Manifold [An Interstellar Sci-Fi Progression Story with LitRPG Elements]

The morning crept up silently, and when he opened his eyes, his mind already half-alert in the darkness, he could do nothing but lie there motionless and count out the seconds and grasp, unsuccessfully, through the lazy drag from dusk-purple to dawn-light, the wisps of a dream already forgotten.

He couldn't recall what had happened in those subliminal corners of his mind, but he knew it affected him deeply, for his breath caught on those hidden cathexes and his lungs warmed only slowly and felt full of fluid, as if he'd spent the whole night holding the Edom-ursi stance amidst the Park Territory's expanse and endured again that viscous, corroding humidity.

There were things in his dream that disturbed him. Artificial sunlight was streaming into the bunkroom, and he could hear Voke beside him groaning painfully in his sleep. He looked at his fingernails and saw that they were clean and pinkish, but he dug into them anyway, to make sure.

It might be compulsion usage that's affecting me. I should keep track of it.

The moment's reflection was not enough to chase away completely the demons of the dark, who leered and slavered and gasped in lurid spews utterings that raked his soul to reveal gushing, turbulent, libidinal economies of exchange. So much sound and movement under there that he felt confused and disoriented and recoiled away from what was deep inside…

By the time he sat up Voke and Douglas were already making their bed, and they looked at him morosely from either side and he matched their gazes with a countenance that was flat and emotionless.

They pursued their preoccupation with uncharacteristic silence, and when they were done they just stood there.

"Jeez, I sure hope the Teat makes it out of there," Douglas finally said, shuffling around to sit on his bed and creasing the bedsheets he had spent the last few minutes smoothing out.

Voke coughed painfully, then sneezed, and he stared across Betelgeuse' bed at Douglas and wrinkled his running nose.

"How d'you do it, Ballsman? I'm no believer in God and shit like that but it's like you have an angel watching over you or something," Douglas sighed, waving his bandaged stump at Betelgeuse.

"I had to use the compulsion. It was what saved me, or rather, saved all of us. I almost died myself," Betelgeuse said, straightening his back and arching his neck backward and wagging his shoulders to stretch his trapezius muscles, yawning reflexively as he did so.

Voke's snort collapsed into another cough which wracked his over-lithe body with pain. He tottered, barely able to withstand it, and a wince flashed across his face. But he held his balance.

"Dammit Ballsman, at this rate we're going to be indebted to you for life."

Douglas regained his feet, stepping to Voke's side to sling that man's arm over his shoulder. "Anyway, we'll catch ya later. Tell us if you fuck any baddies."

Betelgeuse watched them hobble pitifully toward the bunkroom's exit. He wondered to himself if he should offer them a helping hand, seeing as his appointment with Edith was scheduled for the late afternoon, but by the time he'd pulled his blanket off his legs the duo had disappeared from his vision.

It was the first free time he'd had to himself in a while. Thete was still in a coma and quartered in the Lent Hospital Assisted-Recovery Pods, and Voke and Douglas were away for their morning checkup and Rejuvenator-session at the Barracks Infirmary.

So he took his time with his morning ablutions, and then it was First Parade, which consisted of a short call with Captain Cacliocos where he reported strength and then was informed of the days relevant Jegorich Division-wide announcements.

The Allied Forces in Desert were on high alert, apparently, as internal reports were tracking a sudden increase of small-scale riots and violent ambushes of TAF patrols. A planned operation to secure Arroyo, which it was reported had been abandoned by the Chimerae, had been put on hold for the foreseeable future.

Their section's experience was not unique, Cacliocos was saying, and around the same time they were ambushed, two other TAF patrols were fending off attacks in the Sul enclave northeast of Prilogia, down Staidt Road, though in those cases the relevant TAF personnel managed to escape with only minor injuries.

The only military death reported yesterday was a PDF Private in the Jegorich Third Brigade. The unfortunate Jegorichian had been stationed with his section to guard the supposedly lower-risk road running southwest between the Talonne Concourse and the middle-upper-ses area known as the Shotokandoro, and had been caught alone whilst on his lunch break and stabbed to death and then dumped into a sewer-drain. He suffered forty-six stab-wounds to his chest from multiple assailants, was what had been reported.

Then he was left to his own devices. Bereft of anything to do or anybody to talk to, Betelgeuse returned to the bunkroom and sat there in silence and dimness and considered how he would spend his time before he went to visit Edith at the Detention Barracks. He mused about nothing to himself and then he retrieved the lockbox from under his bed and opened it to see the piece of paper upon which he had decoded Chrysilla's message. Under it was Frederica's Incunabulum, and under that was the dull and gummy translucence of the dead Saltillan girl's artifact, the Incunabulum he had taken for himself.

He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. It was light, lighter even than his own Incunabulum, and it appeared far thinner besides. Its surface was weathered and yellowed and sported a multitude of thin, discolored scratches. He flipped it open to see—Aluaan scrawls, completely unreadable to him. It did appear that the Hollow Incunabulum recorded an Increment but no supplementary Etching, as far as Betelgeuse could discern (although he couldn't be certain).

According to Cacliocos, grade two Incunabula could be exchanged at the War Affairs Bounty Office for 200 Credits. Of course, he suspected that he'd be able to get far more than 200 Credits if only he found the right buyer, maybe if he found some way of navigating the local black market. In any case, he preferred not to deal with the questions that might be raised by his submitting a White grade Incunabulum to the Bounty Office. For all he knew they would ask about the source of the Incunabulum, and then he'd be forced to explain to Cacliocos why he kept the thing hidden.

He closed the Incunabulum gently and placed it back into his lockbox together with his other effects, and slid it back under his bed.

He figured he could walk the city and, if it happened to be convenient, find a terminal to access the Protectorate-Intraweb, maybe find some clues on the local black market. It would be good to browse the local news as well—TAF-issued wrist-transceivers were blocked off from accessing the Intraweb, ostensibly to guard against unauthorized communications and distractions, and so Betelgeuse, who had spent his first 18 years chronically plugged into the local news cycle, now found himself irritatingly oblivious to local happenings.

I need a plan to escape. The first step is to get to know Saltilla from a bird's eye view. Then I need allies in the right places—well, I need allies, period. Then I need money. Money's the most important thing right now.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Which raised the question—he snapped his wrist-transceiver onto his wrist and the solenoid strips clicked closed. Then, he flipped through a series of transceiver menus and brought up his digiwallet balance to see that he currently possessed 76.50 Credits. It was Friday, and his monthly pay of 50 Credits would only be piped to his digiwallet next Monday.

76.50 Credits. On the off chance that he found a space-ship kitted out for interstellar travel, it was very unlikely that he'd be able to buy a trip back home with just 76.50 Credits.

Sighing deeply, he slipped on his TAF jacket and smoothed out his half-crumpled lapels. He decided that he'd start at the Agave S-1, then walk down until he saw something interesting enough to check out or something delicious enough to try eating (or maybe he would stumble upon a way to catch a flight back to Earth—one could dream!).

'Not really to dress code standards,' he thought, staring at his crinkled hems in the mirror. He smiled, then frowned, then ran the tips of his fingers across his forehead-scarring. The brand hadn't healed properly, and the raised keloids stung to be touched.

Considering that he was as satisfied with himself as he was going to be, he slung his Incunabulum-pouch over his shoulder and arranged it so that it sat between his pectorals and then strapped it tightly around his chest.

It does seem less crowded today…

The train ride to the Agave S-1 Station lasted approximately forty minutes, and took him from Milhub through Metternich to Government House, then past the ancillary station Auction House to alight, at last, at Agave S-1.

By that time it was past the morning peak-hour rush and the thoroughfares, though crowded, were traversable without much issue. It was thirty minutes of walking down the Agave, of observing the narrowed looks the other commuters shot him, of scrutinizing the dress and habits of what he supposed was the middle-class of Saltilla, of passing from the hard brightness into shadow and admiring the Saltillan Obelisks and soaking in the strange electricity in the air, when a commotion at the junction between the Agave S-1 and S-2 caught his attention.

The junction was the intersection of two axes. The axis which Betelgeuse was walking down—Agave Road—was taken up mostly by foot traffic, with a thin strip down the middle set aside for vehicular traffic and just wide enough for two holo-cycles to ride abreast. A separate axis, Chamberlain Road, ran perpendicular to Agave Road and was utilized solely for vehicular traffic.

At that moment, the entirety of Chamberlain Road had been dammed up with cars that snaked up as far as the road went, and from that unmoving congestion issued a cacophony of horns and shrill synthetic whistles signaling the discontent bubbling up from a host of drivers.

The source of the gridlock lay before Betelgeuse: a group of Saltillans clustered around the junction and shouting so furiously their anger and excitement was discernible even under the general racket raised by the irate drivers. That body of Saltillans had spilled into both the Agave S-1 and S-2 and, as far as Betelgeuse could tell, were split into three groups.

Firstly, a platoon's worth of men and women dressed in the green uniform of the PDF and brandishing matte-black thermoplastic batons. By their physiognomy they were Saltillans, and their tannish-skin identified themselves to Betelgeuse as belonging to, so CDF Anti-Gimmarash Ferlighan Davies implied, the supposedly more progressive and open-minded population of Saltilla. To this, Betelgeuse would add, according to his anecdotal observations these past weeks, that these 'light-skins' appeared to be well-represented amongst the affluent (or, at the very least, middle-class) population.

Secondly, a gaggle of rough-looking creatures huddled together so closely that Betelgeuse had to squint in order to recognize them as human beings and not the trash-bags they seemed to be at first glance. Their skins were so dark that they blended in with their torn nylon puffer jackets and the gray pavement upon which they were cringing prostrated upon. They were unarmed and jabbering chaotically, and the ground about them was splotched with blood and other unidentifiable fluids and their arms were upraised and their faces were contorted in pain or rage or fear or all of them at once.

Lastly, a growing group of Saltillan onlookers, most all of them 'light-skins' themselves and so very similar in look to the PDF soldiers, that were pointing and gaping and whispering to each other in tones that were harried, loud and agitated.

Fueled by curiosity, Betelgeuse joined the growing band of onlookers and squeezed closer in order to get a better look, his left arm folded across his Incunabulum pouch to protect it from searching hands.

A relatively tall man with limbs that were long and lanky—rank of Lieutenant, by the two silver bars threaded into his epaulet—headed the PDF contingent and was barking violently at the dark-skins and pointing his baton at them, his left hand resting upon the handle of the NW-FAPER carbine hanging loosely by its sling over his shoulder. The face under the black helmet was young and handsome and proportioned so that his jaw was almost the same width as his temples; his nose was flat and powerful and flaring with the force of his commands.

The day had turned a mid-morning orange, and the bright streams of light clarified every rise and fall of the soldiers' batons. In the background, a tall structure rose apathetically above the scene, and upon it Betelgeuse could observe an immense sign with the characters: 'S-2'.

The PDF were upon the circle of dark-skins and beating mercilessly at the ones huddling at the edge of that mass, shredding their skin and breaking their bones. The dark-skins had fallen to their knees and looked like they were praying. An old man located somewhere in that abused outer-circle of dark-skins shot to his feet suddenly, and Betelgeuse could see that he was crying raggedly and raising his arms to the sky and raising his head and sputtering through broken teeth and gums bleeding streams of black blood. What little hair the older man had was gray and white, and his eyebrows were matted crimson and sticking out in gelled tufts.

The man had a laminated picture of what appeared to be a young boy strapped to his chest, the picture now streaked with coagulating strips of blood so that the likeness of the boy could not be easily discerned; a PDF Corporal stepped toward him and swung his baton two-handed and hit the upper arm of that keening man, the arm buckling and snapping inward with a sickening snap so loud it pierced through the Monte Cazazza din of car-horns and apoplectic hollers.

The crowd around Betelgeuse flared and cringe. The old man was on the ground, squirming in pain, and the Corporal stretched out his hand and ripped the laminated picture from the chest of the old man, then crunched it up and stuffed it into his vest-pouch.

"TAF!" someone yelled, grabbing onto Betelgeuse.

Shit!

It was a small and pretty-faced woman beside him who had screamed, and she clutched at his blue lapels and started babbling and then others beside him started jabbering themselves.

"You must—"

"—Stop them! Stop—"

"Taffy, Taffy!—"

"—Zungu! They're killing him, by Ahman, you've got to—"

"—Stop them!"

"Release me!" Betelgeuse roared, gripping onto that woman's thin wrist and tearing it off of his jacket, almost snapping her bone in the process. But by now some others in the crowd had joined the woman in grabbing onto him and started pushing him toward the violence, and, struggle as he might, Betelgeuse could not get all of them to let go.

As Betelgeuse grappled with the emoting crowd the violence before them continued unabated, and the PDF contingent started piercing into the midst of the dark-skins to rain down blows upon those that were ensconced further inside that circular mass.

At this, some of the dark-skins regained their feet and pushed forward against the PDF soldiers to catch them in hugs or to flail crazily at their visors. The soldiers were caught in the moil and began to tumble about themselves, and what blows they could muster became savager and more violent.

As the melee progressed, the tip of a baton caught the jaw of a woman and sent half or more of her teeth clattering across the pavement, and a horrified gasp was raised as the woman flopped limply face-first onto the ground. A sweaty Private tried to step over her but inadvertently brought his boot down onto the back of her head, pressing that face further into the pavement and mashing out enough fluid to make a dark pool of that unfortunate's blood.

The crowd was squeezing Betelgeuse forward inexorably. He calmed his mind and inhaled. He felt around him the blazing intentionalities of a hundred people—more than that, five hundred perhaps—urging him toward the PDF contingent and all of them with one clear, panicked goal.

Stop them. Stop the violence. Stop it now.