---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[HEADER]
:: CLIENT INSTANCE: ZACHARY B. AINSLEY [Harness ID: EH-8008135]
:: SYSTEM LOG: ENTRY 0002
:: TIMESTAMP: [43z:15r:37a:14805]
:: LOCATION: XT-TOTS Facility Grid Segment 014-B
[CORE STATUS]
:: Vitality: Stabilized
:: Respawn Credits: -3.99988
:: Neural Bindings: 13.675333 [1]
:: - (Minor Artifacting in [redacted] Subroutines)
:: Emotion Array: [3]
:: - Elevated Stress
:: - Unresolved Trauma
:: - Existential Dread (Suppressed)
[INVENTORY OVERVIEW]
:: Weapon: ōdachi-Class VRC Blade
:: Armor: Medical Gown, Backless
:: - Mint Condition
:: - Dignity -15
:: Accessories: Dog Whistle
:: - Follower: Slop
[GRANTED ABILITIES]
:: Barrier: Deploys terrain-matched physical shield (6x10x1ft)
:: Retreat: 30-ft emergency phase-backstep (No collision logic)
:: Path: Melee (2H:Tank) [1]
:: - ōdachi Discipline
:: Style: Samurai
[NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENTS]
:: First Blood: Kill a tutorial predator without dying 10 times
:: Intergalactic Slasher: Deliver a finishing blow with melee
:: Beastmaster(?): Encountered Named Familiar “Slop”
[NOTES]
:: First human subject to pass Tutorial Respawn Simulation
:: Non-compliant with Xiamiti End User Agreement
:: Subject memory structures marked as ‘Obstinate’
:: END LOG
:: BEGIN CHAPTER TWO
---------------------------------------------------
I slept. Like, truly, deeply slept. Not a coma, not death, just easy-dreamin’, random eye movement sleep. It felt like years since I had rested, before this all began. A few days ago when that dog-
I bolted upright in my bed, looking over the side for the mutt. He was there, soft golden hair freshly groomed on a lavish navy blue rug adorning most of the deeply polished wooden floor. The mats in his fur were gone, the black patches of mange and sores cleaned and healed. He wasn’t a mutt at all. With all the grime and filth washed out, and his fur returned to full length, I realized he was a retriever. I had always loved retrievers. He looked so peaceful, laying by my side on the floor. Then he lazily roused, yawning as he turned to look at me. I patted the bed, and he hopped up.
Looking around, I whistled as I took in the room. It was regal. A mahogany four-post bed in silk and linen, the rug, a decoratively trimmed armoire and matching desk. It was… an Officer’s Quarters.
A portrait of a creature I’d never seen before was hung on the trimmed and papered wall. The froglike man was wearing a military outfit of gold, black, and red. It reminded me of the US Marine’s dress uniform, including ribbons, medals, and various devices that probably represented honorable service. The sweeping mustache over his overly-wide mouth was less comical and more commanding.
From everything I knew, it usually wasn’t a good sign to have images of leadership placed wherever one might look. That seemed especially true for a foreigner’s guest room. When I had stayed in Aqaba, Jordan for a few weeks on deployment, I had seen ten- and twenty-story portraits of similar fashion hanging from the buildings. Rulership by fear. The Middle East was not a place to fuck around.
“Well, now what, boy?” I looked at the dog, and he looked back, turning his head sideways. “The last thing I remember was that recap screen rolling over my vision after I was frozen.”
Upon wrenching myself out from below the dead tiger, the game, or simulation, or whatever, forced me into another menu system. Like before, time froze and I was unable to move. A recap screen had slid down over my vision. On it were stats and details, some looked like I could expand them for even more information.
There had been three entries: me, the Imalanthi Tigress, and Slop.
“So, your name’s Slop?”
He looked at me attentively, a confirmation of sorts.
“Alright, Slop. I dig it. Easy to say, not too serious. Slop.”
I let the words hang for a moment as my mind drifted. That damned recap screen—I didn’t get to dive into it like I had wanted. The doctor-announcer had started shouting, Coach was shouting, the dog was barking, but all I could hear was System calling out process updates. I’m not sure if I passed out from exhaustion or if someone had put me back into Hibernation, but I never did see the recap screen close.
“Hey, Coach, ya there?” I was hoping to get some answers, even if just about what I saw on the scoreboard. None came. I supposed he was part of the simulation arena. I scratched Slop’s head and opened up the menu system. Unlike before, time didn’t freeze and I could move my head freely, the HUD swinging with my head but not my eyes.
It was a lightweight version, a banner just below my visible eyebrow fuzz with core stats and some details that didn’t make much sense. On the left, a stack of greyed out buttons read ‘Module Offline’ when I focused on them. There was nothing about match histories, recap review, or the previous fight. A little gear popped up an overlay of settings, most of them inaccessible for some reason. I searched for System, Logs, Verbosity, anything that might get the System Voice to shut up. But there was nothing.
“Guess I’ll learn about all this later,” I said, looking at Slop. He kept his muzzle in his paws, comfy on the bed. I closed the menu and it converted to an even smaller HUD, a status panel in my bottom-right. It wasn’t distracting, so I decided not to mess with it. After about thirty seconds, it faded away on its own. My vision was mine again.
For the next thirty minutes, I rummaged through the room. The armoire was one of those standup closets over a set of drawers, each containing their own clothing items in identical sets of ten. I didn’t know what else to do, so I put on the uniform. The pants were perfectly fitted dark blue slacks, the collared shirt a simple white, and the coat was somewhere between blazer and militant. My belly held the buttons embarrassingly tight, but I sucked it in and strapped my belt an extra notch. I pulled at the metal emblem on the front of it to get a better look. The edges were a smooth, silvery border, the face of a matching deep blue with text in a bold, silver font. I tried to read it upside-down.
“Boobies? What the hell is this?” It was a number, 8008135, apparently my ID placard. After a groan, I let out a laugh. There had been so many similar instances in the Navy that I was nearly numb to my own loss of dignity, replaced with a dark humor that constantly threatened my new career.
“Old career…” I whispered aloud.
I wondered if Slop also had a uniform of sorts, but when I didn’t find any, I decided to get creative. One destroyed pair of slacks later, he had a neckerchief of matching blue tied in a square-knot.
“Alright, Slop,” I said. He was now sitting at attention, ready for orders. “Let’s go see what you got us into.”
He barked.
The door to my quarters exited to a well cleaned hallway, either direction stretching off to a horizon of matching doorways. I could see an alcove further down to the right with a little indicator that must have meant ‘elevator’. On the way, I stopped to check the door placards of the other inhabitants. If my harness, or client, or whatever, was translating, it was doing a terrible job. I couldn’t make out a single one.
“INDIRECT MODULE INSTALLATION COMPLETE :: Navigation online”
In front of me, soft yellow arrows moved in coordinated patterns, urging me towards the alcove. I realized I hadn’t heard System in a little while, and wondered if Coach might be back.
“You there, Coach?”
“There’s the Champ!” Coach yelled into my brain. “How’d ya sleep, kid?”
“Great, actually. And someone cleaned up Slop. But, uh. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be doing. Or where I am. Or anything, really.”
Coach said, “All great concerns, kid. But for now, just follow the highlighted path so we can get you in line for registration. I’ll walk you through a few things once we’re waitin’.”
So, I followed the arrows to the alcove where four elevator stations congregated, Slop by my side. Above each doorway, glowing text shifted through what I assumed were multiple languages before settling on English: Training, Galley, Recreation, and Registration. The yellow arrow pointed to Registration, pulsing like an impatient finger tap. I placed my hand on the angled tablet in front of the double-doors, and it chirped approvingly—a sound like a contented electronic bird.
Coach said, “There’s more across the hall that can take you to other places. Lots of other places.”
I nodded, unsure if he could even tell.
After a time, the elevator arrived with a soft whoosh, doors parting to reveal a simple interior. Cylindrical glass panels wrapped around us like a fish tank, reflecting the brushed metal walls of the shaft. The floor was a spongy, absorbent padding, the kind you'd find behind a cashier’s register to help poor old ladies stand for twelve hour shifts.
“Get ready to have your mind blown, kid. This is gonna be life changing,” Coach said with a hint of excitement.
The doors quietly slid closed with a precision not yet achieved on Earth. My ears popped from the faint pressure change as two glass edges came to rest on each other, creating a perfect hermetic seal. I felt like we were about to be sent to a bank teller through the vacuum tube. Slop let out a concerned whimper and pulled himself between my legs, leaning on me for comfort. I crouched down to scratch behind his ears as we began to accelerate faster than expected, as much for my own relief as his.
The metal walls appeared to slide away as we began to move up, instantly revealing billions of stars scattered across the void. The Earth hung there, a blue-green marble looking impossibly small and distant. I knew I should feel some kind of dread, but a calmness washed over me. Perhaps System had turned off my ability to panic, or maybe seeing Earth was enough for me to feel like I still had a chance to go home.
Home.
Back to my real life—working IT and raiding twice a week.
"Jesus Christ…"
"Keep watchin’," Coach said.
As our pod continued its journey, I realized we weren't going up so much as in, and I immediately felt like I was upside-down. The station was a massive wheel, like those rotating habitats from sci-fi movies, except this one was easily hundreds of miles across. Dozens of elevator shafts extended from the rim like spokes, all connected to a central hub that was fixed in a non-rotating position. The hull was a smooth metal exterior, a dull white greying with the smatter of space dust.
I was surprised by how many ships were flying about and wondered how long they had been here without someone noticing.
“Coach, how long has all this been here?”
He replied, “Couple days—since you killed the tiger. My guess would be that our people are meeting with your people right now.”
“Our? As in…?”
He said, “Xiamiti, of course.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I stared dumbly at the orchestration of ships. The crafts appeared in all shapes and sizes, but generally came in some variation of a core category.
I considered the passenger vehicles to be similar to ours. The speedier crafts tended to be smaller, with colorful designs that often led to swept back tails. The larger they got, the bulkier and boxier they became.
Again, the Cargo category was fairly predictable. Massive rectangular haulers were lumbering in and out of enormous loading bays, giant slots that canaled through the stationary hub of the wheel. They reminded me of the barges that would stack CONEX boxes ten or twenty high, absolute units of efficient logistics.
It was the third class that was hardest to label. These unique mega ships were parked in their own orbit around the outside of the wheel, some showing signs of military power, others like luxury cruise liners. There was so much to take in that I couldn’t focus on any one thing.
Between all of them, small drones shot at blinding speeds, one coming close enough to the elevator that I jumped back, expecting the glass to be pulverized.
As the moments passed, my inner dread tried to break free again. I could feel emotions start to rise, only to be smothered and traded for another’s attempt.
Slop moved to the edge of the bay window, pressing his nose to it to look across the expanse. He sat wagging his tail and started to pant, puffing air out of his floppy lips. Finally, he let out a deafening howl, a sound that reverberated the pod as if we were inside a giant bell.
That did it.
“ASYNCRONOUS SUPPRESSION ROUTINE INTERRUPT :: User Controller Error 198377 :: Recalibrating”
The absurdity, the beauty, the sheer impossible realness of it all hit me like a freight train. I started laughing—great, whooping coughs that turned into sobs, then back to laughter. Slop joined in with more howling, his tail wagging so hard his back legs were dancing.
System kept rattling off retry attempts.
Coach tried interrupting, “Hey, uh… Zach. Zach? Za-”
Drones. Spaceships. Death. Tigers.
Raid night…
The arrival bell chimed and the doors slid open. I was doubled over, wiping snot from my nose, eyes red and puffy.
“Ew. Gross…”
The slurpy voice broke me from my spiral. I looked up through blurred vision to find a child in black latex, a boyish exoskeletal suit shaping his tubby mass. His head was like a lava lamp with a humanoid skull suspended in purple goo, nerve bundles running like ethernet cables from the base into the outfit. He jiggled and sloshed like a water balloon as he extended his arm… tentacle… thing to reach up and hold his mother’s hand.
“Don’t let it touch you, Skweed-yan,” she said to the boy as they tangled arms. She was nearly seven feet tall, and of similar fashion. I noticed her skull was larger than the boys, with sharp cheekbones extending out. Her catsuit skin was stretched around the exoskeleton and pulled to give her a humanoid shape, and I suspected without it she would splash onto the floor.
I was choking back bile when Slop barked at the creatures. They both stepped back at the same time, the boy’s skull somehow looking surprised, the mother’s angry. As they moved off to a different elevator station, I rubbed Slop’s side to calm him down, but he was already more interested in what lay ahead.
In front of us, a large chamber opened up with a massive central pillar, a bureaucratic mess of chairs, kiosks, and clerks. I was still wiping my eyes, recovering from one life-changing experience while constantly moving into the next.
“What were those things,” I asked Coach as I took in the space. More questions were brewing as I looked from species to species.
“Pretty obvious, I think. Purple Slimes. They’re the least dangerous of the three colors, but don’t go startin’ a fight. Between them and the Fribbick, the universe has pretty much been civilized. It's all made possible by the Xiamiti Corporation.”
“Fribbick?”
Coach said, “You probably had a portrait of their leader in your room. They’re an odd lot, the frogs. The founders of Xiamiti employed them from the beginning. Something about ‘em took to the Harness tech immediately, and they’ve been enjoying the benefits of immortality ever since.”
“Does everyone have a Harness?”
“No, not even close. Even here, in a Harness training facility, most people are support, staff, and logistics. Only a special few billion stand in your shoes.”
I nodded as Slop wandered ahead, just as curious as I was. To Coach, I asked, “Alright, so, am I the only other human out here? I heard that guy say I was the first human to successfully… whatever he said.”
“First to successfully take the Harness, yes. First human in space, hardly. You guys are everywhere. Some of your cousins have been part of the Republic and generally able to be Harnessed for some time.”
“Cousins?”
“Elves, Dwarves, Gantry, all the rest of you,” Coach said.
“Like, fantasy races?”
Coach said, “Yes, and no. Your client is translating things that closest match to what you already understand. When I say Elf, that can mean a whole lot of things to you, and all of them would likely be right. But, if I went and called them an Elf, assuming they had translators, they would just hear their home species or proper race names. I don’t really know how it works, just that it does.”
I thought about it for a moment before asking, “What about Slop? I just hear normal dog noises. Why isn’t he being translated?”
“Because he doesn’t need to be. Most creatures without a formal language don’t communicate complex ideas. Dogs don’t talk, they just express simple needs and emotions physically. Him barking is the same as you clapping and whistling to get someone’s attention.”
“Okay,” I said dumbly.
“Look, I know you’ve got a lot of questions, and a lot to learn. First, let’s get you checked in, then we can spend as much time as we need going over stuff.”
The yellow line pulsed down the center of the space to an automated kiosk. A group of lizardlike men standing in a semi-circle eyed me as I passed. Their clothing was something one might wear into the desert, light robes of bright colors covering most of their scaled skin. They draped long gauzy rags from their snouts, covering their teeth, bouncing as they talked. They each had unique jewelry pierced and displayed across various ridges in their heads, some with several rings of patterned colors in a row, others with whole talismans dangling.
What I assumed was the oldest male among them sat near the center, his dark blue skin greying around his ridges and mouth. He had a white glassy eye, the other covered in the same muzzle-piece material, and I knew he was staring at me. Behind his raptor-like head, a group of bright red and yellow feathers protruded, sweeping around his shoulders like hair.
“Keep your head down, bud. Those guys aren’t particularly mean, but they hold grudges generationally. Liizalith make the best warships in the universe, too, so hunting someone down over a murdered great-great-great grandpa is just a joy ride to them.”
We approached the indicated kiosk, queueing up behind an armored blue humanoid with tentacles hanging from its cheekbones. He blew a low, wet trumpeting noise and pounded the machine in frustration.
He huffed, “THFuck!” as if his tongue was stuck hanging out of his mouth. He turned to me and said, “THAll yer’s,” and trudged off.
I placed my hand onto the touch pad as with the elevator. It chirped, and my banner-styled HUD opened up. On the left side, the ‘Account’ button went from grey to a transparent orange. A small window appeared in the center of my vision.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
:: Welcome, Harness ID EH-8008135
::
:: Current Number Being Served: 4,867,530
:: Your Number: 6,179,201
::
:: Xiamiti Corp Asset Valuation: 64,000,000f
:: Applied Citizen Discount: 0%
:: Owed Balance: 64,000,000f
:: Monthly Interest: 1.8% Compounded
:: Minimum Payment Due: 128,000f
::
:: Xiamiti would like to thank you for EXISTING?.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
"Coach," I said slowly, "please tell me those numbers don't mean what I think they mean. Sixty-four million... What are these? Credits?"
"Florins. And yeah, that's about right for a full Harness installation plus four respawns. The Server backup alone runs about twenty mil, then you've got your Client package, MediDrone swarm, Spawner access fees... it adds up."
I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "Four respawns? I really died four times?"
"Ya melted, got torn apart, got eaten—then once more when you phased into that boulder. Each one costs the company about eight million florins in processing fees, phased material reconstruction, neural mapping verification..." Coach's tone was matter-of-fact, like he was reading from a brochure. "Standard resurrection package. Very reasonable, considering you're getting your entire molecular structure rebuilt from scratch."
"Okay," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "How do people normally pay this off?"
"Most Harness users work mercenary contracts. Monster hunting, frontier security, Chaotic suppression—dangerous stuff, but it pays well. A seasoned fighter can pull in two, three million florins on a major contract."
The math hit me like a brick to the lips. "So I'd need to complete, what, twenty or thirty death-defying missions just to break even?"
"More like forty, once you factor in compound interest. But hey, that's assuming you're only doing the bare minimum survival gigs. Elite operators—the ones who take on deep Chaotic incursions—they can make fifty million on a single job."
"And the ones who don't survive those elite jobs?"
"Well," Coach said cheerfully, "that's what the respawn insurance is for!"
I buried my face in my hands. "This is a goddamn pyramid scheme."
"Technically, it's a completely legal, consensual debt-bondage life insurance with—"
"Not helping, Coach. Look, there's got to be other ways to make money in this place, right? I mean, what do regular people do? Not everyone can be monster hunters. Right?"
"Sure, plenty of civilian jobs. Average citizen makes about forty thousand florins annually."
Growing frustrated, I said, "So, at forty grand a year, it would take me..." I paused, trying to calculate compound interest in my head. I guessed, "Jesus, like two thousand years to pay this off?"
"Give or take a few centuries, yeah. But, you’re immortal now, so that’s not unfeasible. Just… not recommended."
"But surely there are other ways to make quick money," I said, my mind already racing through possibilities. "I mean, with my MediDrones, there's got to be a market for... for renewable resources, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, like, what if I sold a kidney? The drones could just grow me a new one? Or blood—I bet alien researchers would pay good money for human blood samples. I could… ya know… into a cup."
There was a pause that felt distinctly uncomfortable, even coming from an AI in my head.
"Kid," Coach said slowly, "I really don't think you want to go down that road."
"Coach, level with me here. What are my actual options? Because the way I see it, I can either become a professional blood stain—which sounds like a great way to rack up more fees—or I can spend the next two millennia working customer service for aliens. There's got to be a third option."
"There is," Coach said quietly. "But you're not going to like it."
"Try me."
"Voluntary asset liquidation. Basically, you sell yourself to a Galactic corporation or military organization. They pay off your debt in exchange for, essentially, owning you for the next hundred years or so."
I felt my blood pressure spike. "Slavery. You're talking about slavery."
"Nah. Corporate indentured servitude with comprehensive benefits packages," Coach corrected. "Totally different. Tad more paperwork."
“Forget it.” I called Slop to my side as I moved to a chair. "Can you help me poke around the interface a bit? I need to figure this shit out."
Coach said, "Hey, practice makes perfect, right? Let’s see what ya got."
The Menu HUD materialized with a thought, but this time it was different—more polished, more complete. The lightweight version I'd seen in my quarters had been like a demo; this was the full program. Multiple tabs stretched across the top of my vision like browser windows, each one pulsing softly to indicate available content.
I started with ‘Stats’, figuring it was the safest bet.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
A character sheet spread out before me, and I immediately felt like I was back in my guild's Discord channel, min-maxing a new character build. My silhouette was in the background of the screen, splayed out in the same way as the guy from the Operation game. To either side were things I had expected—Strength, Dexterity, Intelligence, Constitution and the rest. Mixed in and below were things I was less sure about.
When I realized I could scroll the side bars, I was shocked by the amount of things I could progress in. There were hundreds more, many obvious, some only sensible for a humanoid, others generally available to sentient beings. Hovering over them didn’t provide any tooltips. It was likely a module that needed installed, or Coach and I would need several years to get through them all. I started looking for some good ones to know.
:: Health: 120 (+20 Constitution bonus)
:: Stamina: 85/85
…
:: Strength: 1.25
:: Dexterity: 0.85
…
:: Neural Binding Stability: 94.7% (Artifacting in motor subroutines)
:: MediDrone Efficiency: 67.3% (Reduced due to non-standard biology)
…
:: Divine Cosmic Power: 0.00%
:: Ambiguous Luck: 1.00%
"What's Neural Binding Stability?" I asked.
"How well your brain's working with the Client hardware. Anything below 90% and you start getting glitches—visual artifacts, delayed reactions, sometimes you hear voices that aren't supposed to be there. You should be fine."
"And MediDrone Efficiency?"
"How fast the little buggers can patch you up. Humans are... weird. Biologically speaking. The drones are calibrated for standard Intergalactic physiology, so they have to work harder to figure out your particular brand of meat and bones. You’re kind of like the first beta tester."
I continued, “Divine cosmic power? Ambiguous luck? What are all these?”
“First one’s for genies, nothing you gotta worry about. Ambiguous Luck is actually pretty important. It's one of the things that make you Humans so damned hard to kill, with or without a Harness. When it's you versus the universe, and it's an even match, the dice will fall in your favor.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get some of your modules turned online once you’re through registration. The Library mod will add tooltips to all of this. That doesn’t mean you’ll understand any of it, but it should help. Theoretically.”
I moved to the ‘Skills’ tab, and the familiar 3D web exploded into view. My current path was highlighted in green: a thin line leading from the central hub into the "Melee Combat" region to "Barrier," "Retreat," and the "Samurai Discipline" area. Beyond that, the tree branched into dozens of potential specializations, most of them grayed out or red.
I had eight skill points I could sink, so I asked Coach, “Think we’ve got time to spend these skill points?”
Coach laughed and said, “Kid, did you not see your number in line. We’re gonna be here a while. A long while. Let’s see what ya got.”
I reeled my position in the constellation back to the central hub and asked, “Probably some ranged, huh?”
Coach said, “Well, now that depends. It wouldn’t hurt to have some diversity in ability. But—if you spread yourself out too thin, you’ll end up in impossible debt from dying over and over. You’re gonna wanna lean into a specialization throughout training so you always know what you’re doing. Practice makes perfect.”
“How long am I in training?” I asked.
“You’re not in training. You’re at a training facility. You can come and go as you please. Once you’re registered. The training facility, of course, has a price tag attached, but it's time and money well spent.”
“I’m going to need some armor or something. How does that work?”
Coach said, “Armor has a few different things to know. First off, there are two major classes of armor—that which is Harness Synced, and all the other garbage. As your mind Synchronizes with the Client and your body allows better energy storage Capacity, you’ll be able to wear better gear. That’s what makes the Fribbick so deadly. They’ve spent so much time Harnessed, their bodies have basically become deific batteries for their Clients to be all powerful.”
I said, “That’s… Terrifying.”
“Big time,” Coach said. “Once you're Harnessed, you’ll always be building a stronger sync with your Client and Server—forever. There is no limit, not that we’ve seen. That doesn’t mean you won’t plateau. It takes time, training, and effort. The Sync happens through activity proportional to your Sync Level. Er, easier—if you sit still, you’ll Sync a little bit, but getting out into the universe, learning and exploring, training and fighting—that’s how you make your Sync Level skyrocket. Don’t let that little bit of debt scare you, you’re immortal now, Zach. A few centuries from now, you’ll own your own galaxy. T-ball, little leagues, high school and college ball… all necessary steps to the big leagues.”
From the Melee sector stemmed an interesting area of skills called Phaseplate. My current stats could almost allow me to unlock the light version. The defensive stats attached seemed low compared to the other types of armor, but it had ‘Specialty: Shadows’ and a number in parenthesis that went up with each tier, starting at three and ending at twelve.
“Coach, please tell me Shadows are what I think they are.”
“If you’re thinking, ‘Blink Tank’, then yeah, kid. You’re in the right department.”
I knew the Harness was translating directly from my past experience, and Shadows could only mean one thing—direct melee and ranged hits would be completely absorbed by the Shadow, usually on a longer cooldown. A Blink Tank was someone with high Agility, who could avoid being hit more often than not, strategically letting the Shadows eat the unavoidable.
“I think I want to take the Phaseplate route, Coach.”
He said, “It’s not a bad choice, pretty overpowered in your early days and can grow into a staple towards retirement. Just remember, Phaseplate Shadows have a material cost. You’ll need to burn a Tuner every time you bring them out.”
“What’s the rate of Tuner’s compared to a Respawn?”
“A damn good investment, that’s the rate. We’ll need to get you a Market mod before I can check the prices, but I promise it’s less than eight mil.”
The first tier of Phaseplate—Light—required three Agility. At 0.6, I was going to have to drop three of my skill points on a separate path, as none of my current ones provided the stat directly. I decided I would set up my Ranged foundation by grabbing three in a row from the central hub towards Laser Cannon. I probably wouldn’t be picking that up soon, but it made the most sense if I had to plan for the long haul. As a new immortal, my long-term planning skills were going to be sorely tested.
With my Agility now at 3.6, I was able to pick up Light Phaseplate for three more, leaving me with two points to spare.
“SELECTION SYNC COMPLETE :: Phaseplate path now unlocked”
“SELECTION SYNC COMPLETE :: Light Phaseplate now unlocked”
“INDIRECT MODULE INSTALLATION COMPLETE :: Phaseplate Online”
I tried to ignore System and asked, “What do you think, Coach? I’ve got two left.”
He audibly thought about it for a moment, “Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Utility! That’s what you need. Barrier and Retreat are great, but you need something to charge into the fight with.”
I cycled back to the Melee area and traced out to Samurai. It forked off into the ōdachi skills and general Warrior paths.
“How about ‘Blitzkrieg’?” The skill would phase me forward, similar to retreat, but had a requirement of at least one visible enemy. Upon landing, or arrival, or whatever, a blast of lightning would hit everything in a ten-foot radius.
“Oh, yeah. I’m liking this. Shadows up, Blitz in, big-ass sword twirl, retreat out, barrier up. We’ve got something to work with.”
So, I spent my last two skill points and picked up Blitzkrieg.
“INDIRECT MODULE INSTALLATION COMPLETE :: Offensive Abilities Online”
“SELECTION SYNC COMPLETE :: Blitzkrieg now unlocked”
The Skill Select Voice said, “B-l-l-l-l-litzkrieg:” wagging its tongue as if being shocked. “Enter the party with style. Phase rushes the Harness User thirty-feet into the heart of the party. And Battle! Drops a ten-foot radius Lightning Blast, shocking most, stunning many, and hurting all!”
“Coach, is that going to kill me, too?”
“Not if ya do it right,” he said. “Remember—don’t be grounded when it goes off. Easy peasy, right?”
I was not convinced.
With my Skill Points spent and my nerves far from calmed, I moved into the ‘Inventory’ screen. It was depressingly sparse. My hospital gown was listed as "Medical Gown, Backless (Mint Condition, -15 Dignity)." The ōdachi showed detailed stats I didn't understand—Vorpal, Winding, Grace—and there were dozens of empty equipment slots with no explanation. I was curious about my current outfit not showing up. Perhaps the loaner uniform wasn’t considered mine. The Phaseplate was also not available, as I hoped it would be. The ōdachi was specifically mentioned in the skill, so I supposed it made sense.
“Coach, where do I pick up my Phaseplate?”
“Market mod, just gotta wait, what… another million in the Registration line?”
I moved to ‘Account’. It was exactly as horrifying as I'd expected. There were almost exactly 1,000,000 people ahead of me in line. The debt breakdown read like a medical bill from hell:
:: Server Backup Installation: -24,000,000f
:: Client Integration Package: -18,000,000f
:: MediDrone Swarm (Basic): -12,000,000f
:: Respawn Processing (x4): -32,000,000f
:: Administrative Fees: -8,000,000f
:: Research Bonus: +30,000,000
Below that, a helpful calculator showed my monthly interest accrual in real-time, the numbers ticking upward like a doomsday clock.
The ‘Party’ tab was overly simple compared to the rest.
:: Party Members: 2
:: [Leader] Zachary B. Ainsley (Human, Sync Level 1.14)
:: Role: Melee, Blink Tank
:: Status: Financially Ruined
:: Location: Registration Waiting Area, XT-TOTS
:: Activity: Awaiting Bondage
:: [Member] Slop (Canine, Sync Level 1)
:: Role: Emotional Support, Scout
:: Status: Good Boy
:: Location: Registration Waiting Area, XT-TOTS
:: Activity: Investigating Suspicious Smells
“Coach, Slop has a Sync Level. What’s that mean?”
Coach said, “Uh… No idea, kid. Never seen that before.”
“Think it’ll go up?”
He replied, “Guess we’ll see. That could be… interesting?”
A subtab located above moved me to Party Options. They, too, were quite simple:
:: Shared Experience: Enabled
:: Loot Distribution: Leader Decides
:: Respawn Linking: Active
:: Tele-Comms: Unavailable (Install Premium Party Module to unlock)
:: Shared Inventory: Basic (Install Logistics Module to unlock Advanced tier)
"Coach, what's 'Respawn Linking' mean?"
"Oh, that is interesting. Usually only shows up for bonded familiars or life-partners. Basically means if Slop dies, he'll respawn with you instead of just... staying dead. But yeah, you'll get charged for it."
I reached down and scratched Slop's ears. "Well, buddy, looks like we're officially in this together. Hope you're ready for an eternity of debt.” To Coach, I continued, “What about Tele-Comms? Some kind of phone?”
“Yes, and no. Telepathic Communication leverages Ansible Technology. Expensive, but usually worth it if you’re working in teams. Perfectly encrypted, anywhere-to-anywhere, one-to-one, many-to-many communication through your Client.”
“Guess we’ve got goals,” I said.
Next, I moved to the ‘Maps’ section, showing a 3D layout of the station similar to a modern Metroid game, with my current location pulsing in the waiting area. Most areas were grayed out with "ACCESS RESTRICTED" labels, but I could see the general layout: the outer quadrant of this spire, the rotating residential rings around the core, massive docking bays, and what looked like entire districts dedicated to things like "Combat Training," "Industrial Processing," and ominously, "Debt Resolution Services."
The ‘Contracts’ tab was a wasteland of opportunities I couldn't access, with entries like:
:: Cavernous Surface Extermination (Sync Level 55+ Required)
:: Frontier Security (Citizenship Class C+ Required)
:: Deep Space Salvage (Void Certification Required)
:: Corporate Asset Protection (Financial Background Check Required)
Everything had requirements I didn't meet, except for one at the bottom:
:: XT-TOTS Training
:: Pay: 50,000f per session
:: Risk Level: Real, Minimal
:: Note: Successful completion may lead to higher-paying opportunities
The journey ahead was beginning to unfold. I supposed I would be running training sims for a time, then work my way into real contracts. That made sense, but I was anxious nonetheless.
Moving to the ‘Modules’ tab, I was greeted with a series of hexagonal sockets and a scrolling list. The sockets were grouped in three clusters: Active, Indirect, and Inactive. Some of them were linked together, reminding me of Materia Slots from Final Fantasy VII. Most were greyed out.
:: Active
:: - Tactical Advisor
:: - Assistant Era
:: - Version 3.8
:: - Nickname: “Coach”
:: Note: Additional Sockets available per 10 Sync Levels
:: Note: Active Modules are automatically linked with all Indirect Modules
:: Indirect
:: - Companion Whistle Link Err
:: - Canine: Gold Retriever Link Err Link D
:: - Nickname: “Slop” Link Err
:: - Abilities
:: - Offensive
:: - Defensive
:: - Navigation Link A
:: - Translation Link A
:: - HUD Link B Link A
:: - Involuntaries
:: - Phase Sync
:: - Respawn Calibration
:: - Suppressions Link C Link D
:: - Inventory Link B Link D
:: - Configurations Link C Link D
:: - Sy3_ch-ERR\8\8 Link B Link D
:: - MediDrone Swarm Link D
:: - Rapid Remote Deployment Canisters
:: Note: Additional Sockets available per 5 Sync Levels
The “Inactive” list scrolled with pages and pages of add-ons and upgrades, all locked behind paywalls:
:: Advanced Combat Analysis: 2,000,000f
:: Crafting Workshop: 1,500,000f
:: Social Enhancement Package: 800,000f
:: Basic Survival Instincts: 50,000f
"Wait," I said, "I have to pay for survival instincts?"
"Human Mentals packages are considered non-standard," Coach explained. "Most species have better baseline risk assessment. Humans are... optimistic to a fault. The vehicles some of you take through space are downright dangerous. It’s that damn Ambiguous Luck stat," he said with an anxious chuckle. “Makes you think you're invincible.”
There were two additional sockets on the bottom, neither clustered with any other: “M.A.C.R. Unit” and “H.A.L.P.”. On hovering, I learned these were the “Mechanized Atomic Combat and Restoration” and “Health Activated Life Preservation”.
“What are those last ones?”
Coach answered, “Macker’s are high Level helpers, companion drones that can do a whole host of things depending on the make and model. Halpers are Respawn Mitigation Systems—they can force your health back up, get rid of diseases, and a couple of other cool tricks. They tend to have a long cooldown, but they’re reliable.”
Finally, I checked the ‘Settings’, hoping to find something useful. Most of the options were locked—outside of the ones I had previously seen. I searched again for System, but found nothing.
“Hey, Coach? How do I turn these system messages off? Or down, at least?”
“Not tracking, bud. What’cha mean?”
“Uh, you know, the logs and process announcements? Syncs and stuff. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Not sure. Must be one of the new modules. Surprised they started you with so many.”
"Well," I said, closing the menu and looking at Slop, "at least now I know exactly how screwed we are."
From the central kiosk, a mechanical voice droned: "Now serving number five-million, two-hundred-seventy-nine-thousand."
Still over nine-hundred-thousand numbers to go. Easy day, right?
I leaned back in my chair and watched a new group of arrivals emerge from the elevators. I had no clue where they were coming from, where they were going, or what anyone was doing. I wasn’t even sure if they were all here for the same reasons I was.
"Coach," I said, keeping my voice low, "what happens if I just... don't pay? I mean, what are they going to do, kill me? I’d respawn, right?"
"Oh, they won't kill you. Death's too easy, and besides, you're an eternal asset now. They've got much more creative collection methods."
"Such as?"
"Well, there's wage garnishment - they can take up to 90% of anything you earn. Then there's skill locking - they disable parts of your Harness until you make payments. Asset seizure - they can literally repossess your memories if they're deemed non-essential."
I felt a chill run down my spine. "They can take my memories?"
"Only the good ones, usually. Birthdays, first kisses, that time you felt genuinely proud of yourself - all considered luxury experiences that can be extracted and sold to collectors. They leave you with the bare minimum needed to function: how to tie your shoes, basic language skills, the crushing awareness of what you've lost."
Slop had moved from under my chair and was now sitting at attention, staring at something I couldn't see. His ears were perked forward, and a low rumble was building in his chest - not quite a growl, but definitely a warning.
"What's got him spooked?" I asked.
Before Coach could answer, the temperature in the waiting area dropped noticeably. Conversations died mid-sentence as every being turned to look toward the elevator banks. The doors slid open with their usual soft whisper, but what emerged was unlike anything I'd seen in the waiting area so far. It was humanoid in the loosest sense - upright, bipedal, with what might generously be called a head at the top. But the resemblance ended there.
Its form seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a moving void in the shape of a person. Where its face should have been was a swirling darkness that occasionally flickered with flaring embers. When it moved, reality seemed to lag slightly behind it, leaving brief tears in space that sealed themselves with soft popping sounds.
"Shit. Debt Collector," Coach whispered, and for the first time since I'd heard him, he sounded genuinely afraid.
The entity moved through the waiting area with purpose, its presence causing beings to spontaneously remember urgent business elsewhere. The only sounds in the now vast-feeling space was the soft clicking of Slop's claws as he positioned himself between me and the approaching darkness, and the slithering pops of reality trailing behind the creature.
"Good boy," I whispered, scratching behind his ears with a hand that definitely wasn't shaking. "Good boy."
The void-entity approached with a measured gait, gliding across the now silent waiting area. As it drew closer, I could make out more details through the distorting aura surrounding it. In the core was the shade of a man, absorbing the light around him into a two dimensional outline. It was as if he was inside the air in front of me.
The voice came low and measured, "I do hope you'll pardon the intrusion, Mr. Ainsley, Sir." The words emanated from the distortion, carrying a peculiar transatlantic accent. "Might I trouble you for your registration ticket?"
I reached into my pocket, as if I was going to find a receipt. Shaking my head, I asked, “Uh, how?”
With a pompous laugh, he reached forward, stirring the void into swirling eddies. My menus opened, the ‘Account’ tab automatically clicked on. It popped up the same window the kiosk had shown me, then pulled away from me to the Debt Collector.
“What the hell, man?!”
"Mr. Killingsworth, if you please, Sir.” Rolling his R, “Regional Collection Specialist, Third Class." He examined my ticket with the air of a sommelier inspecting a questionable vintage. "Ah yes, quite substantial. Sixty-four million florins. My, my. A poor start to your credit history, indeed.
"Now then, if you would be so kind as to follow me to my office, Sir. I’m afraid we’ve a few minor things to discuss, and the general waiting area is hardly conducive to such formal conversations."
Coach said, “Do as he says, Zach.”
I asked the Collector, “Wh- What about Slop?”
"Ah, and the familiar as well, naturally. Do bring him along—or it? I confess I'm not entirely familiar with your species' pronoun conventions for domesticated creatures."
"Him," I said firmly. "His name is Slop."
"Slop. How wonderfully... authentic." The shade gestured toward a corridor at the back of the chamber. "Shall we?"
So, off we went.
Frosted glass doors lined the hallway, each bearing titles like "Maximum Security Tax Reconciliation" and "Debt Destructuring." The air hummed with countless keyboards and occasional muffled sobs. Mr. Killingsworth's office wasn’t exactly what I'd expected: mahogany desk, leather chairs, and walls lined with framed certificates of financial ruins incurred. A small placard on his desk read "Foreclosure Specialist of the Month" with a little gold star.
"Please, do sit, Sir." He gestured to one of the chairs before settling behind his desk, blurring everything behind him. "May I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? Fiscal education, Mr. Ainsley?"
"Just... just tell me what's happening," I said, Slop hiding at my feet.
"Ah, straight to business, is it? I do appreciate efficiency in these matters." He pulled out a tablet and began swiping around. "Hmm. Mmhmm. Mm-mmm. Ah, yes. Terrible. Ah, but… Yes, there we have it.
Now then, Mr. Ainsley, you present us with quite the conundrum."
He tapped the screen, and holographic numbers began floating in the air between us—my debt breakdown in all its sixty-four-million-florin glory.
"Under normal circumstances, meeting with me involves discussing payment plans, asset seizure schedules, perhaps a nice memory extraction package. However, your particular situation is far from normal, now isn’t it?"
"I don’t know… is it?"
"Well, you see, you're the first of your species to successfully integrate with our Harness technology. Quite remarkable, really—the mortality rate during the installation process for humans has been rather... comprehensive. Nearly one hundred percent."
I felt my stomach drop. "I’m here, aren’t I?"
"Oh yes—the ‘nearly’—that’s what makes you something of a valuable commodity to Xiamiti, financially speaking." He made another note on his tablet. "As such, I have been authorized to make you a rather extraordinary offer. One that, I’m afraid, you’ll be required to take."
Mr. Killingsworth waved his hand, and the debt hologram dissolved into particles of light that reformed into a single, beautiful zero.
"Your debt, Mr. Ainsley, has been forgiven. Wiped clean. Eliminated entirely. And with this little boon, you’ve been given a credit line of… hmmm. That can’t be right. Just a moment." He scrolled around a bit more, making a series of puzzled and disappointed sounds, finally saying, “Fifty. Fifty-million florins.”
I stared at the floating zero, waiting for the catch. "And?"
"Very good, Sir” he said with anticipated proficiency, “In exchange, you will be conscripted into a special military task force dedicated to... well, let's call it 'frontier securement.' You will receive all the rights, privileges, and compensation of an Entrant—that's roughly equivalent to your prior navy’s ranking of Ensign—along with full access to our training facilities, equipment requisitions, and hazard pay."
"Hazard pay?"
"The work can be somewhat... volatile. Hence the Respawn Insurance." He made another note. "Now, there is one small administrative complication. Until your background clearance is processed, you'll need to remain here at the Orbital Training Station. Purely a formality, but regulations are regulations."
I leaned forward. "How long does a background check usually take?"
"Well, that rather depends on your planetary government's cooperation with our standard diplomatic channels."
"And?"
"I'm afraid your planet—Earth, was it?—has yet to be inducted into the Intergalactic Republic. As such, you technically possess no legal citizenship status that we can verify."
"So you're saying..."
"I'm saying, Mr. Ainsley, that according to our records, you don't exist. Legally speaking, of course. Which makes conducting a background check rather challenging, as there is, quite literally, no background to check."
I looked down at Slop, "So we’re trapped here?"
"Oh, not trapped, Mr. Ainsley. You're stationed here. With full military benefits, privileges, and a starting salary of six-million florins annually, plus contract bonuses. Your first stipend will be deposited upon completion of the training simulation’s introductory course to Harnesses and MediDrones."
"Coach," I muttered under my breath, "please tell me this is better than the alternative."
"Kid," Coach's voice whispered back, "at this point, let’s just be glad you're not being dissected for science."
Mr. Killingsworth's head tilted slightly, his voided features somehow conveying annoyance. "I beg your pardon, Sir?"
"Nothing, just... talking to myself." I looked back at the floating zero where my debt used to be. "So when do we start?"
"You may begin your training immediately. Once we figure out this little status problem, you can speak with your Commanding Officer about contracts and off-station transport.”
"And Slop?"
"The familiar is covered under standard military companion protocols. He'll receive his own identification tags, meal allocations, and basic veterinary coverage." He paused before adding, "We're not monsters, Mr. Ainsley. Now, be along."
As we prepared to leave, I had to ask: "Mr. Killingsworth, what exactly am I training for?"
"Why, to save the universe, of course. Or at least, to buy it enough time for someone smarter to figure out how."
As Slop and I stepped back out into the hall, the door seemed to close behind me, the doorknob hitting me on my ass. Everything was happening so fast—too fast. I felt lost, and though my debt problem seemed to be resolved for the time, I couldn’t help feeling like I had been involuntarily drafted.
“What was all that, Coach?”
“Maybe a lucky break, maybe a stroke of misfortune. Hard to tell until we’re deeper into the game. I don’t think you have much choice but to ride it out for now.”
I asked, “Why did he look like… Why couldn’t I see him? Everything around him was blurred out.”
Coach answered, “Meh, cheap trick. He was sitting in a phase-shifted pocket of spacetime, like a little safety bubble with a really tiny entry hole. Things in the Upper Phase need a lot of energy, so they pull in light from the Middle Phase, making everything warp around them. The Lower Phase does not support life, so it's mostly used to quickly transport non-biological things around—like your inventory system. Expensive, but worth it in a pinch.”
“What?”
Coach said, “The Quantum Framerate, kid. It’s really a sinewave chopped horizontally. We live in the middle slice, that’s the Middle Phase. To get from frame to frame, everything slides through the Upper and Lower Phases. If you want to move things really fast, or cut out the potential of being obliterated by debt-owing citizens, you just cut out the other phases. Since the Quantum Framerate ticks at the speed of light, cutting out two-thirds of the process lets you go faster than light.
“Ya know what, kid—doesn’t matter. Let’s hit the gym.”
