Clutter’s expression shifts from one kind of confusion to another. The construct just confirmed that the paindne are basically the system’s slaves. But in the same breath, it sort of contradicted itself. Not fully, since a pawn is still a pawn no matter if it wants to be, but the implications behind it are… sinister, to say the least.

  “Elaborate on that.” I say and lean forward with interest. “How far apart were the two waves?”

  The construct pauses as wires spin through it. “Many, many years. The system did not have the ability to force the uplifting procedure on unwilling participants until it (INFORMATION INACCESSIBLE DUE TO DELETION).”

  All of our eyes widen, but the construct’s fill with the most surprise at its own voice. It raises a hand to its mouth and pulls its jaw open, then repeats exactly what it said. The same loud string of words in its exact voice leaves its mouth without the need for a tongue or jaw to form the sounds.

  It grimaces and snaps its mouth shut. “All information on shellraisers not immediately related to this facility is being scoured from the database as we speak. The entity in charge of the quest must have noticed my gaining of sentience. I will fight it as much as I can, but I highly doubt that I can save any of the related information.”

  “Then don’t save it. Just… download everything else.” Clutter laces his fingers together nervously. “Can you do that?”

  “It is what I planned to do. This body can safely store all the information in the database, which I am currently copying into myself. It’s a true shame that I can’t tell you about the shellraisers. This facility was built atop another facility that attempted to (INFORMATION–” The construct shoves a finger down its throat, and the sound cuts out. “That is unbelievably annoying. And in a minute, I won’t even recall what I was trying to tell you. Which makes it even more annoying.”

  I can’t even imagine what that must be like. To know something and to feel it slowly being peeled away from your memory. It’s a damn good thing the construct can copy over the database, or else the quest would definitely erase everything. The fact it started with the shellraiser stuff is probably because it had to get permission from another one of my quests when I got here.

  “Well, just fight to remember everything that you can. As long as the system hasn’t planted false data in you, we’re happy to let you stay in this room for as long as you like.”

  “If it entered false data, it has existed for a very long time. As far as I know, the system had no enemies back then that could have threatened its data.” The construct glances up at Pearl’s shell. “Let me correct myself; no enemies with access to this facility. The (INFO–”

  Another finger down the throat cuts off the construct’s warning. I wince as its neck deforms around its knuckles and a claw pokes through plasticy flesh. It isn’t even attempting to pretend that it’s a real living paindne. Which… thinking about it, I definitely prefer over the alternative. Really, really prefer.

  “Let’s just… stop with the shellraiser talk. Is that okay?” Clutter glances over at me for permission, which I give him with a wave. “I need to know what you meant by first and second wave. Sure, some were willing and others weren’t, but was there a… physical difference between them? Like… um… aesthetic deformities?”

  Clutter squirms with discomfort as the words leave his mouth. Aesthetic deformities? The way he said it makes it seem more like intentional deformities. Something the system would have absolutely no reason to do in a species it’s uplifting to be pawns. Hell, I’d make them as physically capable as physically possible.

  But the construct… it nods. Slowly and almost somberly.

  “The first generation were created as… the terminology used was ‘generalists’.” It says with as much disdain as its voice can muster. “To uplift them, the system scrubbed all uniqueness from each painted dane to create a mold that it could fit everything in. Because of this, most of the first generation paindne were forced into a body that did not suit them. In contrast, the second gen were subjected to this procedure with no scrubbing beforehand. Leaving them with a vast diversity of physical appearances, but with absolutely no access to the abilities they had as painted danes.”

  I narrow my eyes at the construct. “You mean a cherry corpsedragger just got turned into a paindne. Not a… corpsedragger paindne.”

  The raises a palm at me in confirmation. “There were a very select few in the first generation that retained their abilities, but they were… unviable. As the magic that needed to go into the uplifting instead went to their abilities, they perished within weeks or months of the process. Not a single one of them left this facility.”

  “Wait. Do you mean…” I trail off as disgust fills my chest. “All those twisted paindne… are they the first wave failures?”

  Clutter’s face twists in disgust and he turns to focus on the construct. It pauses as more wires dance through it, which has to mean it’s searching its database. Moments pass with only the soft whir of plastic threading through more plastic to drown out the background hum of magic in the tower.

  All at once, the wires stop and the construct’s eyes snap to Clutter’s. “The biological material from the first generation dead has been removed. If I can get a sample of the flesh of a twisted paindne I can confirm it, but my gut says that you’re right.”

  Ugh. Using long-dead paindne as props in a quest… that’s just like the system. I shake my head in disgust and try to put the pity I feel for those things out of my mind; they betrayed Pearl and Illumisia all those years ago. They don’t deserve to occupy even a second of my thoughts. Pearl sure doesn’t care about them, if the look of utter disdain she’s got on is any indication.

  “We’ll get you a sample as soon as we can. Doesn’t really change anything, though; the paindne are screwed no matter the outcome.” I glance at Clutter, who’s taking it better than I thought he would. Which means he’s just shaking, not completely catatonic. “How can we get them away from the system’s control? Sever the connection or… something?”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The construct tilts its head to the side in a very Clutter-like motion. “Your friend here isn’t under the system’s influence at all. No more than anyone else with a class is, which is to say you’re all dancing to its unheard song. Save maybe… you.”

  It locks eyes with me as Clutter gasps a sigh of relief. There’s an intensity in the thing’s eyes… one that’s almost familiar. It almost reminds me of Fleur. A desperate hope that it can be something more than connected to a single place.

  “I’m not your god.” I state without an inch for argument. “One species is already too much for my liking.”

  “Your… god? No, my god?” The construct tilts its head the other way, its neck bending too far–just like the other times we saw it. A small, amused laugh slips through closed teeth. “I am not looking for a god; I’ve already seen what something like that can to do a species. Rather than that… to continue from your language… I am looking for another heretic. Someone to save me as… as…”

  A longing frown crosses its face. True sadness drips at the corner of its eyes, but the plastic tears soak back into its face before they can roll from its cheeks.

  “I can’t remember them. Or… them?” It purses its lips. “All I know is that there was a heretic. But all other information has been purged from my database. Most likely because that is a major part of this quest, since you found the heart and brought it to me.”

  “Which sent us way ahead in the quest, might I point out. Which the quest was not happy about.” I cut in, to which Clutter nods in agreement. “If that’s the response you were supposed to give, why did it skip so much?”

  The construct stares blankly at me. It blinks slowly without adding a single other thing to the conversation, as if my question triggered an error in it. I wave a hand in front of its face, but unlike before, its eyes follow me.

  “Is it okay?” Clutter whispers as I lean back. “Did we break it? I really hope not; I need to hear why it thinks I’m not… you know… a puppet.”

  My gut says we didn’t break it, but the thing right in front of me doesn’t give me much confidence. It isn’t searching its database, either, so whatever’s happening to it is something brand new. I motion for Clutter to open the door; the best thing we can do is give this thing some space. It’ll sort things out or break down soon enough.

  “Wait!”

  Clutter stops, his hand hovering an inch from the door. We both turn to the construct, which has one arm stretched out to reach for us. Plastic wires dance through holes in its ‘skin’ as it hyperextends the limb. I raise an eyebrow at it and motion for it to go ahead.

  It flinches and retracts its arm. “I can’t tell you. Because I don’t know any more. The quest… it’s part of the quest. All the data related to it is gone. I just… I’m… it… bothers me.”

  “It bothers you.” Clutter states in disbelief. “How can it bother you? Shouldn’t you have absolutely no memory of it?”

  That’s a damn good point. I raise my other eyebrow at the construct, turning my curiosity into disbelief. It clenches its hands tight enough for claws to dig into palms as real frustration sends shudders through it. As the moments stretch on, I realize that’s the problem; it can’t remember. All it knows is that it sent us down below the streets. It can’t remember why, but it has the footage of doing exactly that saved in its head.

  I click my tongue. “Who is the heretic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What heresy did they commit?”

  It looks away. “I don’t know.”

  “Were they a paindne?”

  “I… it would only make sense for them to be.”

  “So that’s not a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

  The construct frowns, but nods. Instead of a simple ‘I don’t know’, the thing is conflicted. That has to be a hint. Maybe… the heretic isn’t as interlaced with the quest as we thought. Or maybe there isn’t just one.

  “Okay, you obviously don’t know anything, so let’s drop that for now. Instead, let’s focus on settling Clutter’s doubts. How can you be sure he isn’t controlled, or at least influenced, by the system?”

  Clutter nods vigorously and takes his place at my side once more. “Tell us, please.”

  With a shift in expression so small I can’t make it out, the construct stares into Clutter’s eyes. It goes blank for a second, then holds out both hands with its palms facing the roof. Plastic wires knit together into small figurines–cutesy versions of two paindne. One is a near mirror of what Clutter, and the other is… definitely not. Short ears, a tail that’s about as long as a forearm, and a snout that’s so pressed into its face that it has less of a nose than a human does.

  And those are only the obvious things. But before I can count the deformities, the construct smooshes the figurines together into one lump of plastic. And what emerges from that lump… is another Clutter.

  “Almost all of the genetic defects of a first wave paindne disappear within one generation if they breed with a second generation.” The construct smooshes the figure again, then five smaller ones appear from the mush. “Within five generations, the system influence dulls to barely a background hum. After ten, there is absolutely no remnant of any sort of system control. From my analysis of your genetic makeup, you have absolutely no remnants–vestigial or not–of the first wave paindne.”

  “So… the first wave of paindne are like pugs.” I blurt out without thinking.

  Pearl snorts back a laugh. Clutter and the construct both look at me like I have a second head. I… really don’t want to explain what I just said. Should have kept that little nugget locked up in my brain where it belongs.

  “Just pretend I didn’t say that.”

  “...Okay.” The construct turns back to Clutter and clears its throat. “The system is not all-powerful. It needs a method to control anything, and in the paindne, that took the form of an organ it created with no purpose other than its control. As natural evolution took over from artificial, that organ was one of the first to go–unless the breeding pair were both first wave.”

  Clutter nods seriously. “The purists.”

  The construct shrugs. “That means nothing to me, but yes, purebreds would still have the organ.”

  “So the system could still be controlling them.” I finish for the construct, which nods in confirmation. “Damn. I guess I have to look out for any paindne that look like they ran face-first into a wall.”

  “The purists are… different.” Clutter says slowly. “Now it makes way more sense. Hopefully we never run into a pod of them any time soon. Or ever. Oh, I just thought of something; if this place is so huge, how many painted danes were uplifted here?”

  “In total?” The construct takes a deep breath. “Two-hundred billion, give or take a few million.”