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

The APC revved and bucked in reverse. The warped engine started clanking loudly, but it held—against all odds, it held.

Betelgeuse looked out the windshield to see the last holocraft blasting out of the collapsing wall, making westward for Jegorich. Tenzhian's call had cut due to poor reception, and all Betelgeuse could hope for was that they would make it safely to Jegorich and ensure Kanogg didn't abscond with his money.

Yes, given the impossibility of keeping the funds from the Incunabula sale in his TAF military account, Betelgeuse ultimately made the choice to trust Kanogg. The Lotuszhink Chief had already given him proof that his funds now sat a temporary and anonymous Iron-Trade account, an account domiciled in Consus' Prime-Jurisdiction, the Kingdom Jainsite.

The problem was that, as per local anti-fraud regulations surrounding the maintenance of anonymous one-time-use accounts, both Betelgeuse (as the designated transferee) and Kanogg (as the designated transferor) each held a passkey to access said account. Once Betelgeuse could set up a permanent Iron-Trade account—which required a permanent address—the passkeys had to be jointly input to release the money to an account of Betelgeuse' choosing.

If the money wasn't claimed within a TAF-month, the funds would be re-routed back to Kanogg's account.

Betelgeuse hadn't had much choice, and he assumed that as long as he had access to Kanogg, he would have no issues making the Lotuszhink Chief comply, one way or another.

No sense in worrying about it. Survival comes first.

Betelgeuse tore his vision away from the holocraft receding into the distance, and braced as the APC swerved and then trundled back down into the Nookian Underground-ingress.

The darkness enveloped them. The thundering chaos was left behind them. And there was silence, tension and the foreboding sense that Saltilla would be their grave.

"We spend so much time underground you'd think we were molerats," Douglas grumbled out loud.

Nobody felt like laughing.

***

Someone was sobbing. It was the Lotuszhink serving-girl, clad in nothing more than a nylon tunic and trousers. One survivor amongst many.

Voke was there with Misha, consoling her, possibly even praying with her. A mask had been pulled over her face, obscuring her artificial AI-Tableaux-modded features.

"How are you knowing there's a way out?" Entuban rumbled, thumping to the front of the APC and placing a massive palm onto Betelgeuse' shoulder.

The hand was so massive that it wrapped around from Betelgeuse' shoulder blade to his collarbone. Even grafted with a White grade, Betelgeuse couldn't help but strain a little.

Then Entuban brought his head around to look straight into Betelgeuse' opaque visor. A question hung in the air. A question that didn't exactly match what Entuban had asked.

"Saltilla is connected to the Pit via the Underground," Betelgeuse said, pointing vaguely through the aperture, his finger stabbing above Belekov's shoulder. "As long as we keep going southeast, we might be able to find an entrance."

"... Can't confirm it," Filippov rasped from the v-com seat, scrolling through the digital map-overlay, his Bronze Incunabulum now strapped to his chest with a nylon rope Entuban had produced from one of the APC's nooks and crannies. "Can't deny it either. I'm feeling mass subsidence—if the egress tunnels are collapsed…"

Entuban looked like he was about to say something, then poked his large head into the aperture and squinted out the windshield. Beyond the conical flares of the APC headlights was only darkness. As far as he was concerned, they were travelling to nowhere.

"Can't be seeing anything," Entuban muttered.

"We're underground, big man," Belekov scoffed, his eyes trained on the road ahead.

Betelgeuse wondered how it was that Belekov ended up as their driver. Von was behind him, and then he'd run all the way to catch the holocraft.

Then he remembered that Belekov was amongst the Jegorichians' fastest runner. He wouldn't have had any issue with traversing the chaotic sandstorm and secreting himself amongst those with Betelgeuse.

But for what purpose?

Betelgeuse let his eyes travel down the side of Belekov's face, but did not turn his head, so that the MDES' visor hid his close observance of the skull-faced man.

Belekov was wearing a rebreather, like Von had been. Maybe Von had passed his rebreather to Belekov.

Some things just weren't adding up. In all the chaos and confusion, Betelgeuse couldn't say exactly what was bothering him.

But he remembered what Belekov had implied back at the Lent Hospital. It was a throwaway line, conveyed perhaps in the heat and confusion of Saltilla imploding all around them:

... it's about survival. Tenzhian and Entuban, fools that they are, actually trust you… even let you submit your exosuits to Support coy….

Did Belekov himself look through the blackboxes? Did he know of Betelgeuse' involvement with the deaths of Lawrence and Strionis?

Why should it matter now? They were all deserters. All fugitives.

They were all in the same boat.

"Stop here," Filippov suddenly said, frowning at the map overlay. "I need to check outside."

Belekov complied immediately, engaging the brakes and causing the APC to grind to a halt. Then, he powered down the engine to save fuel. Not that they had much to worry about in that department, given the 30 or so cans of fuel sitting in the troop compartment.

No, oxygen was more important.

Adding up the APC's emergency oxygen storage to the pressurised-canisters they had pilfered from the Barracks Commissary, and taking into account that there were nine people in the APC (including the Lotuszhink serving-girl), this only gave them enough oxygen to last them around 300 hours.

Not bad, but Betelgeuse would have preferred more of a buffer.

Filippov slipped out of the v-com seat and closed the door.

Belekov engaged the external cameras, the feed stuttering and then stabilizing to show the Bronze grade rap his knuckles on the floor of the tunnel and then stand and bring his arms out to either side as if he was engaged in some esoteric dowsing ritual.

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Betelgeuse noticed that Belekov had stowed his vest in the center compartment between the v-com and the driver's seat. He wasn't the only one—every one of the others, except Betelgeuse, had shed their Kevlar for the sake of comfort and mobility.

I know what you're thinking.

It was the powerful and unruly will, the faux-Betelgeuse, whispering in Betelgeuse' mind.

Now is your chance. You need the insurance.

"Belekov," Betelgeuse said. For once not bothering to argue with the faux-Betelgeuse. He did need the insurance. Belekov couldn't be trusted.

Belekov turned his head toward Betelgeuse, his beady pupils glinting in the dimness.

"While Filippov is orienting us, can you rig up the oxygen for internal circulation? I prefer to save on the individual canisters," Betelgeuse said, fiddling with his pouches and gripping the last of his explosives It was the one he hadn't yet found a use for.

"Is that necessary right now?" Belekov groused. "Everyone already has their masks on."

"It'll be a more efficient use of oxygen. Entuban agrees," Betelgeuse said, turning to Entuban.

Entuban grunted, shifting his girth around the troop compartment as if trying to find a comfortable spot. It was clear he didn't have an opinion either way.

A mixture of emotions flashed across Belekov's face. Suspicion, frustration, and a little bit of anger. Betelgeuse could feel the man's intentionality start to flare.

"... Fine," Belekov grumbled, slipping out of the driver's seat.

As soon as the door thumped closed, Betelgeuse slipped the device—only barely eyeing it to check its activation frequency—into Belekov's side pouch.

Then he wheeled around and grabbed Thete by her arm, causing the diminutive woman to eep softly.

"Thete, can you drive this thing?" he snapped, his voice lowering into a whisper.

"What—"

"I need to know if you can maneuver the vehicle," Betelgeuse said.

"I… I've never actually driven it. I was a PLP, man, they don't let us do anything—only PDF Sergeants and above get their licenses," Thete returned. She still hadn't refitted her prosthetic eye.

Betelgeuse cursed, releasing Thete's arm.

He didn't even bother asking Entuban, since he was too large to fit into the driver's seat anyway—and Filippov was already looking weaker by the hour, not having had the time to recover from his ordeal in the Detention Barracks. Not to mention that Betelgeuse could see that the Bloam was taking its toll.

Winging it with an inexperienced driver (or worse, somebody who'd never driven before) would be risky—any mistake could potentially cost their lives, given the fact that they were trapped underground in the midst of a Chimerae attack.

Belekov has caught me. But he's landed himself in a position of danger, and he can't survive without us.

I would compel him, but the others—Thete, Entuban and Voke in particular—might turn on me. I can feel their suspicion. They fear my power.

A difficult situation. We're all depending on each other to survive.

The more he thought about it, the more Betelgeuse was convinced that Belekov had something to do with that smooth switch-out with Von.

Did that mean Von was in on it too? What a cunning and slippery creature! Belekov had taken advantage of the confusion to install himself as their driver. Betelgeuse was sure.

They were stuck with Belekov, for now. Betelgeuse made up his mind to take control of Belekov's mind at the first sign of resistance.

As for the others…

The groundwork must be laid. The ways of the mind are subtle. Even suspicion can be overcome.

It was a thought, a wisp which spoke with a different, gentler voice. It was very different from the domineering will.

Betelgeuse glanced around the troop compartment and took in the ragged band that had gone from suffering to suffering. All of them depended on him, believed in him in their own ways.

It was this belief that held them together.

A curious urge overtook him, an urge that wasn't as black and domineering as the other him. It immediately distinguished itself from the faux-Betelgeuse whose only directive was brute control.

This one was cool and intelligent, and yet harbored a drive that was just as powerful as the faux-Betelgeuse. It whispered to him about influence and subtle effects, and it urged him to shape the world not with force, but with precision—like a scalpel, not a hammer.

Betelgeuse let his intentionality encapsulate the space, let it creep across mind-surfaces and inject itself into their consciousnesses.

He could feel their Incunabula pulsing, and he smoothed over their bubbling fears, felt the members of his band become calmer and more focused.

Are you listening, faux-Betelgeuse?, the insidious voice jibed. The Will-to-Power is not merely the will to dominate, but also the will to understand.

Hah! There is no understanding in domination, the domineering one scoffed. Who the hell are you?

I am a splinter.

'No,' Betelgeuse thought, gathering himself and snuffing out all opposing wills.

"There are no splinters. There is only I."

"What was that?" Thete asked, frowning.

Betelgeuse suddenly realized he had said that out loud.

I have to be careful about that. Maybe I'm suffering sleep-deprivation.

"I said that you can learn," Betelgeuse said, lacing his words with the barest sliver of compulsion, turning his attention back to Thete. "If the time comes, you have to switch out with Belekov. You're a Hollow, so you should have an intuition about these things."

"I… suppose," Thete said, sighing to herself.

"Why are you wanting the switch? Belekov is a very good driver," Entuban said, lowering himself to the floor and looking quite uncomfortable at having been cooped up in the APC for the better part of a day.

"I've no doubt about his skill," Betelgeuse said. "But call it intuition. All I want is for us to survive."

"I know what you are thinking, that Belekov is an insubordinate," Entuban said, affecting a tone that tried too hard to be wise. "As he has always been. But he is being in the same situation as all of us… in more ways than one."

Now that Betelgeuse had spread his intentionality to the rest of them, he could tell how they were resonating with each other. There were crags and mountains and valleys of vague intentionalities, all laced together into one complex web that scholars could spend a lifetime studying.

It was a web of relationships here that Betelgeuse couldn't quite parse, not with his imperfect knowledge. Not with his imperfect control.

But he could tell that something wasn't quite right.

Ah. They're hiding something about Belekov. All of them know it… except Thete. Except me. Such a curious resonance…

Was it something that happened while we were in the Detention Barracks?

It must be. There's no other explanation.

"I know you found out something. Tell me?" Betelgeuse said with uncharacteristic gentleness, his words brimming with a different, more insidious form of compulsion. Betelgeuse could feel the influence over-spilling from within. A false him. An imitation. A mimic.

Entuban turned away to look at Misha. Grave things passed between them.

Misha shared a glance with Voke, the glance pregnant with a universe of hidden implications.

Sadness, melancholy, a sense of loss.

"We went by the Family Block," Misha said, choking on her words.

"... You went there when I was in the Detention Barracks," Betelgeuse said softly. "You made a stop, to see if you could save family and friends."

He could see everything.

"We had to try, Betelgeuse," Misha said. "Tenzhian said we had to try."

"But you didn't find anyone. That's why you were praying for Asaghar and his father," Betelgeuse continued. He glanced at Voke, the man's expression so steeped with grief that it was dreadful to look at his face.

Voke the kind. Voke the sympathetic. Voke the tenderhearted.

"... It was gone, reduced to rubble," Misha said. Edith clutched at the collar of her tunic, coughed raggedly, and rolled over to face the side.

"Belekov's wife is dead," she finished.

The door thumped as it swung closed. Betelgeuse wheeled to the front to see Belekov, his face contorted into a grimace of pure shock.

***

They sat in silence for all of thirty seconds. There was no shouting. No great expression of grief.

Filippov returned. He stared into the troop compartment, and, finding something amiss, settled into a furtive silence.

Betelgeuse decided it was time to get on with the business of survival.

"Speak your piece, Belekov, or we must continue on. All of us have lost something. Now, we must survive," Betelgeuse said.

Moping about would simply waste oxygen.

"She's… dead," Belekov said softly. Betelgeuse felt a powerful flare of emotion overtake Belekov, and in the circumstances it couldn't be anything but sincerity.

Sincerity? You naive fool, the domineering one thought.

It might be. It might be…, the insidious one returned.

Betelgeuse suppressed these runaway thoughts. Belekov's wife was most probably dead.

Truth be told, Betelgeuse hadn't even remembered that Beleov's wife was in Saltilla. But he must have seen her during the death ceremony.

"She would've wanted you to survive," Betelgeuse asserted.

"She would," Entuban agreed. "Allih, we need to survive, and then we can grieve in peace."

Belekov said nothing. Revving the tortured engine, he slammed the gearstick forward and sent the APC lurching into the empty darkness.