AN ADVENTURE OF AN NPC
Book 1: Side Character's Mission
Alvi Chanti
CHAPTER 1: THE ENDLESS TECHNOLOGICAL YEAR OF 1939
I hate aliens with all my heart. They "downgraded" us. Brought us down to the technological level of 1939. Literally! For more than two hundred years, all of human civilization has been living in this cursed year, or more specific, at that level of technological development. We have cars, buses, cinemas and factories from that time. Everything is in that retro style of the twentieth century. Lots of mechanics and electrical devices from that year. We're surrounded by a real dieselpunk. Technologically speaking it's always the year 1939. For two hundred years now! Although the calendar reads July 2, 2243, that doesn't change the thing. We are stuck! Forever.
Today I'm standing here, in the cemetery, where they had buried my adoptive father. A man who lived for two hundred and forty four years. I'm alone; everyone who attended the funeral has left. Both those who carried the coffin through the entire city and those who stood in black suits and hats as they filled the grave. No one paid any special attention to me. Quick expressions of sympathy, insincere condolences. Why? Because I'm nobody to them. They knew my father—some for a very long time, more than 80 years. And me? I'm just the "new hobby," a whim of the most famous long-liver on Earth, Tomash Thaler.
Ten years ago, my adoptive father took me from an orphanage in Europe and brought me here to Japan. He adopted me and gave me a new life. Taught me many things. I became a prodigy, developed physically, and mastered various techniques and crafts, far ahead of my peers. Just imagine what a person who has been living over two hundred years can teach you. Can you imagine? My father was everything to me—a whole Universe. His knowledge and definitions were absolutely precise and always carried deep meaning. He could teach anything ten times faster, using his immense two hundred years of experience. Plus he didn't look too old and had a clear mind.
Years ago, before the Earth was "downgraded," when electrotaxis flew through the sky, computer chips were embedded in nearly everything imaginable, and billions of robots worked in place of humans, he underwent an experimental rejuvenation course—a special gene-editing program. He was one of the first. Earthlings were then on the verge of eternal life. Mass implementation was just around the corner!
And then it happened.
Aliens arrived, and on one fine sunny morning, Earthlings woke up in the year of 1939. Not literally transported to the past, but technologically sent there. Their cars, homes—everything turned into items from that past. Flying cars became retro automobiles. Houses transformed into homes from that era. High-tech factories with robots turned into farms and plants with ancient equipment from the 20th century.
At that moment, a voice from the sky, heard by all the inhabitants of Earth, explained: "Earthlings! You are punished by the Galactic Union of Races for violating one of the strictest laws established by the First Ones Intelligence. Your ignorance does not exempt you from responsibility. You knew what you were doing. Therefore, the Union has applied the punishment of 'downgrade' against you. You are cast back to the technological level of 1939. You will remain forcibly in this time, and the punishment will last until all of you, as a species, realize your guilt and achieve collective repentance."
That's it! No more, no less! And for more than two hundred years, we—Earthlings—still can't comprehend. We don't even know what we did wrong! None of us knows how the aliens did it. After all, it's almost—no, it's outright magic, like in the Cinderella fairy tale where a pumpkin turns into a carriage and a rat into a coachman. And then all this suddenly disappears at midnight. The aliens "downgraded" an entire planet in one night! The power of the Galactic Union turned out to be simply monstrous and beyond our understanding. Moreover, there were the mysterious First Ones who are the core and foundation of this Galactic Union. Nothing is known about them except that their civilization is many millions of years old and that it is their law we violated, as I'd mentioned earlier.
However, few were concerned about that at the time. There had been real chaos on Earth after the downgrade! Many people had forgotten how to work. Many had been too accustomed to the entertainments and comforts of technological civilization. A bunch of people had ended their lives. Everything had been very bad. Chaos, gangs, wars, enraged fans of computer games and virtual worlds—a catastrophe until life had got back on track.
At the time, such concerns were few. Earth had been plunged into chaos after the downgrade. Many had forgotten how to work, too accustomed to the entertainments and comforts of technological civilization. Suicide rates soared. It was a dire situation: chaos, gangs, wars, enraged fans of computer games and virtual worlds—a true catastrophe until life eventually found its way back on track. Some were even attracted to the retro style. But such enthusiasts were very few.
So that's how we live now. We drive retro cars. We go to schools—exact copies of Japanese schools from 1939. We live in almost the same houses. We have been working in factories and farms from those times. However, there's one difference between the real Japan of 1939 and our time: theorethically, everyone could have a luxury house or a car, the best of the technology of 1939. As well as schools, cinemas, and transportation—all the best from that time. By limiting us to the ceiling of this strange date (no one realy knows why they chose it during the downgrade), the aliens do not limit the quantity and quality of the technology at the selected downgrade point. So all of us, all the inhabitants of Earth, can technically have Rolls-Royces from that year. And all the hotels in Tokyo can be luxurious copies of the most opulent hotel from New York in 1939. This is impossible economically for obvious reasons, but theoretically, nothing prevents it.
Of course, the most important thing is not this, but why the aliens did this to humanity. This question has been tormenting everyone for two hundred years. No one knows, and the aliens don't bother to explain. But their artificial representatives on Earth—yes, there are such beings called "Piece Teachers"—do explain the other thing—why we must find out our flaws independently. According to First One's rules, criminals can be considered repentant only if they realize their crime themselves! From this, it logically follows that if the aliens tell us why we were punished, we won't have the opportunity to realize it on our own. And our repentance and correction would be technically impossible. We could ask for forgiveness for our sins, but it wouldn't be considered sincere and fully realized. At least, that's how my adoptive father explained it to me once. My adoptive father! The man who lived two hundred forty four years and still remembered that civilization—with smart machines and spaceships. And whose tombstone I'm now looking at, feeling how treacherous tears hide in the corners of my eyes, ready to burst out. What did I do to deserve this? Why did you do this, Father? Couldn't you have stayed a little longer in this world?
It had long since grown dark; I'd lost track of time standing here on the mountaintop, in the neat, well-kept Japanese cemetery. What should I do? Stand here longer? How much longer? I asked myself these questions as if it wasn't me standing there, but someone outside observing my reaction. Finally, I wiped the corners of my eyes with the overly long sleeves of my black suit and slowly headed home. I exited through the gates and began the descent along a gentle path paved with stones, smooth as the polished surface of lacquered wood. My mind was empty. No thoughts, no memories. Strange! I thought I would be reminiscing about my father, but now it felt as if someone had blocked my access to those memories...
About an hour later, I reached home. I opened the door, took off my shoes, and, upon entering my room, collapsed onto the bed, immediately drifting into a restless sleep.
Morning woke me up with the doorbell ringing—persistent, long rings. I tried to turn over in bed and fall back asleep, but the annoying, overly loud electric doorbell gave me no chance. I got out of bed, put on my slippers, and shuffled down the corridor toward the front door. The ringing stopped. I froze. Maybe this unexpected guest would leave? I didn't want to see anyone today. The bell rang again, this time somewhat timidly, as if the person pressing the button was unsure—should they continue? Should they abandon this pointless endeavor? I sighed, quickly splashed water on my face, and opened the door, still sleepy and not presentable.
On the threshold stood the figure of a white-haired girl in a black gothic style dress embroidered with a strange pattern and high leather boots with narrow heels—almost like riding boots—as if from a French film about musketeers.
At the sight of her, I cursed mentally. I knew who she was. She was a "Teacher of Peace" from our school—an android representative of aliens. Once a month, such representatives would come to each school for the so-called peace lessons. She led the peace lesson at our school, which, by the way, I had never attended. I hated them and always skipped when she came for the lesson. The school principal, Yamamoto-san, always scolded me for this, but I didn't give in. In the end, they exempted me from this lesson—or rather, they started ignoring me, pretending not to notice. Perhaps it also helped that I wasn't Japanese, and as a gaijin, they just left me alone, letting slide off what they probably wouldn't let a Japanese person do.
Why this alien robot looked like an Earth girl, I had no idea. According to my father it was intentional. He had also seen her once when she came to our home a few years ago to find out why I wasn't attending the peace lessons, he smiled mysteriously while examining this robot. It was hard to distinguish her from a human, but not impossible—as if she was deliberately made with a slight hint saying: "Yes, I'm an android who looks like a girl, but I am not human. Remember it!" And, of course, she was very beautiful, with blue eyes the color of the azure sea.
My father's reaction surprised me then. He kept smiling, invited her into the house as if meeting an old acquaintance, and talked with her for a long time, sitting in the dining room, while I sat in my room, ready to defend my right not to attend those damn peace lessons if they tried to impose them on me. But they didn't force the lessons on me, and after three hours, the android girl left! I then asked my father if he knew her, but he told me something unusual. "She's a character from a computer game I played as a child. Her name is Tu-bee."
"What do you mean? She's an alien android, isn't she?"
"Yes, you could definitely say that." Father again smiled mysteriously, as if feeling nostalgic and recalling something very old. "The aliens use characters from our media culture as mediators. You know, if they sent some intelligent monster with tentacles and seven eyes, it wouldn't be the smartest decision for peace lessons, you know."
"I know that," I grumbled in response. "At our school before her, the peace teacher was a character from an old manga named Luffy, or something like that."
Father continued to smile foolishly. This started to irritate me. What did he find so special in that damned alien robot? Smiling as if he remembered his own mother.
"So what if they cosplay our characters? I think it's a mockery of us. Just like these peace lessons! They brought us peace! Bastards!"
"Don't swear," Father said, sadly shaking his head, and then said a strange phrase that I remembered now: "No, it's not a cosplay. She's real. Unfortunately, just as we humans made her our entertainment. Poor girl!"
I didn't understand his expression then and dismissed the whole conversation. She is not a girl, for God's sake! She's an alien android! What he is talking about!
Now this lady—or more correctly android—was standing at the threshold of my house. Silent, waiting for me to say something first. I decided to concede to her in this:
"I won't attend your damn peace lessons. Isn't it clear by now? How can you not be ashamed to come on the second day after my father's death!"
She flinched at my words, as if struck by a stun gun. She brushed a strand of snow-white hair from her forehead with her hand, as embarrassed people usually do, and said softly, "I didn't come for that."
I was amazed at how well she imitated a human. Simply astounding. Father said that we also had such androids back then—well, not quite as perfect, but pretty close to human imitations.
"Then why've you come?"
She paused, lowered her gaze, once again astonishing me with her excellent imitation of human embarrassment, and said simply, shocking me with her words: "I came to offer you my deepest condolences on the passing away of your father, Mr. Thaler Junior."
My jaw dropped in surprise. At the same time, I felt a pang of conscience. For the first time, someone had offered me condolences. So sincerely and simply. Although it could have been a pretense. The damned alien wanted to gain my trust! Or did she sincerely hurt by my father's death? People believe most in what they want to believe.
I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat and forced myself with difficulty to say, "Thank you."
An awkward pause ensued. We stood silently for almost half a minute. Her gaze was still lowered, and I didn't know what to say.
"Anything else?" I was deliberately rude and hurried, hiding the ready to burst out tears.
"I have a letter from your father. He asked me to give it to you."
"What?"
I was extremely surprised. Why did she have a letter? My father could have just left this letter for me in my room when he decided to end his life. Why pass it through some alien android? What nonsense is that?
"Nonsense!" I said, but I took the letter anyway. Her unnaturally smooth and graceful hand touched mine for a moment as I took the letter. It seemed to affect her somehow. She hesitated briefly, as if expecting me to take her hand, as my father had done at that time, and had a long conversation with her in the kitchen. But I wasn't as gracious to the aliens as my father was. I hated them. They had taken my parents from me—or rather, their actions had led to it. Which makes no difference to me, it's the same. I turned and closed the door behind me. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of her heels. The android had left. What did my father call her? To-bee? A strange name. What does that mean?
Absentmindedly pondering, I opened the letter and read:
"Tim, I could spend a very long time explaining why I did this, but words have long been unable to express the feelings I'm experiencing or the monstrous fatigue from life. I thought that at least a sense of duty to humanity would give me the opportunity to continue working and try to correct this huge injustice. But I can't. Forgive me. I've lived too long. And waited too long. Our downgraders, these aliens, are very unhurried, you know. They can wait another thousand years before proceeding to carry out 'that' task. One of the reasons I adopted you is the mission I once wanted to fulfill myself but have now entrusted to you. Perhaps you will wait and accomplish it. Don't stop your training. I could have prepared you much better and longer. But I can't anymore. Forgive me. I have no more time. It's over. I understand that this is a confusing letter, but despite its importance, I can't force myself to write everything in detail. At any moment I might... There's absolutely no time. Sorry, I didn't expect it to be so soon. They don't want to wait and won't allow me to do it. At any moment I might be transferred. In general, when the aliens invite you, agree to their terms. It will most likely be Octagon—he's the best among them. Trust him. He has a heart and, unlike the others, understands people. But you must demand one thing: 10 years! So that we can have antibiotics. They need you. This damned 1939 must end. In short, you'll understand when they call you. Wait. It will definitely happen. My analysis is absolutely accurate. They will have monstrous problems with this. And even they don't know how to solve them. They are bound by the rules of the First Ones. And Octa is powerless to change anything. Poor Octa..."
I read this letter three times. And each time, I became more confused.
Who is this Octa? What invitation? Couldn't you have calmly and in detail explained everything to me? Not in a damn mysterious letter, but in person?
I threw the letter onto the bed and went to make myself some tea. Father! Father! Why?
After breakfast, I went out into the city. I couldn't stay at home. Couldn't read, couldn't train, couldn't do anything useful at all. Ideally, I should have been at school, though I was excused for a while due to my father's death. It wasn't because I needed the knowledge—Father had trained me so well that I had finished it long ago. I passed all the exams several years ago. Nevertheless, they forced me to attend. Father called it socialization. Like, if you don't go to school and stay at home, you'll turn into an uncommunicative hikikomori. Or a reclusive introvert. But I still refused to attend the "Peace Lessons."
Unconsciously, my feet carried me to school. I stopped in front of the gates, so familiar from manga and anime films. When Father brought me here, I was five years old. But I had already read a whole box of Japanese comics in the orphanage. And on Sundays, our director, Frau Lügner, would take us to movie screenings. We were somewhat lucky with the "downgrade"—in 1939, there were already color films with sound. So the color film industry was flourishing. Over two hundred years, many films were made, and many comics were created. There was plenty to choose from! True, there were no computer special effects that Father told me about.
And imagine if these aliens had downgraded us to the 19th century? We'd all be riding around in horse-drawn carriages, wearing swords at our sides, without electricity. Heating with wood and lighting the streets with gas lamps. I sometimes imagined such a world. Creepy! It seems romantic at first glance—the Victorian era, balls, gentlemen in felt hats. But think about how people accustomed to civilization—to refrigerators, air conditioning, aviation—would perceive this? Creepy!
Of course, those who live now simply haven't seen that world with computers, nanotechnology, and spaceships. And since they haven't seen it, they couldn't really miss it. Only Father and a few others who managed to undergo rejuvenation therapy before the aliens arrived lived long enough to remember. But they're all gone now.
However, this doesn't prevent us from possessing this knowledge. I know how a computer works. How a processor is built. How an atomic bomb or a turbojet airplane is built. The aliens don't interfere with the oral dissemination of knowledge. But they don't allow us to build anything beyond 1939 using this knowledge. We are punished. By this year. Why 1939? I don't know. No one knows.
There are many theories about why the aliens downgraded us to this exact year. Some believe it's because of the bloody Second World War, where a horrific number of people were killed. After all, it's the year it started. But few believe that anymore. Some think we were downgraded because of eating animals. There are even many vegans who believe this. And not just believe, but actively urge everyone to become vegans, saying that then the aliens will forgive us and let us develop again. Or even elevate our civilization to their level, make us immortal.
There were, by the way, some oddballs who even liked the downgrade! Yes, indeed! Imagine that. Father told me. Often these were creative people—artists and filmmakers who had lost their jobs due to artificial intelligence generating any video or image (they say that was a thing). They were back in business now. Like Walt Disney or Miyazaki once again could create their masterpieces to the universal admiration of the public. Musicians could compose new works... And some were delighted with retro cars and the fashionable clothes of that time...
I stood in front of the school for almost half an hour. The gates were closed. Japanese schools don't admit latecomers. Such a familiar place from manga and anime—almost like home, yet simultaneously foreign! Even though I've been living in Japan for ten years, it never fully became home to me. I vividly remembered my first day at this school. The principal, Mr. Tanaka—a friend of my father—brought me into the classroom and asked where I wanted to sit. There were several free seats in the class. I said I wanted to sit where the protagonist always sits in anime—by the window, at the back of the classroom! This brought smiles to Tanaka and those around him. "Do you know why the protagonist in anime often sits by the window in the last or second-to-last row?" he asked. I shook my head no. "It's because," Tanaka explained, "animators don't want to draw all the surrounding kids every time something happens in the classroom. If he sat in the center or at the front, they'd have to do a lot of extra work drawing the other students and their movements. So it's most convenient to place the hero at the back of the class by the window. Plus, the hero can see something outside the window if needed."
Mr. Tanaka shattered my childish illusion about a special seat for the anime hero. But they still seated me there—in the protagonist's seat. It was great! When I got home, I told my father that I was sitting in the best spot, the hero's seat...
"Mr. Thaler?"
I jolted at the sudden address and slowly turned around. Behind me stood a man in a gray hat and a matching three-piece suit. Of indeterminate age, I would say. Clearly not young, but his face was too smooth for an old man—like a mannequin. He was holding a briefcase. But the most interesting thing wasn't that—it was the girl standing next to him. Petite, white-haired, with porcelain-white skin, dressed in an ornate white dress. It was as if someone had dressed a store mannequin in clothes that people don't usually wear, even in 1939. Likely attire for festive evenings in the Victorian era: bows, ruffles, embroidery. She was petite, the size of a young teenager, and looked like an oversized doll. She looked strangely familiar, as if I'd seen her somewhere but couldn't recall where.
"Mr. Thaler?"
The man repeated his words, apparently expecting some reaction from me.
"Yes?" I tilted my head, waiting for him to continue.
"First, please accept my sincere condolences. I'm very sorry. I knew your father."
I nodded, swallowing the lump that rose in my throat. That was the second time today, and again, the condolences hadn't come from a human.
"Could you spare me a bit of your time? I'd like to offer you a job. Since you're not attending school, it shouldn't interfere."
"I don't work for aliens," I said sharply.
"Oh! I see, you've guessed who I am! You're quite knowledgeable about aliens. How did you figure it out? If I may ask."
What a silly question! Of course, they're not cosplayers from Akihabara. There aren't many aliens on Earth—or rather, not aliens themselves but their synthetic servants—androids. And usually, as I've already mentioned, they're all made to look like earthly characters from movies or animation, so as not to scare us with their unearthly appearance. But this one was somehow different. It seemed to me that he wasn't a robot. Something elusive hinted at it.
"Show me what you really look like," I asked instead of answering.
They both exchanged glances, apparently surprised by my request. I couldn't read the man's emotions; the muscles of his face revealed almost nothing. But there was slight surprise in his voice:
"I've already mentioned that you have a sharp mind, Mr. Thaler. I hadn't anticipated this request. Earthlings react very strangely to my appearance. However, if you insist. Though I warn you, you won't like it."
And he revealed himself.
I involuntarily forced myself to look without showing signs of disgust. Essentially, it was a marine arthropod with an unusually large head, housed inside a transparent tank of water that occupied the space where his human head and hat had been. After about three seconds, he restored his disguise.
"Now the girl," I said, expecting to see some kind of deformed mutant female crab as well, in a similar transparent tank filled with seawater.
They exchanged glances again.
"She is real," the man explained.
I nodded. An android. As expected. An unbearably beautiful loli designed to deceive people with her cute anime character appearance. How disgusting!
"So what do you want, all-powerful Galactic Downgraders, from me?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest and staring at them unceremoniously, waiting for them to continue.
"Allow me to introduce myself first..."
"No. I don't need your names. Not interested," I cut him off rather rudely, which, considering we're in Japan—famous for its polite manners—was unheard of. However, I'm not Japanese, and neither are they. "Address me as Earthling. And I'll call you just Alien."
They exchanged glances once more.
"Let's just leave him! We don't have time for rude people!" the girl said to the man, tugging at his hand like a capricious child trying to drag her father somewhere, demanding he buy her ice cream at a theme park.
"Good riddance," I wished them both and moved past them, deliberately close to show that I'm not afraid of them—those damned aliens.
"Aya, we need him," the "Arthropod Alien" replied calmly, without emotion, utterly unbothered by my behavior. At least, it didn't show in his voice. Excellent composure.
"But Octa! What's so special about him? Can't we find anyone else on the whole planet?"
"Octa?" I involuntarily stopped. Octagon or Octa—the very one my father spoke about. They will contact you! Sooner or later. I recalled the letter I had read this morning. Things had taken a serious turn. So this person knows what my father wanted?
"Is your name Octagon?"
They turned simultaneously. The girl couldn't hold back.
"You didn't want our names, Rude One! So why ask?"
I felt the tips of my ears redden.
"Sorry," I forced out with difficulty. "I didn't know this was connected to my father."
"You see!" Octagon finally showed some semblance of a smile on his fake face. Though he probably shouldn't have done that. An absolutely terrifying doll-like dead smile.
"He's a good guy," he added, soothingly patting the doll-like girl on the head.
A good guy! I was indignant internally. If the bad guys—and aliens are bad guys—call you a good guy, that means there's something wrong with you. At the very least, scoundrels shouldn't be praising you…
…
Aliens very rarely appear on Earth in person. They have something like embassies in the capitals of each country. But they almost always communicate with people through intermediaries—androids that the aliens use for contact. As I already mentioned, they are made to resemble characters from various films, books, anime, and games. But despite the absence of colonization or any influence over governance—we Earthlings can kill each other to the last person, and they won't interfere—in every major city on Earth, there is a building constructed by the aliens. In every one! A building resembling a large library with marble columns. In front of the building is a square with a single monument, known as the Monument of the Seventeen. Figures of different people without faces. Seventeen figures. The peculiarity of these buildings is that they are inaccessible—that is, they are surrounded by an invisible force field. These buildings can be seen, examined from the outside, but you can't get inside them. A barrier like an invisible dome surrounds them on all sides. We don't know what's inside them, just as we don't know who these seventeen figures are or why they are there. Over 200 years, many theories have been proposed, but finding out which assumption is true is impossible. The aliens—or rather, their helper androids—will never tell you. Perhaps they don't even know themselves.
And now imagine my state. I had the opportunity to talk not with androids, but with an actual alien. A living being of flesh! And yet, because of my hatred, I was ready to flush this contact down the toilet. Throw a tantrum and walk away. It was unforgivable from a researcher's point of view, but my dead mom and dad stood before my eyes like a barrier. I remembered them very poorly. After all, I was only three years and seven months old when they died in an accident.
They invited me to a café for a conversation. An ordinary café with red leather sofas and large windows. Both sat across from me; Octagon ordered ice cream for his doll-like loli and coffee for himself. I declined to order anything, watching with malicious interest how he planned to drink the coffee. Would he pour it into his tank after removing the lid? This thought must have shown on my face because he actually took off his hat, raised the cup to the level of his head, then smirked, placed it back on the table, and responded to my thoughts:
"I don't drink coffee; it's for disguise."
I decided to mock him. I couldn't bring myself to feel any positive sentiments toward this intelligent lobster, crab, or some wild mix of both. In my understanding, I was sitting opposite a mass murderer or, at the very least, their representative.
"So what do you drink? Water?" I asked sarcastically.
"No. We haven't consumed anything for a very long time—comparable perhaps only to the age of your species."
"Are you one of the Ancients?" I asked. Since there are many aliens in the Galactic Union (this information they provided us), only the so-called Ancients or the First Ones play a key role in it. Rumors say their civilization is hundreds of millions or even billions of years old.
"Not at all! Of course not."
I nodded silently, satisfied that at least I wasn't speaking directly with the mass murderers of my kind.
"Ask more," he encouraged, seeing that I was silent. "I can answer all your questions."
"All of them?" I was incredibly surprised by his words. "Even the question of why our civilization was downgraded?"
"Unfortunately, I cannot. Or rather, I can, but it won't help you. You'll forget immediately."
"Why?"
"A Galactic Unity supervising system. Anyone from Earth to whom I convey such information will instantly be subjected to amnesia. The information will be immediately erased from your memory. You won't even notice."
"Why is this done?"
"What do you mean, why? You were informed that Earthlings must figure out and realize the evil they have committed on their own. If they are told about it, it would mean they haven't understood their crimes but have simply accepted the punishment. The Galactic Union views intelligent beings as entities capable of making mistakes. But if a being doesn't realize its mistake, it means it shouldn't be allowed to reach the next level of development. After all, the mistake will be repeated and bring harm to others. It's obvious."
"I don't see anything obvious. What if we never find out what wrong we did to you? What then? Will we and our descendants live forever in the year 1939? That's horrible! How can you not understand?"
He paused briefly before answering. For some reason, he looked at the loli sitting next to him, who was devouring ice cream and swinging her legs. That surprised me too. Why would a robot need human food? Aren't they powered by batteries? It would make more sense if he just plugged her charging port into an outlet. I wonder where her charging port is? Though she might have wireless charging—Father mentioned such things. Or maybe she even has a cold fusion reactor deep in her chest, like the comic book hero in those old Iron Man movies.
"There is hope. That's what the peace lessons are for. Don't despair, Earthling. You're not the first to undergo a downgrade. Although this practice is very rare, sooner or later such civilizations realize what they've done wrong. My job, by the way, is to monitor this process. I can even add a year or two for you if I deem it necessary."
I tried to process this information. Sitting in front of me was a per—well, rather, a being claiming it could add a year to our civilization. Or two. Or ten? I remembered my father's letter: "Ask for ten." Ten years! That would be 1949! Atomic energy, jet planes! Transistors! My throat suddenly went dry. I involuntarily swallowed it.
"Add ten for us."
"Unfortunately, I cannot make such decisions independently and without justification."
"Justification?" I began to simmer with anger. I had been speaking pointedly politely with him for too long, damn crab-lobster! "Do you know that the girl next door to me died? From pneumonia. Do you know why? Because we don't have antibiotics! Penicillin was first used to treat a person in 1941. Isn't that enough justification? At all?"
I leaned forward over the table in excitement, staring demandingly straight into his fake alien eyes. Let him chew on that! Choke on the truth! So much for guardians of conscience!
"Don't shout at him! Octa is good!"
The doll-like loli suddenly intervened, standing up just like I did.
I looked at her; my anger wasn't subsiding. Finding nothing to say, I blurted out what suddenly came to mind:
"Why were we downgraded? Tell me!"
It was a naive and foolish attempt—a fifteen-year-old teenager trying to intimidate representatives of omnipotent aliens and force them to answer a forbidden question. And then something strange started happening. Like a damaged film reel playing over and over.
"Alright, I will tell you..."
...
"Alright, I will tell you now..."
...
"Alright, I will repeat..."
...
"Alright, I will repeat again..."
...
"Stop! Stop! Stooop!"
I shook my head. Something really strange was happening to me. What the heck? He's repeating the same phrase, like a parrot: "I will repeat, I will repeat..." What's wrong with him? Damn it! Brrr!
"The system erases your memory and throws you back in time as soon as I tell you the reason for the punishment of your entire civilization except for the Seventeen," he explained calmly, as if this wasn't some strange magical nonsense.
I was surprised by the last part. Despite everything, I had, in a roundabout way, received new and crucial information from him. What a clever talker this crab-lobster was! He even tricked the system a bit!
"Except for the Seventeen? So seventeen people know why we were downgraded?"
"I prefer not to call it a 'downgrade', young Earthling. But, yes. Your father was one of them. Or rather, he was. Sorry. I knew him a little," he replied somewhat awkwardly, as if embarrassed.
I sat back down. My thoughts were jumbled. Father knew? Why didn't he tell others? Although it's clear—they wouldn't have let him. It's a trap for everyone. Some primary condition for our redemption must have prevented it! Until each person realizes on their own, no progress! Or is it not each person? Maybe a certain percentage? So there are many people on Earth who suspect the reason and are correct. But they don't make up the majority? How else can I extract useful info from this crab-lobster? He's monitoring those who've "understood" right now. Meaning, he knows in real time how many people on Earth have guessed the real reason! Not just seventeen? What the heck am I guessing for—I should just ask!
"The Seventeen are those who figured it out and know?"
"No. The Seventeen are not those who guessed, Earthling."
"Wait, what does that mean? You've just said, 'except for the Seventeen.' Remember?"
"No. I said that all humans are punished except for the Seventeen. I didn't say that the Seventeen knew about the punishment. You misinterpreted my words, Earthling."
My brain got tangled up in this. But something became clear. The Seventeen weren't punished, but the rest of humanity was—including underage children? That's strange and doesn't fit any logic!
"Octa, tell him why we need him. Otherwise, this baka will keep asking you questions till evening!"
I wanted to snap back at her—the alien loli irritated me—but held back. Indeed, this crab-lobster still hadn't told me why they needed me—a teenage earthling! Could it be that they have problems they can't handle? That's not even funny! How can I help, even if I'd wanted to?
"She's right. Tell me what you want from me. But keep in mind, I won't betray Earth or humanity. Nor will I work for you."
"Betray Earth and humanity!? Baka!"
The loli didn't miss the chance to comment on my words. Grabbing her companion's cup, she sipped his coffee, grimaced (clearly not liking it), and continued to mock me. "And stop calling Octa a Crab-Lobster. You're the Crab-Lobster yourself. Baka!"
I was already tired of being surprised today, so I simply said to the alien, more stating than asking:
"She reads thoughts. I see."
"No," he shook his head and explained. "You just pronounce these words in your thoughts, but your vocal cords move, creating a very faint sound. It can be heard if an android has very sensitive sensors, like hers. An animal cannot do this."
The loli stuck her tongue out at me, continuing to swing her legs under the table and sip someone else's coffee. Brazen girl. Not typical behavior for an android. At least the one who brought the letter this morning behaved more seriously. I recalled the morning visitor. What did Father call her? To-bee. "To be or not to be, that's the question!" A ridiculous name. Nevertheless, very interesting. Somehow appealing.
"Alright, I'm listening." I sighed and fell silent, waiting for his proposal.
"I can transmit information directly to your brain, Earthling. If you wish. In the developed parts of the Galaxy, verbal speech is rarely used..."
"No! Don't mess with my brain. Just tell me what you want."
"All right. You know, Earthling, that before the technical regression, you had a highly developed form of entertainment called computer games?"
"Of course!" I smirked. "Who doesn't? There are more historical books written about the topic than anything else. From memoirs of those who played them before the downgrade to fans of the so-called literary RPG genre. Though, personally I don't like the genre."
"You don't like computer games?"
I was surprised at his stupidity.
"How can I not like an entertainment that's currently inaccessible? Are you running a fever?"
"Sorry, my bad. I understand your frustration. But imagine that you could. What would you think about it? I'm sure your father, who was working in that field at the time, told you a lot about it."
"Yes, he did. But you're mistaken; my father didn't make computer games. He was a specialist in generative artificial intelligence—intelligent robots or synthetic humans, in other words."
"Absolutely correct. But you have an idea about those games with virtual immersion, where the brain perceives the world as real?"
I shrugged. At our level of development, I couldn't imagine such an ultimate entertainment—entering other worlds. Magical worlds with sorcery or cosmic battles on other planets. Once, it was the main form of entertainment for humanity. I read about it with admiration as well as listened to my father's stories. But it was like an impossible, out-of-reach fairy tale. And the aliens took that fairy tale away from us.
Meanwhile, the alien continued his story: "You must have also heard of the so-called 'Divine Games'? Sometimes also called 'God Games'?"
"That's a colloquial term," I interrupted and demonstrated my expertise on the topic, "It refers to virtual games where characters possess self-awareness and intelligence. Such a world is unpredictable because the characters use a quantum randomness generator to choose their course of action. It's the closest imitation of human free will, according to my father."
"Excellent formulated," he continued, becoming somewhat animated, evidently considering this very important. "Then it will be much easier for me to explain since you're so well-informed. A considerable number of such games were released. The consciousness of the characters was stored in the memory of numerous servers. When the regression happened, millions of characters remained on the servers—the so-called AI-NPCs—who possess consciousness and are classified by the laws of the Galactic Union as sentient individuals with the right to live freely..."
He was saying those incredible things, and his words sent a cold sweat down my spine. For some reason, the things disturbed me on a subconscious level. What's the big deal? Yes, there were AIs that behaved like self-aware personalities: elves, beastmen, villains, monsters, orcs, and other fantastical creatures that game writers using AI had spawned. But they're not real, right? Well, not entirely real. How can they have rights? What's the big deal, and why should old human toys have rights? What's he getting at? Where is this leading? Meanwhile, he continued:
"The Galactic Union faced a dilemma. Those sentient beings, even though they consist of information, cannot be held responsible for the actions of their creators. Therefore, according to the prescriptions of the Law of the First Ones, they should be released from the captivity of virtual reality, provided with the appropriate infrastructure of a world familiar to them, and left to their own devices..."
My throat dried up like the Sahara Desert. My heart pounded with excitement, a premonition of the most amazing thing that could happen in my life. Even the pain of losing my father somehow subsided. What is he saying? This smoked Crab... or rather, Octagon. Is he saying that they specifically created planets and worlds for all the AI characters of our games!? And I'm supposed to believe such nonsense!? Wait a minute! And that loli with him? She's... What did he call her, Aya? There are many anime and game characters with a similar name. But the most famous is the Goddess Aya from Kunisada Hideo's most tragic light novel, which was later made into a famous divine game. In it, players are supposed to save all the heroes, but the task was never accomplished by anyone to date. The heroes of that light novel always die. The game is called "Aramiya – the Land of Fallen Heroes." A couple of years ago, my father told me about that book and the god's game based on it. I suddenly remembered it---
My father and I were repairing the rooftop of our country house. A wooden structure completely in the style of the common Japanese countryside. During a short break on the rooftop I asked him, "Father, tell me about Kunisada Hideo's Novel."
He stopped working and seriously looked at me over his glasses.
"Why are you interested in that damn book?"
"Well, you are over two hundred and forty years old. You must remember that famous book and virtual game."
"I know the book well and remember its content, but not because I was interested in trendy virtual visual novels back in time. I've never been a fan of full immersion in virtual games or games made after books either. I know about this damn book because of mister Donald Hofner. That damned trillionaire, whose fantasy world I gave intellect and consciousness inside the biggest quantum server. The whole digital planet, called Aramia! I've told you about it earlier, didn't I?"
"Yes. But you never told me about the story itself. And I can't find the book anywhere. Not in the library. Nowhere."
"Not surprising. It's been banned everywhere. Don't ask the reasons. Even the memory of it is being erased by the Earth government. Though neither Kunisada nor the visual novel are to blame."
Father sighed. That game somehow played a very important role in his life. And he didn't tell me everything, as it looked. I continued asking.
"Father, it looks like you are the only one who can tell me about this story! There's no one else around who's old enough."
"Fair enough. I've noticed, too, that I have been really living too long."
"I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean it that way."
"'Course, you didn't," he sighed again, "All right, I'll tell you about that stupid Kunisada's story. It's actually a teenage tragic light novel. Mostly just composed of isekai fantasy cliches. But for some reason, it became popular in Japan. Despite the fact that it's a sad story. Both the hero and the heroine die at the end. Actually, many others die as well. No happy ending at all. The public usually doesn't like sad stories without a happy end. Yet it was super popular back then. A paradox I can't explain!"
"Can you tell me why it's cliche? Or give me a brief summary?" I asked with a voice full of hope.
Father took a hammer, prepared a nail but not hammered it yet.
"I'll give you the manga adaptation later. I have it in my desk drawer. But for now I'll tell you a bit, if you don't mind a spoiler?"
I nodded, agreeing, and father started storytelling.
"A poor boy named Leo, a third blacksmith's son, falls in love with a princess whom he accidentally sees bathing in a pond in an enchanted forest, surrounded by her handmaidens. What she was doing there, deep in the forest, Kunisada never bothered to explain. Probably there were hot springs, which is also a well-known anime cliche as you probably know. Leo is so captivated by the princess's beauty that he decides to win her hand and heart. Cliche?"
"Totally," I nodded.
"Next. How do you think a simple sixteen-year-old peasant boy can win the heart of Princess Aramia Rosalinde von Schaitelbaum Junior?"
"If it's a normal cliche, he would need to become a great magician or a heroic warrior. And impresses everyone with his heroic feats so that the Queen begs him to become her son-in-law."
"Almost right. In Aramia, there are two ways to become the consort of the royal family. Traditionally, win the tournament and become the strongest warrior. The strongest warrior automatically becomes the son-in-law of the Queen, because there is a Matriarchy there."
"So, he decides to become the best warrior and trains day and night."
"Not exactly. He simply doesn't have time for that. Leo is no fool, no dreamer. He is a very practical person who rationally assesses his chances. 16 is already a respectable age and the queen is looking for a husband for her daughter, and has been doing it for three years. The tournament is in just two weeks. So, Leo has two weeks to become the best warrior of the whole world, and not just the best of Aramia. Because the tournament is international."
"So that leaves only the second option?"
"Yes. The second option is very unusual and requires no martial prowess. You need to touch the bare breast of the princess. But unintentionally."
I felt my ears getting red and hot.
"What does unintentionally mean?"
"By accident.
"If it turns out that it wasn't an accident and the suitor did it on purpose, then he's immediately married to her, but only left with the princess in a room for just an hour, and then executed, unless the princess decides within that hour that she is not against having the guy as a husband. So if you somehow manage to touch the princess's bare breast, the princess herself can decide your fate. You have an hour to persuade her to really become your wife."
"That's interesting. Not cliche. And what happens if it really is an accident?"
"Well, in such a fantastical scenario, you marry the princess. But there's no real guarantee. They might keep you as a son-in-law, or they might poison you. Or the best knight in the kingdom could challenge you to a duel and kill you. Despite customs and traditions, what happens next depends on the whims of the queen mother and her daughter. Anyway, Leo decides to take the risk."
"Desperate guy. He really fell hard."
"Yes. As a blacksmith's son, he also fights well with swords. Because when he forges them, he also trains with them. But of course, he is no match for real fighters and knights. He understands that perfectly. In short, his task is to touch the princess's breast within two weeks. And it's preferable to make it look accidental, so he doesn't lose his head."
"An impossible task."
"Well, that depends on the situation and your determination. And there is one thing that might really help Leo with his impossible task."
"What's that?"
"The princess herself also dreams of someone accidentally touching her breast, as the tournament favorite is already known and she despises him. He is the strongest warrior from Bistland, Rocko – the Lightning of Bistland, a beast-man. Rosalinda Junior generally dislikes the beast-men. Thus, she wouldn't mind positioning herself so that her breast might be touched by a young man she likes. However, two things prevent her. Her mother, who needs a son-in-law from Bistland to fend off an attack by the Red Giants in alliance with Bistland—a catastrophic event soon to occur according to prophecy and curse in the world of Aramia. The ancestors of the Aramian rulers committed a wrong action for which they were cursed by the Old Gods and doomed to be the victims of this invasion. Many in Aramia do not believe in this invasion, but the Queen and her ministers very much do. And she is capricious, I would even say, a disdainful young woman of terrible character. She has already positioned her breast twice. And both times, her victims were executed."
"What?"
"Yes. And it was not her fault. The 'victims' of her breast, if you can call them that, left alone with her, fell into a stupor and apologized to her, instead of trying to win her heart, during such an unusual 'date'. That behavior repulsed her, and she emerged enraged. Since the touch was intentional and not accidental, the fate of these poor knights was sealed. After such incidents, special maids were assigned to Princess Rosalinda by the queen mother to prevent such mishaps. From this, you should guess what the first part of the visual novel is made of."
"Leo's attempts to touch the princess's breast?"
"Hmm. Yes. Leo devises devilishly intricate plans. Over two weeks, he undergoes a true transformation from a kind young man into a cold, calculating murderer, a monster, pursuing his goal at all costs. The culmination of his plan involves a horrible black magic ritual. He uses a man-eating magical tree deep in the enchanted forest. By luring woodcutters to it and sacrificing them, he gains a hollow wooden golem, which can be worn like a costume, allowing him to transform into any person, of any appearance, but only three times! He uses one of these transformations to disguise himself as the princess's personal maid, whom he ties up and locks in a closet, allowing him to infiltrate the palace. The night before the tournament, as the princess is about to go to bed and takes a bath, the maid washing her back touches her breast, deliberately squeezing it. The princess, puzzled, looks at the maid..."
"And?"
"What do you think happened next?"
"He turned back into a handsome youth by taking off the magical garment?"
"No."
"The princess slapped him?"
"Yes. Almost right. But you forgot about the black magic. He remained permanently in the form he simulated, meaning he could not turn back into himself. Since the suit requires an object for transformation, and without one, he could only transform into others, but he couldn't copy his own appearance to show the suit. He fell into a trap he hadn't predicted."
"So, he remained a pretty maid for the rest of his life?"
"No. You're missing the princess's reaction. She slaps the stunned Leo and calls for the guards to have the audacious maid being executed or thrown into the dungeon, at least. Then comes the final change. Realizing all is lost, and feeling monstrous hatred instead of any love for the princess, he takes that single needed step from love to hate. Leo transforms into the only object in sight that he can become, and which he has time for, before the guards storm into the room."
"The solution is obvious. He turned himself into the princess?"
"Yes. He has no choice. It's his third transformation, and there's no going back. He planned to use two transformations to reach the princess and a third to return to his original form. He knocks out the princess, hides her under the bed, and sends the bursting guards away, claiming she just had nightmares and was screaming in her sleep."
"Intriguing?"
"Also cliche."
"Arguable. Although, yes. But what happens next is not cliche. What do you think happened 'a few moments later'?"
"He escaped from the palace? Or rather, she did."
"No, he can't physically escape. It's impossible in his guise as the princess. The princess is heavily guarded. Tomorrow's the tournament, don't forget. He literally cannot do it. He stands in front of a mirror examining himself. 'In the end, I've got you. Took you with me, into myself!' he says, touching his own breast, his face. 'Now you'll be always with me!' says he, already completely losing his mind."
Father made a pause, hitting a nail with his hammer. With a single strike, he hammered it in.
"And then another unexpected turn. The princess unties herself, grabs a heavy vase from beside the bed, and furiously strikes the impostor on the head, shattering his skull. She continues beating him to make sure he's dead."
"The guards and the queen mother rush in at the cries and see two daughters. Absolutely identical, but one dead. What do you think she's supposed to think?"
"Now I get it. She can't know who the real impostor is and who her true daughter is."
"Yes. She faces an unsolvable dilemma. If it were her real daughter who was killed, the impostor could have been exposed through questions only her daughter would know the answer to."
"That should be easy."
"Not so fast. Since it's the impostor who's dead, and magic is involved, she could have stolen all of Rosalinda's memories, making her impossible to expose! You must consider this possibility. This type of magic exists in the Aramia setup."
"The only way to know if this is the real Rosalinda or a fake is to ask the Goddess Aya, the patron of Aramia. And thus begins the second part of the virtual game scenario. A journey in search of Aya - the Goddess, the only one with divine powers capable of discerning the truth. Then the princess can be urgently married off for an alliance with Bistland."
"So, as a player, you can't play as Leo and try to win Rosalinda's heart. Or in the second part, accompany Rosalinda on her journey to the Goddess. And on the way, by protecting her from monsters, helping her reach her goal, you're essentially on a quest. You must be some side character for them. I don't know exactly who, I haven't played all this. A guide. An elder of the village they passed through. A knight of the castle where they stayed overnight. You can just tag along. The AI of the VVN can handle it. It allows any behavior from you. Even if you kill this pair of protagonists, the story will continue and the Giants will come and destroy Aramia."
"In the original virtual visual novel, such a hero is chosen, as you guessed, at the tournament the next day. Here again, a twist. The Lightning of Bistland refuses to search for the goddess to expose the impostor. He says he came here for a wife, not adventures in the boonies. No alliance is formed. A young and talented knight at the court, named Artorius, agrees to take on the role of the searcher.
"Then follows a series of adventures. They reach the dwelling of the Gods and Goddesses, which turns out to be empty. The gods left the world of men many centuries ago. From the heights of the mountains, they saw a smoking volcano and the invasion of the Red Giants, landing their galley ships on the shore. They return to report the start of the invasion, but are too late. Because no alliance with Bistland was formed, Aramia and Maramia completely lose the battle and are destroyed. Artorius and Rosalinda walk through the ravaged post-apocalyptic country. The palace and the surrounding castle on the hill are besieged, and Artorius and Rosalinda watch as the giants destroy it and as the last defenders desperately fight for their lives. Artorius, having developed some feelings during their journey together, makes a desperate attack on the rear of the giant group. Rosalinda, who by now has fallen deeply in love with the knight in shining armor, tries to dissuade him. But in vain. Artorius turns to Rosalinda before his final act: 'I don't know if you're still the real Rosalinda - our princess, or an impostor who has taken over her body and memory, but now it doesn't matter.' Rosalinda cries and begs him not to commit this suicide. But Artorius doesn't listen. He charges into the crowd of giants and, like a berserk, kills several of them, his ferocity and skill so great that for a moment it seems he might defeat this group of giants and break through to the castle. But at the last moment, he is speared through by the leader of the detachment, who with a laugh lifts him high. 'You have earned our respect, warrior,' says the giant. Watching this from the edge of a cliff, the princess cries and jumps down in shock from the death of her beloved one, her eyes wide open. All is over! All the heroes are dead. And most of the city's inhabitants. A sad end."
Father sighed. A silence lasted almost half a minute. Then I asked,
"And where did the Gods go? Why was no one there?"
"Kunisada doesn't specify. A mystery. Apparently, he planned to write a sequel, something like Aramia - The Return of Gods. But he died early in a space accident. More precisely on the Moon. There is still a monument and museum dedicated to him. The Kunisada Lunar Museum."
"Have you ever been there?"
"No."
"What about the game scenarios?"
"In the original game by Kunisada, there is said to be a scenario to avoid the catastrophe. But so far, none of the players have reached it. It even turned into a mania. To save all the heroes of Aramia at all costs. But every scenario, and there are thousands of them, leads to a quick or slow disaster. Perhaps a positive ending still exists, and Kunisada even hinted at it in his last interview. But none of the known virtual gamers have reached it. Such games had self-developing AIs that adapt to your actions, changing details or events in the scenario. And they say one of the gamers managed to save the princess. But no one has achieved a complete positive end yet."
"Could it be that in the Kunisada Museum there is a hint, a solution to the correct scenario?"
"You've been reading too many mystical detectives, Tim. Most likely, it's just a lure for gamers. Millions of players around the world who played this novel. Someone among them must have stumbled upon it by playing the game dozens of times and trying different options."
"And who do players play for? Artorius?"
"No. In this type of Virtual Visual Novel, you can't play any of the main protagonists. That's their charm. You're a side character. A so-called 'Human-NPC' with a perspective to grow into something. That is, your task is to become the hero of this story, starting with minimal advantage. A character who does not hold significant importance in the script. But that's the point. The charm of that game, I've said! By changing various details and intervening, you change the script. There are millions of details. The AI plays against you trying to implement the 'bad scenario'. But it, too, has to stick to the rules of the world. Notice, every character has consciousness! They are rational, self-aware, have their own feelings and desires! But! They are programmed for a sad ending. A slightest change in their quantum structure implemented by programmers. True, you can outplay it as people once could outplay a computer in chess. No one has managed it yet, but in theory, a human can still beat the machine in such things, as the number of moves is infinite and the machine cannot calculate everything. Nor is it programmed to block all player efforts. It will be accepted if you manage to save everyone. Why not?"...
I returned to the café again. This flashback lasted no more than a second. Octagon's voice continued to explain:
"...After the downgrading of humans, many such servers remained on satellites. The number of artificial intelligent beings living inside these servers reaches several millions—two million three hundred seventy-two thousand one hundred eleven, to be exact. Technically, all of them could be accommodated on one planet, or even just a part of it. But such an action creates many problems. These beings are adapted, created for specific worlds and conditions of existence. We cannot arbitrarily change their way of life, thinking, desires—any programming of thinking beings is prohibited by the Law of the First Ones."
I interrupted him at this point, still shocked by his words. A whole world of game characters or visual novel characters living on a planet. It was unimaginable. "I don't understand, what problems could you have with this? Create cities and civilizations for them, teach and adapt them..." I trailed off. He's referring to some law again!
"Quite the correct thought. The Law of the First Ones is unambiguous," he, without hesitation, read my thoughts again—or the patterns of my vocal cords. "It does not allow for interpretations. Intelligent beings must be in their natural environment and play out their original scenario as they wish. The programmatic drift that compels them to adhere to the scenario is, of course, removed. But their environment must remain untouched as well as their minds."
I looked at the loli-goddess at that moment. The "blue-eyed doll" was looking at me boldly and even with some contempt. Without taking my eyes off her, I said, addressing Octagon:
"I don't understand you. If you keep everything as it is, they'll kill each other. Or worse, the evil characters will defeat the good ones and commit genocide against them!"
I saw confusion in the loli-goddess's eyes after my words. Apparently, she didn't expect such a speech from me.
"You've grasped the very essence of the problem, Earthling."
I got angry at Octagon's confirmation. "And that's all you can say? You and your First Ones are crazy patients of a galactic mental hospital." I made up the galactic mental hospital just to somehow get at him. "How can you bring to life all sorts of killers, demon kings, monsters... and others that human imagination has spawned over tens of years! What's the point?"
"In adhering to the Law of the First Ones."
"Stop reading my thoughts!"
"I've already explained that it's not thought-reading..."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it already!"
A pause ensued, which I broke with another question. "And what do you want from me here? What's it got to do with me and your stupid galactic laws of the First Ones?"
"I will be absolutely honest with you, Earthling. Our problem is not of a technical nature, as you've understood, but rather legal and moral-ethical. Many inhabitants of virtual worlds have been transferred into reality. Special technical means of the First Ones even created laws from their reality for them. Unfortunately, they are non-viable for many reasons—the listing of which would take a lot of time, but I will tell you the main one..."
I interrupted him with a hand gesture—it was easy to crack.
"Let me guess. The absence of a hero. Right?"
"The baka is catching on," the loli-goddess said respectfully. In just a few minutes, she seemed to have completely changed her opinion of me. Although she still didn't stop calling me "baka"—idiot in Japanese.
"Do you see now why he's a good candidate?" Octagon responded to her remark and continued, "You are absolutely right, Earthling. Worlds created for games mostly assume that the world will be saved by a player every time. Otherwise, no one would play them. The desire to be the center of attention—the hero of the story—is the main motivation for players to play the game to begin with."
I contemplated all this for a few seconds. Finally I asked, "You want me to play the hero, saving those worlds? For their adaptation into reality?"
"Not exactly. I cannot violate the Law of the First Ones like that. Any interruption is prohibited. You cannot be a game character if such is not provided by the new system. But you can very well be a participant whose actions nudge the inhabitants of the world toward the right choices. It's called an Indirect Hero. Or—a Non-Playing Player, as your father once named it. Unlike a Non-Playing Character, you will be dealing with a life-and-death situation. In the end, this isn't a game anymore."
He puzzled me again. "Wait a minute. I can't break the rules! Does this mean that the idea to save those worlds is your personal undertaking, and not the initiative of the Galactic Union?"
He paused, then said carefully choosing words.
"Yes. I'm intervening out of personal motives, you can call it that. I will be punished if you fail and stripped of my position as the Union's representative on Earth. But that's a small price to pay compared to saving thousands of sentient beings—even if they're synthetic—who would otherwise become victims of antagonists with insurmountable problems."
He almost dropped a weight on my foot. A very interesting Crab... Alien. With a heart, as my father mentioned in his farewell letter.
"Then one more question: why me? I'm not even an adult. There are plenty of people on Earth who could play this role much better!"
"You're right that there are many adults who would handle the job better, but you're currently the only Earthling available to me who possesses Galactic Citizenship."
I nearly jumped at this second imaginary weight he dropped on my toes, as if trying to dodge the imagined pain. "What? I'm a citizen of the Galactic Union? Since when!?"
"Since your father passed away. As one of the Seventeen, he received Galactic Union citizenship 200 years ago. Admittedly, he never once exercised his rights as a citizen during all that time. But legally, that's how it stands. And after his death, you inherited this citizenship as his son. If it weren't for his untimely death, you would have received citizenship at the age of 21."
I was silent, stunned.
He continued, "By the way, this meeting also serves to give you your personal access code to the Galactic Union System." He presented something cubic, shimmering with golden light in his palm. "You can choose a password for activation, Galactic Citizen Timm Thaler."
I snapped out of my stupor. I am not gonna take presents from aliens!
"Go to hell!" I swore.
From the cube, a pleasant and deep female voice immediately responded, "Your password is accepted. Please repeat for confirmation!"
Almost automatically, I repeated:
"Go to hell!"
"Password confirmed. Timm Thaler, Earthling, Citizen of the Galactic Union. Fifteen Earth years and seven Earth months. Voice activation of the system of the Great Galaxy Tree is: "Timm Thaler, go to hell."
The loli-goddess couldn't help but giggle.
I grabbed my head and shouted at them at the top of my lungs, "Go to hell, all of you! I already said I won't betray Earth! Or work for you, damn Aliens! You've got it!?"