to creep alongside fleeing townsfolk wholly unnoticed and emerge from abandoned homes with armfuls of loot. A horrifying shriek echoed from up out of the lower streets as a panicked woman heading for Salvation Square took a wrong turn into Maneater. Squadrons of gleaming Silverlink guards marching down to the disturbance were beset on all sides by enraged commoners and dragged to the ground, because, well, that’s just what happens when the world is ending.
Silven flew through it all in a blind rage, through lane after smoking lane, and barrelled into the jabbering little monster at the heart of it all. “That’s for Dasat!” he roared, swinging his stolen sword into its horrible little goblin-boobs with all his might. “This one’s for Folborn! Here for someone I no longer recall! And this-” He smashed a crushing fist into its hideous skull and sent it gliding back an inch from its next victim. “This is for all those weird chicken-men! Arrrrrgh!”
A firm hand gripped him by the shoulder and held back the onslaught. “You know it’s pointless,” shouted Grennel, ever calm and observant. “You’ve made your choice. Now use your strength where it matters.”
Silven glared at the jittery slave of the Glitch and relented. “I can only hope I carry none of this disease back. How can I know?”
“You can’t.” Grennel shoved him in the direction of the gate. “Now let’s cut our losses and kill every other baddie in this damned land.”
Beyond the walls, the shattered world was horrible in its peace. The bodies by the roadside, the smouldering bonfires where cottages had stood, the trampled and blackened reeds of the bog... it was all serene. “People sure do like setting fire to things in a crisis,” Silven observed as he brushed ash from his robe. “But why?”
“To cleanse the world of evil, and prepare, like the phoenix, for new birth,” Grennel replied.
“Really?”
“Ask stupid questions and you’ll get stupid answers. Now fight!”
Something slimy with tentacles and scales and teeth had emerged from the closest pool. Silven splashed down among the rushes and made short work of it, and the next thirty as they lumbered up from their preset lairs. The thirty-second slithered round his half-hearted parry and delivered a dizzying slash to his cheek with a dripping barb. He staggered back and whined up to Grennel. “My arm’s getting tired!”
Grennel waved furiously from his safe spot on the road. “Don’t forget the enraged beast rushing towards your back!”
Silven turned. “Oh yeah.” He skewered his foe and watched it crumble to a pretty snazzy bog emerald. “But seriously, these grinders must get so bored. How did I used to do this? So many pretty twirls to unlock, yet all it really comes down to is chopping firewood.”
He returned to the road, and spotted a lovely little rock on which to plant his bottom. “So, east, kill some monsters, east, kill some monsters, east, kill some monsters, and then Limetop.” He swatted away an irksome fly. “And then what? Oooh, north a little, kill some monsters? Or south? I can hardly wait.”
“You really are a spoiled brat, aren’t you?”
Silven was flabbergasted. “You can’t speak to me like that.”
Grennel kicked his king off his perch and marched onwards. “I’m not your toady, remember. And remember this, too - for everyone else, this really is the end.”
He left Silven in the sand. It was several minutes before the king caught him up.
They hacked their way east. Slowly, the tentacles gave way to snakes as the marsh pools petered out. Silven switched murder-arm. Then, they reached the endless grasslands of the Silent Sea, and everything changed.
For one, there were signs of civilisation. Even clearer were the signs of its undoing. The bandits at the little market at the crossroads greeted them with a volley of arrows. Silven greeted them with a blade to the face and moved on. Before long, a humble village sprawled in the oval clearing ahead. Two gaunt men in roughspun tunics loitered by the nearest hovel, but this time, there were no arrows. Indeed, things looked a little brighter at first glance. There were barrels and baskets aplenty littering the common. Tables had been drawn up to support the tankards, and the bodies beneath them were still snoring. “Hmm,” hummed Silven as he took a moment to behold the sky. The black and purple clouds of Impending Doom were gone. Instead, a sickly yellowish haze had descended upon the ruins of the world. With it, somehow, came a kind of bitter hope. In that moment, Silven saw another future. The Glitch had undone almost everything, yes, but it could never destroy his people entirely. These pockets of resistance could go on for many a year yet, should he choose.
Finally, however, he saw the world plain. That yellowish haze was coming from some sort of makeshift carrot distillery at the far side of the village, and no careless merrymaker had ever drunk fermented carrot in celebration. He also noted that in place of a nice sane bonfire, the residents had filled an iron drum with wood and set the whole thing alight. Deep within him, a primal instinct was telling him that that was the unmistakable architecture of the troublemaker. And, worst of all, the feasters’ haunch of meat hanging from the well was from no deer.
When they saw the approaching travellers, the men called out in voices even rougher than their clothes. The first was too drunk to be understood, but Silven was no stranger to the burbles of the inebriated, and deciphered the second’s curses. “Come ‘ere, fat cat, an’ show us yer goods. Trade a liddle. ‘Ave some booze.”
Silven and Grennel hung back. “You’ve had enough for all of us, friend,” Silven called. “Which way to Limetop?”
The man wobbled and pointed a finger vaguely in their direction. “Ahhh, I like you. Fancy yerself a treasure hunter, do yer? Used to be a big correrpayshun up them ‘ills. All mines an’ that. Till the goblin came. There’s secrets aplenty there, I wager, if you dig through the ash.”
“Yeah, that ‘correpayshun’ was there a week ago, and I reckon it’s still there now,” Silven lectured, more for himself. He couldn’t imagine the likes of Olgred and Simitest letting loose the sequencers. That couldn’t happen. If the Glitch spread more, who knows if he could even get back to the start.
He changed the subject. “What do we have here?” he growled, pointing out the meat on the well. “That hardly seems like lawly conduct.”
More pale-faced men tiptoed from their cottages and stared. An awful squawk resounded from one open door, followed by a cry of anguish from an unseen woman. The speaker chewed his lip and considered his words. “Now listen, fat cat, we ‘ave ter get by. The carrats done taken our stores, an’ he was already dead. Truth be told, the carrot clouds got ‘im too. Or maybe the Glitch. ‘E wasn’t ‘uman any more either way.” With a glance, the men shuffled forward. “Now let’s see yer goods.”
Silven rolled his eyes at the professor. He rummaged in his pockets. “Look, I’m on a very important mission, but I might have something to help you out.” He scowled as he twisted his fingers through the bottomless pits. “If I ever get through the twenty thousand fire vials I’ve been saving.”
“Saving?” Grennel cried.
“Yeah. You know how it goes. They were pretty rare at first. I always thought it best to hold them back for a real emergency. True, the beetles could be bad, but you never knew when the ten-foot zombie mini-boss was going to appear around the next corner. Then they got more common, but by then you’re sword-twirling just fine without them, so you keep on saving and saving. Thinking that might be the lot, and you’re surely gonna need them at...”
“The end,” Grennel finished for him. “Looks like we’ve arrived already.” He pointed. The men had produced carving knives from within their own pockets. One licked his lips beneath wide eyes.
Silven pressed his lips together in decision. “I suppose we could use a few. Justified killing spree?”
Grennel nodded once. “Justified.”
In seconds, the men were engulfed in flames. A fanfare sounded from out of the yellow haze. Silven felt himself grow stronger, but there was something else, too. He threw another vial and smiled as the explosion atomised a group of snarling villagers. More importantly, much more importantly, this was going to be fun.
A panicked scream cut through the crackles of flame at the rear of the village. A little knot of women had emerged from the largest house, tears streaming down their cheeks as they regarded the wreckage. “Raiders!” one shrieked. “Begone! You’re evil! Please, let us be.”
Silven paused midswing. He held up a hand to halt Grennel’s work and spun him round to face him. “I know you’re a man of science, but do you like philosophy?”
Grennel grimaced. “Well, it looks like this ichor project is going nowhere, so why not?”
“Is guaranteed taking of a life today, to make it more likely to be saved yesterday, inherently a bad thing?”
Grennel considered a long time. “Err, possibly. Depends on the likelihood of the saving.”
Silven smiled. “What if the likelihood went up for each life taken?”
“Justified.”
They turned the women to ash where they stood. Then, they moved onto the next village. And the one after. Even though it took longer, Silven found himself sneaking up by a hedge or garden and bombing in efficient silence. It was better that way.
Beyond the smoke of the ruins which they left in their wake hung always the nauseating yellow of the carrot fumes. The grass was slowly turning orange from the roots. Strange raucous things cried out from the dying trees lining the path. It was a different world, a funerary world, shaped not just by forces of the Glitch but by the folly of man.
By the second day, they were being followed. It was the carrats at first, infernal by-products of vermin in the distilleries. They gathered in twitching packs just beyond the first clumps of grass and attacked all at once in a fury of claws and teeth. The fire bombs kept most at bay, but as the afternoon drew on, more and more skipped past the tired throws and dug in with their pointy parts. Soon, health supplies were dwindling. There was always the Doll Sequence, Silven knew, but now he also knew its darker results, the horrors it could hold for the next life. He quartered their remaining turnips instead. As evening drew in, they were forced to make a difficult choice. Grennel set up camp and cookfire whilst Silven prowled the squeaking vegetation. A few minutes later, the dead carrat was roasting upon flaming grass. They were long, and thin, and orange, with but the smallest of faces and legs and tail, not to mention the source of the glorious smells arising from the explosions of the long battle of the day, but it was still a shock when they tucked in. “Great Gurtywill!” Grennel managed between mouthfuls. “The whole world’s turning into carrots!”
Silven shook his head, eyes never leaving the horizon. “That’s enough. Put out the fire!”
He did as he was bid. “Too late,” Silven muttered, gathering his things.
“How do you know?” Grennel was up on his feet with a stick of rat hanging from one corner of his mouth.
“The cries of ‘We’ve got you now’ and ‘attack’ kind of gave it away,” Silven observed gravely. He shook his head as the dry grass behind them began to wiggle enthusiastically. “Curses, when I kept hearing ‘we’ll find you raider’, I thought they were looking for raiders.”
“They were,” the professor said. “Now let’s increase our distance to the shiny meat cleaver coming out from behind that tuffet.”
Together, the travellers left their campsite and hurried on. The ground was rising now, and with each step onto the jagged ridge, Silven’s emotions stretched two ways. On one hand, they were on the edge of the highlands leading to Limetop, his badass armoury that he’d almost forgotten, and in the end, a glorious stalemate with fate. On the other, the elevation gave him a better look at their pursuers. They weren’t soldiers. Farmers waving rakes, blacksmiths with iron hammers, an innkeeper dual-wielding a well-polished set of cutlery. This wasn’t an army; it was a posse, gathered in desperation to drive out a threat to their families and homes. There were tears gleaming in the afternoon sun. He’d probably killed that man’s wife. It was for the Greater Good, but if everything went well that man would never know. If everything went well, that man might not even have met his girl. Was that good? Was he good?
What had he become?
He ran on. If he had to, he could turn and wipe out those men with a casual iteration of Mighty Death Slash, but still he ran. Now it came to it, he didn’t want to kill them all. It had been so fun in the villages, he thought with a tilt of the stomach. No more. Big Bads didn’t leave souls alive. Let them defend his shattered kingdom to the end.
He realised he wouldn’t in fact have to kill them all when the soldiers clanked down from their hiding places on the ridge and did it for him. They wielded their steel with calculated efficiency. The screams were brief.
They turned from the bodies and knelt before their king.
From amidst the golden host came a rather less golden character. To be precise, he was wearing a fabulous green smoking jacket today. He was also wearing a disapproving expression most unbecoming of a hero’s minion.
“Olgy,” croaked a surprised Silven.
The former merchant tutted like a father to his naughty child. “We didn’t invent instant communication for nothing. We could have taken them much sooner.”
Silven looked from one silent killer to another and back to his recently appeared friend. “But they’d have stolen the power juice. Where I’m going, I’ll need every last drop.”
Olgred nodded solemnly. There was something grand about him, something taller, though those leather moccasins provided no tangible inches. He gestured at the bloodied butcher, meat cleaver drooping from one limp hand. “We’ve heard disturbing reports from the survivors of the Carrot Wastes. Raiders have cut a rather gruesome path through the centre of the Boozer camps, burning everything in their wake. This looks like the hunting party they gathered to stop them.” He looked up expectantly at his master. “Is this company work?”
There was a moment’s silence. “In a somewhat roundabout and tangled way, yes.”
Olgred waved a careless hand. “That’s good enough for me. Guards, leave these miscreants where they lie. The Head of Stuff requires an armed escort to Haven Zero. We may as well let that generic substitute companion tag along too.”
The generic substitute companion shook a wizard’s sleeve in Olgred’s direction. “What’s this Haven Zero? Watch your step, Your Majesty.”
Silven stepped between the two angry men. “Relax. This is Olgred, my dear friend and ally from... the good old days. We’re safe enough, I’m sure.” He glanced cautiously into Olgy’s eyes. A dear old friend. Relief flooded his heart at the sight of him. Those good old days were gone, and they’d parted in a fit of rage, and there was no future in which to bring back the magic. He was dear all the same.
Olgy’s stern lips wavered with the hint of a smile. “I’m sure whatever you were travelling to Limetop for has been stored in our new headquarters beneath the rubble. Welcome back, old chap.”
Silven took a sudden step back. “No, it can’t be gone! What of the... trademarks?” Another foot back. “How did you know we were coming?”
The smile had vanished, and there was scorn in Olgred’s voice when he replied. “You really are out of the loop, aren’t you? Don’t worry. The sequencers were all killed in the attack.”
“By who?” Silven interrupted, alarmed.
“The sequencers were killed in the attack,” Olgred repeated calmly. “Only your old inner council know that ‘trademark’ now. I advise it stays that way; it will be safer for the new world. As for how we knew... just a passing spyfly, of course.”
“A what?”
Olgred looked absolutely flabbergasted. He sighed deeply and hung his head. “Little floating cubes of expertminerium, sent out to monitor the populace for signs of noncompliance in republic policies and quotas.” He stared at Silven in silent appraisal again. “They were in development in Overwall for some time. Public Safety Cottage Four.”
Silven was aware of exactly two Public Safety Cottages in Overwall, but he decided this might not be the best time to say so. Grennel rescued him. “What’s Haven Zero?” he demanded for the second time.
They followed Olgred and two of the royal guards to the top of the ridge. The orange haze hung over everything now, but the broken peaks of the old mines were still visible on the horizon. The remains of Silverlink Stuff HQ, resting amidst the burnt-out shells of the Limetop factories, were also visible in painful detail. “Now that we have such startling accompanying imagery, reinforcing the idea of the end of the old world, I may tell you about the new: Haven Zero.” Olgred took a deep breath and pointed dramatically at the ruins. “The new headquarters rests beneath. A complex network of tunnels and chambers holds some forty select men and women, tasked with communications to and from the other Havens. Purpose-made filters weed out the fumes; the portcullis from Bilsey Castle keeps the carrot creatures at bay, and our brand new Silvertech Sit, the all-in-one entertainment system for spatially constrained residents, is in its final testing stage within. Soon it shall adorn the dugouts of every Haven family for the very affordable price of three-hundred hours Vital Duties and two hours Scavenging Duty.”
Silven looked out beyond Limetop. There were a few once-trendy villas dotted about the hillsides which had been thoroughly ruined by his industrial faffing. Now, they were even more thoroughly ruined. It was too much to take in, but eventually he found a pocketful of words and scattered them across the thick air. “There are other shelters? Where?”
Olgred looked at a glowing device hanging from his neck and stuffed a couple of chalky lozenges into the newcomers’ hands. “Take these. As in now. Where were we? Oh yeah. Haven One lies beneath Overwall, where our engineers are tasked with weapons development. Haven Two on the outskirts of Ostenwal, where we’re using the fumes to generate exciting new vegetables which grow in dim light, are packed with protein, and cover our valued volunteers in oozing purple sores. Havens Three to Seven are strictly populace protection, designed to preserve the human race through these troubled times. They’re beneath the Monster Camps.”
Silven looked at Grennel just as Grennel looked at Silven. The king pummelled his thigh with one frustrated fist.
“Oh my Gargantula! I quite forgot about those Monster Camp things. We could have been sipping cocktails and getting foot rubs while I levelled up, professor. If any are still operational.”
“And no heinous murders to boot,” the professor added.
There was silence. When Silven looked back, Olgred was observing him through narrow slits of eyes. “They’ve been shut down, remember?”
Silven blinked. “Shut down? When? Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was discussed in the emergency summit last week. I believe you were too busy to attend.” There was something Silven didn’t like in Olgred’s tone. The tone continued. “It was the Movement of Enlightened Minds again. They were on the cusp of inciting a riot. We had no choice.”
“And just who are these meddlers?” Silven was growing angrier by the moment.
For some reason, so was Olgred. “Give a man the best life he can possibly lead and it’s only a matter of time before he starts babbling about freedom and choice. The MEM propose that the Monster Camps unnecessarily restrict the imagination and mindfulness of the younger generation. Their power grows by the month. The coffee shops of Solmond City are practically a no-go zone for government officials these days. When the city falls... well, then they’ll have their real freedom.”
Silven took a deep breath and watched as a couple of vaguely familiar secretaries collected a handful of wild turnips lower down the hill, under the watchful eye of a gold-plated guard. Things had been turning to droppings well before Goblingate. He felt a bubbling rage at the world. Why couldn’t it just do what he wanted? “We need to do something to stop them. We can’t have dissidents on the inside as well as fighting the outside.” The words finally gave him the direction to identify what was bothering him about the ruins of the mansions. It was the future. “If these Havens are to survive, we need as many intellectuals as possible working out a solution to the lone threat. It’s only a matter of time before it stumbles upon them one by one. Have you got evacuation plans in place for when it comes?” It was hard to appreciate that the entire world he knew was about to cease. It just wasn’t natural.
Olgred laughed. The sound was harsh and bitter. “I shall remind you that it is your policies on art and creativity which have led to such groups existing,” he said quietly. “And, given that you did not respond to my conference broadcast regarding the forcefield, I shall educate you now. All Havens are safe from the Glitch. The walls of the shelters are impenetrable.”
It took a few moments for the weight of those words to break through Silven’s befuddled skull. “It’s impossible,” he concluded. “Even diamond walls will give way eventually.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Olgred smiled a pitying smile. “They’re not diamond. You remember those dudes in the cloaks you fought in Ostenwal? Turns out they’re not so bad after all. They’ve revealed a mysterious new material that can keep that fiend at bay.”
Silven took a step towards his old friend and reached out a pleading hand. “The Modders?! Olgy, you don’t know what you’re doing. Leave it be!” He paused for thought, reconsidered. “Can this material be used to defend the cities?”
Olgred shook his head sadly. “Alas. It requires meticulous crafting. Unfortunately, they’ve only been able to provide just enough to cover the outer defences of the Havens. However, they have combined their power to arrange for the Mooncerer to return to his home base.”
“Whatever for?” None of this made sense, but none of it could be good.
“There, after a little goading into serious self-doubt about his abilities, he crafts a new utopia for us all. The cloaked ones imparted a most secret formula for an interplanetary mass teleporter before they left. If built, it should provide an escape route for all our loyal customers we have managed to save. I’m afraid, however, that it requires obscure mechanical parts from a wide variety of deadly locations about the Carrot Wastes to function. Let’s just hope the company finds them before the delicate matrix of forcefield particles within the walls’ mesh fails and lets in our little friend.”
Silven looked out across the smoking ruins of the world he had built. Slowly, sadly, understanding came. He fell to his knees. No-one rushed to help. “Think about it, Olgy. You know they could protect everything for eternity. You know we could go to the Moon now and live happily ever after. But it wouldn’t be fun. For them.”
Yes, he understood. Scenario 67 had begun.
All at once, the hardness left Olgred’s eyes. It was as if he had been struggling against something to which he now relented.“You needn’t talk.” He muttered something under his breath. The languid guards suddenly stood to attention and parted into two lines. A handful of stern officials clad in company tunics appeared suddenly on the hill. Silven recognised none of them. “What’s this?” he demanded.
Olgred rose to his full height. Whatever remained of their friendship seemed to wither under his iron gaze. He looked to his witnesses and they nodded solemnly. “I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt today, but you still said enough. You’ve fallen from your righteous path. Your lack of knowledge and interest in company affairs of late, non-existent guidance for your department, and seeming disappearance from the face of the realm leave me no choice. King Silven, it pains me to end it this way. Under No Confidence Policy Paragraph 4, by my power as a Grand Protector, and in sight of my peers of the company, I dismiss you from Silverlink Corporation, under reason of neglect of duty.”
Silven remained on his knees and said nothing. The blackness in his heart muffled all thought. “-access to his armoury,” he heard Grennel pleading as if from a great distance. “It’s of utmost importance.”
The King let the argument drone on. He looked blankly at the ruins he knew and the newcomers he knew not. Dismissal. Everything he loved was dying, but he hadn’t expected to end it from the outside.
Dismissal. He couldn’t look at Olgred as he waved the frantic academic away. Two guards started to drag his ally back down the slope. Grennel screamed and pointed to the shattered headquarters.
Dismissal. He may leave this world behind, but the betrayal would never leave him.
He watched numbly as Grennel disappeared from view. There was plenty of time to take it all in, now that he was alone.
He looked up at the man he had conquered the world with. There was one last thing to do. He could tell him what everything really meant.
“One final wish, Olgy, before you release me. For old time’s sake. Does the Head of Security still hold his post?” He did. Olgred met Silven’s eyes and called in Sir Meow-a-lot, Mousecatcher. The little fellow had grown plump upon cosiness of late, but he still did his duty. The mice that had gathered to usher in the birth of the renaissance scurried away into the beyond.
Silven told all.
Olgred listened, first reluctantly, then with interest. He called back his guards with Grennel. He let loose a shrill titter of laughter and looked to the heavens with wonder. “So that’s why it’s seemed everything is just a game to you?” Then, his face clouded again. “All that changes nothing I’ve said. In a way, you choose that reality. You wield great power in this world. Once, you used it to do good. But this... information has caused your resolve to break and your mind to wander. You feel nothing is real so you choose to treat it that way. You get bored so decide to just flip a switch and start again. Get rid of everything you’ve achieved. Get rid of us all. For fun.” His voice dripped bitterness.
The disgust beat against him like a wave, but Silven found the strength to get to his feet and look his old friend in the eye. This was his one chance to prove he was right. “It’s not like that. I just want to build a better present. I’ve made mistakes, Olgy. We’ve made mistakes. This isn’t the happy ending I wanted. When I go back, I’ll find you and we’ll reach it together.”
The old merchant shook his head and sighed. “From what you’ve told me, I was just an instrument of your will all along. Go back and I’m bound to do as you say. Yet, here, now, I remember the desert road, so long ago. We looked out over the city where you could have torn everything apart with him.” He cast a fearsome eye at Grennel, who shrivelled back into the arms of the guards. “You told me to put the company first, and so I have.”
“I’m telling you to put the new company first now,” said Silven carefully. He may yet get to his things after all. “I’ll make it happen, I swear.”
One of the nameless officials stepped up and tapped the Grand Protector lightly on his padded shoulder. “Word has reached Mr. Sootroller. He wishes to see the guest. He’s headed this way.”
Olgred rolled his eyes and drew in a whistling breath. “To welcome him back to the flock. I’m afraid I’ll have bad news for him.” He turned back to his former master. “You’re not a god. Some decisions are permanent. On the morning of our voyage to the Moon, you released me from agreeing with you. Since then, I’ve been following the path you originally forced me to take. For long after, we worked together to raise Silverlink and Fireline higher and higher. But now, our goals clash.” He picked a peculiar handled silver tube from his pocket and waved it through the air as he explained. “You see, the company is in the best position it could ever be in. Think of it! A permanently loyal customer base, cowering from the terrors above ground. Sleeping in company beds, drinking company water, breaking company plumbing. All of this to support our research.” He leant closer. “Yes, we will deliver on our promises, but only after we pay Moontopia a little visit first. Make sure it complies with our regulations. And oh, the contracts our clients will have to sign for that teleporter! Use your imagination. Your better world lies just beyond this final hurdle.”
There was a strange popping sound from across the hill. They all looked up, startled, as the bizarre bubbling grew to a crescendo. “Mr. Sootroller is testing the dust-trike,” explained a nameless man from the group of witnesses. “Now that most places need a Rusty or Crumbling or Fucked added to their names, the Silverviews are getting confused. We’re gonna go everywhere again just in case. Craft a new master map.”
That brought back memories. A frenzied flight through the wolf-filled forest, blissfully confused himself. A chance meeting with a queer traveller along the road. Profit, direction, and a world opening up before him, to explore and slaughter in or read books as he pleased. That was a magical time. Now, magic just meant adding a bear’s head to a random peasant and spontaneous human disappearance-in-a-cloud-of-purple-smoke.
Olgred was saying something impatiently. Silven turned his gaze outwards and straight into the black maw of the silver thing. The Grand Protector was holding it carefully in both hands, one thumb poised gently on an embossed golden button on its top. “Hmmm?” mumbled Silven miserably.
“I was just saying how your new friend’s insistence that all you need is a few things from home and then you’ll be on your merry way to tear the world apart should mean I authorise my new wellbeing initiative for the colleague handbook. Dismissal by execution.” He patted the tube with one sure finger. “Meet one of our most promising prototypes from Haven One. We call it the Gun, though we shall be thinking of something far more badass for stage two of the project. The Gun makes any sort of slow rise to power obsolete. With a single depression of this button I can punch out the heart of a fifty-tonne thunder giant in full battle armour at a hundred yards. It’s just a damned good job we were first to do that whole slow rise to power thing and make it for ourselves. Even one so mighty as yourself could not lift a finger in defence against it. We’ve won, with or without you. And dead you would be, if I hadn’t conjured one little question that you probably can’t answer.”
The fabled dust-trike decided to make its appearance then. It was truly a breathtaking sight in all its crapness. A familiar chubby face bobbed above the squealing pile of rust as the vehicle clung to its precarious sense of up. A cheeky flatcap was raised in greeting. Silven, possibly seconds from execution, waved cheerily.
“What’s that,” he mumbled, gazing dully at the horseless carriage. It wasn’t a question, just something to say. We’ve won, Olgy had said, and until now, he thought that had been impossible. He was wrong. It was only impossible if he included himself.
“Now, don’t get me started on a simple internal combustion engine,” Olgred growled, clutching the Gun tighter. Secretly, Silven fumbled in his pocket for a hint of gooey toffee. If he could get some sugar in that cake-hole... it mightn’t be over yet. “Nah, the other thing,” he said to distract his former friend.
“What if you weren’t resetting the world? What if you split it?”
It took Silven an eternity to comprehend what Olgred had said.
The question multiplied in his battered mind. Split, split, split. Multiplied as everything might multiply.
And then, the astonishment cracked beneath the weight of a new horror. He turned his pale face towards the cringing academic. “All... all we’ve done,” he gasped. He felt the black shadow of his foolishness envelope him like a death-shroud. “The floundering about... the murders... what if it’s permanent?” He took a panicked step back down the hill and the golden guards moved forward to block his path. He looked pleadingly back at Olgred. “Please-”
He stopped short. He had meant to beg for a chance to fix yet more of his wrongs. He had meant to explain that with every minute they wasted, the goblin could be ravaging another village, breaking down the gates of a city, pursuing yokels across a muddy field. And when it killed... well, perhaps he couldn’t just hit the refresh button.
Some decisions were permanent.
He didn’t get round to saying all that because it seemed Olgred knew already. He was holding the handle of The Gun outwards to Silven. “You’ll need this,” he said flatly.
Silven grasped it with a grateful, shaking hand. “I know you don’t understand everything I’ve done, but... thanks.” He gestured to Grennel. He scampered over to his master, looking timidly at the blockade of soldiers about the summit. They parted suddenly as the dust-trike rattled up the ridge. A small, podgy someone descended from its seat and began to waddle cheerfully towards his old friend. Silven hissed and whispered to the Grand Protector. “I amend that last statement. You understand better than him. Please, let us get out of here. Distract him. He’ll have me locked up in a conference room in five minutes.”
Olgred laid a hand on Silven’s shoulder. The touch was gentle, caring. And his eyes.... they’d become softer. There was something of the old twinkle glimmering in the corners. “You’ll be away to the new world in five minutes.”
“I’m not strong enough!” Silven insisted. “I need to get out there and start slaying again!”
Olgred smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. “You’ve got all the power you need right here. I’m afraid to say I’ve shared the miserable majority of your misadventures. And you can bat away a horde of nasties without blinking these days.” He gestured to The Gun. “If there’s a single creature in this realm which can quickly and easily get you all the points you need, it’s me.”
“You?”
“Me.”
There was dead silence again. Silven looked blankly at the cold weapon in his hand. “No,” he said. “You might have been a bit mean today, booting me out of my own corporation and all that, but you don’t deserve this.”
“Nothing’s changed. I’m still doing this for the company,” Olgy replied gently. “Think about it. Nothing’s to say this version of the world will go on or not when you... do the resetty thing, but it’s possible. I think probable, even - we’re at the dawn of a new era after all. So, Silverlink’s looking pretty cosy here as I’ve just said in my revelatory hero-turned-misunderstood-villain voice. Even without me.”
Silven looked at The Gun some more. But he was listening.
“So, if you go into the next version all super-adequate and build the company up again, then we’ve got some sweet horizontal integration going on, baby. Silverlink, Trans-Reality Corporation Limited. You could make it a subsidiary if you wanted. Silverlink New Age. Sell some singing crystals from the Moon or something.”
In spite of himself, Silven chuckled. Olgred chuckled. Grennel did not.
“And with your new friend here too, it could even work.”
Grennel was still not laughing. With a shuddering sigh, he stepped forward and got it off his chest. “I can’t.”
“What?” snapped Silven.
Grennel looked about nervously. “I mean, I find it extremely probable that all your other cronies will be reset in the new version. They won’t remember you, no memories at all, in fact, a blank slate. But I feel I wouldn’t be there at all.”
Silven lowered The Gun and approached the professor. He shrank back, shaking his head as if trying to clear his doubts. “I made my decision. Ever since I started my other research, I’ve been in danger. I’m a corrupted asset after all. I was sure they were watching me. But then, when you lost your mind on the way to the tavern, I showed all my cards, pun intended. What stable Quest-Giver stops the Fulcrum doing, you know, the side-quests that he is partly responsible for?” A tear escaped his right eye and trickled down a child-smooth cheek. “They can’t do anything to me here without messing things up even more, but with a fresh start? They’ll just delete me before it loads.” He wiped the tear-track away with a resolute hand and stood up straight. “So, in a roundabout way, no, you won’t have me to guide you, Your Majesty.”
You may be wondering, in all this, where one Herbie Sootroller had gotten himself too. I must inform you that after a year or two at the nominal top, Mr. Sootroller had become fat. Well, not just fat; as in, two steps to the minute fat. He had only just plopped from his stool and righted himself for a moment, the sight of his undercover boss sprinkling the air with the scent of imagined cookie crumbs, and now, here was a hand in his general direction already. It contained no treats, however. Grand Protector Olgred had the cheek to halt him just as he was building himself up to his first plod.
“Will you do it?” Olgred muttered urgently. “Will you do it?”
Time stood still. The moment went on and on. Then Silven realised it hadn’t really stood still by the grunt of annoyance from his old partner.
“Hold on, hold on, let’s just stop for a moment,” he blurted. He shook his head in bewilderment. “Someone just get me a quill and some parchment, please!”
“What a waste of a grand finale,” Olgred spat. The gathered might of Haven Zero stood and stared at the three heroes, pale and worn, as they crouched around the materials Scribe Finley hastily provided. There were a few awkward shuffles. The head of the old Stuff division clutched at his own head as if in pain. The weird scrawny academic by his side patted him on the shoulder. Groans were issued all round. Herbie sat down.
Finally, Grand Protector Olgred raised the sheet triumphantly to his counterparts. It was covered in lines and boxes. The writing in the boxes burst out of said boxes and said boxes had been clumsily extended for said writing. “Let’s consult this handy graphical representation,” he said shrilly. “No one can be confused when there’s a handy graphical representation.” He started pointing with the quill. “See, here and now, Silverlink is definitely at the height of its power. With my plan, His Majesty will almost certainly disappear. They couldn’t feed the plague or whatever it is with two identical little Chosen Ones running around. I will definitely be gone. Ulf and Simitest will definitely still be in one Haven or another to lead the way, which is good. We can recruit your friend here as Grand Protector and things will probably stay similar, and possibly even improve for the company.”
“But I’m an academic!” wailed Grennel.
“And a valued associate, thus reinforcing the overall corporate goals of world dominattion whilst tempering the current aggressive direction with a more customer-friendly, developed approach.” Everyone had gone quiet. “I’ve been doing this too long,” said Silven apologetically.
“There is a possibility that he will mess everything up,” continued Olgy sternly, “in which case Herbie will probably terminate his contract... permanently... and Ulf and Simitest will probably resume business as usual. Meanwhile, there’s got to be another Chosen One to entertain them, who, with Grennel’s knowledge and preparation, will probably fall under the sway of our goals.” Olgred beamed. “Which means things are looking pretty bright!”
Silven felt a jolt of shock and guilt. He was suddenly glad the remnants of his inner circle weren’t here to see this. “Where are those two?” he squeaked, looking round.
“Around and about at the other Havens,” Olgred replied. He frowned and squinted at his handy graphical representation. “In fact, I have some oddly specific outcomes for our friends. Based on your choices throughout our meddlings, it appears that Simitest will settle and lead a generally happy existence as a peaceful vegetable architect in Haven Two. At night, however, he will be forever haunted by our failure to rescue his uncle.”
“What uncle?” Silven protested.
Olgred winked. “Perhaps that is a quest for another rehash. He will live with a tamed carrat called Coleslaw, though on his morning walks he will forever be saddened by our failure to deliver his love letter to that lass in Bluebay.”
Silven held up a hand. “That’s enough. I see the need for the qualifier on this happy existence.”
Olgred wasn’t listening. He was tracing a finger along a jagged line at the bottom of the table. “It seems that Ulf will continue to serve as Chief Grump for Haven Zero for twelve years, taking on three more positions as his apprentices drop out to blast some mobs. Finally, he’ll wake up one morning from his troubled dreams of numbers, fall into a mid-life crisis, and partake of various powders with the Wastewitches on the slope of the next hill over. It will keep the growing stress at bay, but for less and less time on each occasion. One day, he will walk into his office, see the tottering towers of ignored paperwork properly for the first time, and calmly walk back to his room, where he shall efficiently hang himself with his tie.”
“Twizzlebins!” cursed Silven.
Olgred patted the parchment. “This is not based on your choices. It’s because he’s an accountant.”
“Oh, that’s alright then.” Silven’s head was swimming with lines and probabilities. The powders of the Wastewitches didn’t seem like a bad idea. “Go on.”
Olgy held aloft his table again. “So, to recap, that’s this world sorted. In the next, we’ll definitely have you, and you’ll possibly be competent enough to survive.” He ignored the sour look on his former master’s prune of a face. “You’ll probably have me, Ulf, Simitest, Dasat, bless him, and you’ll probably be able to recruit us to your cause again. You’ll almost certainly not have Grennel, however, and all your hopes and dreams will definitely have to start again. There’s also, of course, only a possibility that our creators will get this Glitch under control in one or both of these realities. As we obviously have no power to prevent ourselves being engulfed in a blizzard of chicken feathers and floating heads, our best course is to split our eggs over two baskets and cheerfully and blissfully ignore this aura of impending doom. Overall, not too bad.”
Silven threw up his hands. “What can I say, I’m convinced. Let’s get this show on the road before more people get hurt. What’s the next step again?”
“To murder me in cold blood, escape your former army and friends, and enter the shrine without looking back,” Olgy chirped. He tried to smile, and for the first time in his existence, it faltered on trembling lips.
In the web of irksome possibilities that always get tacked onto interdimensional travel, Silven had somehow lost the reason for considering Olgy’s scenarios in the first place. Now, he looked into the merchant’s clear eyes, feeling the connection, the power that brought them to this point. It was still there. “I can’t....” Silven choked out. Time seemed to have stopped once more, and, given that Herbie was just working up to his first plod again, it might as well have. He thought of port in the mansion. The neatly divided work desk in their study. Trotting out side by side into the wilds, bickering and smiling and cursing and laughing. “We’ll go on together.”
“Then you and your dream will die together. Haven’t you been listening?” snapped the Grand Protector, and now he didn’t sound like a big bad traitor. It was still his Olgy, just a little pissed off, that was all. He had only done what Silven had asked, all this time. He couldn’t die for it.
But now Olgred had extended a firm hand and tilted The Gun towards his chest. His palm was clammy yet dry. Silven wanted desperately to drop this foul creation and clasp that hand tightly in his, walk away, and go back in time. But now, for Olgy and the rest of his brave and stupid followers, it didn’t look like it could be done. He knew in his slowly pounding heart that it was so. This was Scenario 67 after all, and it would not be stopped.
He tried to think of all the people he was saving instead. He had responsibilities, and with those bad boys came sacrifices. One person, just one little man, to save the realm. It was no good. He could still see past the veil of his mind’s eye and he watched as he steadied the tube and caressed the shiny button with a thumb. He watched as Olgred’s mouth curled into a startled O, and realised just in time he was speaking.
“I forgot something rather important - a couple of promotions,” he was saying, and Silven’s heart galloped with joy at withholding execution. “Grenwell, or whatever you’re called, I name you Deputy Grand Protector, to immediately take over all of my duties, which you will have to learn about in the rulebook seeing as I couldn’t be bothered, should the worst happen at some point in the future.” Grennel only nodded miserably.
Silven found his own mouth working. “Thanks,” he said numbly, not really looking at the professor. “When you helped me, you thought you had given up your life.”
Grennel shook his teary face from side to side. “Nothing’s to say I’m still not, Your Majesty.” It was a truth Silven could only shake into a corner of his mind and hope the dusty blankets of possibilities he smothered it with would hold its frightening power. It was madness to ponder that if.
“And, my friend, something for you.” When Silven looked up, there was a cheeky gleam in Olgy’s eye which he knew and loathed too well. “I hereby recruit you once more into the fold. You shall be... Apprentice Ambassador to the Assistant Oldeburgh Tea Maker.”
“I thank thee,” giggled Silven. His pretentious bow hid his face as a tear winked from one eye.
“That way,” Olgred went on, eyes never leaving Silven’s, “when you spread Silverlink to your other existence, we’ll all be linked even across worlds.” He smiled, and this time, he managed it easily, genuinely, warmly.
The moment, as all moments do no matter how precious, was gone. Somehow, horribly, it was time. The Gun was moving again.
“Goodbye, friend,” Silven whispered, and this time, he pressed the button.
There was a deafening thunderous bang. There was also a sickening crunching noise that would replay in perfect detail through countless sleepless nights in Silven’s haunted ears. Olgred fell out of view. It had happened.
An enormous, indescribable power engulfed Silven as he struggled to keep his hold on the steaming weapon. He stood rigid as waves of red-hot might scored through his skin. He felt as if he would burst apart, but it didn’t happen. He kind of wished it had.
Somewhere up on high, a whole damned brass band was playing a triumphant fanfare. Silven looked down at the body and moaned.
“Yaaaaaargh! Get the little nipper!” shrieked a devastated voice. Herbie had gotten within a hundred yards of the curious scene before the bang. Now, he saw its aftermath, and the person he thought his hero standing at its dreadful epicentre. “Get him! Stop the bugger!” He began to pick up speed.
Silven gasped, and regarded his little friend through exhausted, unthinking eyes. Out of their corners, he saw the guards and staff, who had recoiled with little shudders and screeches of their own, begin to surge forward. There was anger and disappointment on each and every face. And why not?
He fumbled his Silverview Whatever Number We’re On out from his pocket and shook his head at the hysterical boy. “I’m sorry, Herbie. I’m so sorry.” He touched a finger to the Cave of Noturningbackexperiencedquestersonly.