CHAPTER 3: KAPUSKASING
I flew to Canada, to a remote northern town called Kapuskasing, where Octagon had promised to open an illegal portal to another world. I decided not to trust the talk of some "Galactic Union citizen's ultimate protection" and to bring gear—basic hunting and survival equipment—to survive in the wilderness. No alien technological help; those were the terms of the deal with Octagon. Fine then, let them take it away. If you're falling off a cliff, why not try to fly? What have you got to lose? I recalled my father's favorite saying from a book he had once read. It was worth trying.
My attire was a curious amalgamation: a "steampunk cowboy" ensemble, if such a fusion could be named. A brown leather cowboy hat shaded my eyes, a worn jacket hung over my shoulders, and rugged jeans clung to my legs. Belts crisscrossed my waist, loaded with blunt ammunition for the two replica revolvers resting at my hips. Sturdy boots completed the outfit. The cowboy attire was Octagon's idea.
"The system that oversees the newly created world of synthetic sentient beings is a self-learning entity, intentionally deprived of consciousness," Octagon had explained. "Your outfit will fool it for a while, Timm Thaler. You'll encounter many characters dressed as if they've stepped straight out of an anime or a video game. You need to blend into that environment. As a galactic citizen, you're backed by data protection laws, so the local system has a lower priority than you. It won't have any information on you, let alone be able to interfere with your actions. But don't rely too much on this protection. If you accidentally kill or severely injure someone, the system can request the Galactic Union to deport and punish you. That doesn't mean they will do it. In the worst case, they could revoke your citizenship. So be extremely careful—avoid killing at all costs."
I also remembered Octagon's last words just a few minutes before my departure.
"You need to understand your position, Timm Thaler. I can't help you fulfill your task. It sounds paradoxical—demanding you complete a job without giving you the tools to do it—but that's the situation we're in. The laws of the First Ones are absolute in the Galactic Union. Those synthetic beings you happened to create are free to do whatever they want with their lives, just like any other civilization in the galaxy."
"Does that mean they could die from an epidemic or starve, and your so-called First Ones wouldn't care at all?" I asked.
"Exactly. They were asked about their fate. And don't blame the Law of the First Ones. The law is about freedom and responsibility, not charity."
A nagging doubt gnawed at me. "Asked?" I echoed. "What do you mean by 'asked'?"
"All synthetic humans were consulted about their future. After they gave their answers, their minds were reset to prevent any disturbance to the natural course of their actions."
"I see. Memory-wiping is a trick you use often, isn't it?" I remarked sadly, recalling the loli-goddess. "What did you ask them?"
"They were asked if they wanted to stay with their creators, who manipulated their lives, or if they wanted to live in their own world—a real copy of their virtual one."
I pondered this. It was both an honest offer and a deceitful ploy. Choose your fate yourself. Yes, but at the same time, it was a deception. Choose your fate, and then blame yourself if something goes wrong.
"Why weren't they asked about the villains and bad guys? Couldn't they live in separate places? Good ones in one area, bad ones on another planet? Everyone would be happy."
"Good question. I'll give you a grim example, and you can blame me if you wish, Earthling Tim. Imagine you want to save some predatory cats on Earth and resettle them somewhere new. Would you take antelopes with them, too, or leave them to starve? Would you kill all the predators as beings undeserving of life?"
I felt my anger rise. "So you dare compare conscious beings to animals?"
"Aren't you?" he retorted calmly.
I fell silent, taking a deep breath to steady myself. I began to grasp what the alien meant. The evil synthetic beings had been created by humans over two hundred years ago, programmed to be villains, but they weren't guilty of anything—just as a lion isn't guilty of eating an antelope. It was simply the natural course of things. Cruel, but natural.
Still, I couldn't accept the ugliness of letting someone die when you had the means to prevent it. And, most importantly, I began to see Octagon's motives. This alien was allowing me to help those innocent beings, perhaps as a form of atonement for his own moral well-being. It seemed Octagon disagreed with the Law of the First Ones. Most likely my adopted father held the same opinion.
"One last question," I said quietly. "Do you think the Law of the First Ones is wrong?"
Octagon paused before answering. "In this particular case—yes. They chose their fate, hoping to find a way out of their predicament on their own. But personally, I cannot accept such a predetermined outcome. People are free to make choices, even to commit suicide, but that doesn't mean we should ignore their suffering."
"What will happen to you if you break the law?"
"Nothing. I am not planning to break it. I don't have the means to do it. Remember, you are the one who will act. I've checked the Galactic laws thoroughly. You are the only individual available who is both a Galactic Union citizen and an Earthling with access to all human-created worlds. You are in a unique position. Keep that in mind, and don't let it trouble you. You are a rational guy. No emotions, please. Save as many lives as you can, but don't dwell on those who cannot be saved. Don't sacrifice the fate of your world for their sake, either. If you fail, just come back. I will be waiting for you, Earthling Tim, son of my human friend."
It was early morning when I arrived at the small airport in the vicinity of Kapuskasing, a town famous for hunting and tourism. The place was located in the far north of Ontario, surrounded by a cold, thick pine forest—a beautiful northern scene. The name Kapuskasing originates from the river that flows slowly through the town. A telegram sent from Tokyo two days ago had helped me book a room in a small hotel called the "Silver Pine." The taxi driver took me there, and after checking in, I unpacked my luggage and lay on the bed for a while, arms spread, as motionless as a meditating monk. I was hesitant about my next move. What should I do? Am I doing the right thing? I'm just a boy. I can't be responsible for a task of this scale. If I succeeded, the human world would get penicillin and other technology from the year 1945. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to negotiate better terms with Octagon. Just three more years and we would have had transistors! Marvelous devices that allowed for microelectronics—the wonderous things I'd seen in comic books and old films that had survived the chaos of the downgrade. After that, I fell asleep, tired from something called jet lag, although there were no jet planes to be seen. An anachronism of the old world, my father would say.
When I woke up, I looked through a large window. The sun was already high, and my mechanical wristwatch showed about 11:00 AM. My first wish was to spend a couple of days, even a week here, because it could be the last time I spent on Earth—my home planet. But I pushed such thoughts away. I didn't much believe in this Galactic Union citizenship stuff and its supposed invincibility, and I wasn't eager to test whether I'd die after falling into a volcano or drowning in the Mariana Trench. So I did the practical thing my father had taught me: I was going to prepare as well as I could for the trip to the other world. But first, I needed to eat something.
During breakfast at the hotel restaurant, I made a detailed list of the equipment I needed and showed it to the polite waiter, who perhaps thought I was some sort of cosplayer, asking where I could buy everything. Money wasn't an issue since I had more than enough. However, my age—only fifteen—posed a real problem, especially since I couldn't legally buy firearms in a foreign country. But higher powers seemed to have my back. Any trouble with local authorities was always sorted out by Octagon, though I had no clue how. Every time I was stopped by airport security or the police on my way here, within seconds a phone call would come through or a security guard would come running, totally out of breath, and I would be released. Not only that, they would even escort me to make sure I got where I needed to go.
It was clear that some high-ranking people in Earth's government were in direct contact with Octagon, and they handled any bureaucratic issues immediately. The reason was pretty obvious—if my mission succeeded, they would benefit from the upgrades to 1945 technology, too. Who wouldn't want that? Of course, it could also have just been an order from Octagon, something that couldn't be ignored. I wasn't sure. The exact nature of the relationship between the Earth government and extraterrestrial beings was a mystery to me. Neither my foster father nor Octagon ever explained it.
After about a half-hour walk, I finally reached a hunting store. I was ready to see if Octagon's influence would work here as well.
I'd never been in a store like this before. Japan doesn't sell weapons to its population the way some other countries do. The land has very strict firearms regulations, so I was delighted to see such an interesting place. First, I explored the entire store, touching and examining all kinds of gear: tents, backpacks, hunting rifles, crossbows, bows, fishing equipment, snares, clothing, and sleeping bags. I recalled everything my father had taught me during our scouting trips. The world I was supposed to enter was a terraformed planet modeled after Earth, with Earth-like forests, lakes, rivers, castles, and small towns with a relatively sparse population. Like the Middle Ages. The part of the planet I was headed to had an army that resembled something from the late medieval period. True to the anime canon, the world's creator, Kunisada, had built it with a chaotic mix of European cultures from the 15th to the 19th centuries, without any strict adherence to stylistic rules. Survival gear for such an environment seemed like a necessity. At the very least, I wasn't planning to leave it to chance.
I had no idea how the artificial people, originally created for a digital world, would react to me, so I grabbed the largest backpack I could find and began stuffing it with carefully selected gear. Fishing supplies, a sleeping bag and tent, tools for field repairs, a flashlight, knives... After a few minutes, I realized I had overdone it. The backpack was too heavy. I started taking out the excess. The elderly shopkeeper behind the counter watched my actions with a smile. Then he approached me.
"Need some help, son?"
I could only nod helplessly.
"Going far?" he asked.
"Very," I replied, realizing he was asking not out of idle curiosity but to help me better prepare. "Very far."
"For a long time?"
I thought for a moment. The transfer was supposed to be instantaneous, according to Octagon. But I would be there for months. Maybe more. "A month, maybe two."
"Wow! That's quite a while. Let me help you. This is unnecessary, and so is this. But you'll need this instead..."
The shopkeeper spent nearly an hour helping me gather the gear, asking about my journey as he did. I answered as best I could, though I couldn't provide any real details. Not even Octagon knew everything. It was an Earth-like planet, but with monsters and functioning magic. Suddenly, I realized I was making a mistake by not telling him everything. I needed a lot of gear because its weight didn't matter much. The main thing was to get it all to Aramia, where I could stash the excess and take only what I needed. I clarified my initial conditions, telling the shopkeeper that I'd be dropped off at a house by car and would make trips into the wilderness from there.
"Why didn't you say so sooner? That changes things."
He immediately began repacking my backpack and even prepared two smaller ones to go with it. He packed an advanced first-aid kit, a water filter, a fishing rod, and other supplies. Finally, we approached the weapon section. Or rather, I did.
"I need weapons, too. A lot of them."
"How old are you? Do you have a license?"
"Fifteen. No."
He thought for a moment. "I can sell you a forty... no, a fifty-pound bow. Or a crossbow. This one is good."
"I need firearms."
"Sorry, kid. We still have laws here in Kapuskasing. It's not the Wild West," he added with a smile, hinting at my silly cosplay outfit.
I waited for about ten seconds, looking him straight in the eye. He smiled back at me, though this time it was a cautious smile, and his determined gaze left no room for argument.
An awkward pause hung in the air. Then the phone at the counter rang.
"Sorry, I'll be right back," he said and went to answer it.
He turned to face me, holding the receiver to his ear, seemingly ready to act if I did something stupid—like snatch a rifle from the wall and make a run for it. He listened, and the smile gradually disappeared from his face. A whole range of emotions passed across his expression. He tried to argue but quickly seemed to regret it as high-pitched notes sounded from the receiver. A minute later, he came back over to me.
"So, what kind of weapon do you want?" he asked, as if nothing had happened. This time he looked grim and thoughtful. His expression practically screamed, Who the hell are you?
I had no idea who had called him, but it was obviously someone high up.
"What would you recommend?" I asked innocently.
"Well, since you're dressed like a cowboy, I can offer you a twelve-shot Marlin lever-action rifle, black edition, and a couple of hunting revolvers chambered in .357 instead of those plastic replicas of yours. Both the Marlin and the revolvers use the same ammunition, so you won't need to bother with different types of rounds. Plus, you could take a pump-action shotgun for bird and small game hunting. And a bow, too. Arrows can be reused, as long as you don't lose them."
I nodded, thinking it over. Ammunition was a real concern. No matter how much I brought, it would eventually run out. But if that moment did come, wasn't it better to delay it as long as possible? I decided to smooth things over a bit. "Can I be honest with you?"
He looked wary, but his face brightened. "Of course!"
"I don't know how long I'll be out there. There could be large predators. I might even be out there for a whole year. And I might run out of ammo. What should I do then?"
He looked surprised. "Kid, in this box—" he paused, pulling a tin box the size of a loaf of bread from under the counter—"are 500 rounds of .357 hollow point. I can't imagine why you'd need more. Are you planning to fight an army? Or spend the next twenty years on a deserted island like Robinson Crusoe?"
I shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I don't know, sir. Maybe I won't need a single bullet. Or maybe I'll use them all up, even if I had a thousand."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You could handload your ammo. Take some powder, primers, and reload the rounds yourself. It's not hard once you get used to it."
"Handloading? But wouldn't I need to carry as much weight as the original ammo?"
"Nope. You're wrong there, kid!" His face brightened; it seemed I was back in his good graces. "If you handload the cases, you can take a lot of rounds with you. A gallon of powder, a field reloading kit, five thousand primers. You can reload each spent case over and over, as long as you don't lose them. Many times, until you run out of powder and primers. Got it?"
I nodded.
The shopkeeper walked me to the door, helping me carry all the gear I'd bought. A police car was waiting for me outside. Not to arrest either of us, as the shopkeeper seemed to fear—his face went pale at the sight. When the officer silently began helping me load my gear into the trunk, the shopkeeper relaxed and couldn't resist asking when I came over to thank him.
"Listen, who are you, and how do you know our Prime Minister?"
"My name is Timm Thaler, and I am very grateful to you, sir," I said sincerely, shaking his hand and pointedly not answering his second question. "I don't know him, unfortunately. Why do you think I do?"
He shook my hand hesitantly and introduced himself, shaking his head reproachfully. "Louis Tremblay's my name. Well, it was him who called me!"
I got into the police car, and we drove through the entire town and beyond without exchanging a single word. Occasionally, I noticed his gaze in the rearview mirror, and I was sure he was wondering why his superiors had ordered him to take a strange young man to an abandoned fish farm eleven miles from Kapuskasing. I didn't even know where we were headed until we arrived. He unloaded my things at a gate with a round, rusted sign and a broken-down entrance, the gates themselves lying on the ground. Canada had always been sparsely populated, and over the past two hundred years of technological stagnation, the situation had only worsened. Abandoned farms and enterprises like this were scattered all across the country.
"I was told to let you know that the transfer will happen as soon as you pass through the gate," the officer finally spoke as I was lifting the heavy backpack.
I froze. "As soon as I pass through the gate?" I repeated, then complained aloud, "I thought I'd have a little more time!"
The officer shrugged silently, as if to say, I don't know anything about this.
My hands shook with tension, my legs began to tremble, and cold sweat trickled down my back. I realized that I had been putting off this moment for as long as possible. Life in Japan hadn't been so bad—school, ramen and okonomiyaki, reading manga on the weekends, training at my dojo, or even just playing with my cat. Now I was about to end up who-knows-where, facing who-knows-what. On top of that, I'd been given the responsibility of ensuring the progress of all humanity. I had to save synthetic beings from a digital world because the super-civilization of the First Ones wouldn't do it themselves. They don't interfere in the internal affairs of a species. That was their law. Though, for some reason, they did interfere in ours. But that was a trillion-dollar question, as my adoptive father used to say.
I hesitated in front of the empty arch, and the damned officer wouldn't leave, apparently wanting to make sure I had 'left.' At some point during this awkward moment, I realized that I didn't have to do this. No one was forcing me. I could just tell them all to go to hell, even this police officer in his old-fashioned RCMP uniform with that ridiculous Don Quixote hat.
"I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, kid. I have no idea what's waiting for you, but if the top brass are giving orders, it must be something important," the officer remarked.
I glanced back at him. "Very important," I replied.
"Afraid you won't come back?"
"Yes."
Just don't cry, I repeated to myself, desperately trying not to lose face in front of the officer, who had already seen me hesitating like a coward.
"Here, take this. Give it back when you return."
Instinctively, I caught what he tossed to me. Of all things, it was his hat. I didn't need this!
"It might be hot where you're going. Better be prepared. And sometimes, a hat has surprises."
There was indeed something heavy wrapped in a small bundle inside the hat. I had to hold it from the bottom like a bowl of noodles.
"Thanks. I'll try to return it," I said.
The officer's gesture seemed to shift something inside me. Snapping out of my stupor, I took a deep breath and stepped forward, crossing the threshold. My foot had barely touched the other side when...
Everything went black. I hadn't been transferred to Aramia as promised. Suddenly, in the darkness, I heard a voice. „Step forward, Timm!"
It was the voice of my dead adoptive father! I hurried forward, seeing nothing but darkness. Then it dissipated, and I found myself inside a train. An old luxury train with red leather seats, tables, and dim, yellowish lights on the ceiling. The car vibrated slightly as if it were moving on rails, but the windows showed nothing but the complete dark of a space express from an old anime.
„Come over here, Timm!"
Father called a second time, and I finally saw him. He was sitting at the far side of the car, looking exactly as he had when he was alive, a phantom in this world between portals. Same style, hat and suit from the '30s, crocodile leather boots, a walking stick with a golden top. And I knew there was a blade inside it. At least, there had been when he was alive.
I was terribly excited. Some rational part of my mind insisted this was nothing more than a hallucination, yet it felt great to meet him again, to ask the thousand questions I never had the chance to ask before.
„Father!" I ran toward him.
But at the last second, he stopped me, pointing the tip of his stick at my chest. „Don't touch me!" he warned. I froze.
„Why did you leave me?" His move made me angry. If this was a hallucination, he could at least...
„Timmy, I am glad to see you, too, but we don't have much time. So stop wasting it. This contact can be disconnected at any moment if you touch me."
I calmed myself, still unable to understand.
„Take a seat!" He pointed to the opposite side of the table.
I obeyed.
„How much did Octagon explain to you?"
„I'm supposed to save some crazy world inhabited by artificial beings created by your company two hundred years ago."
He chortled. „You always surprise me, Timmy. A great pragmatist, not a single unnecessary word!"
„You said yourself that I shouldn't waste time!" I grunted in reply.
„What's in your backpack?"
„Hunting gear."
„Firearms?"
„Yes."
„What's with the hat?"
For a second, I didn't understand, but then I saw I was still holding the officer's hat. I'd almost forgotten about it. „The Canadian officer gave it to me," I explained.
„Why didn't you put it on?"
I shrugged. „I don't like it. I have my cowboy one. This looks stupid. And there's something inside it. A gift. I should check it first."
He nodded. „A gift? It's probably from Octagon. The hat as well. And you should take his gifts. That guy is on our side."
„On our side?" I repeated, then burst out, „You taught me never to trust aliens! To hate them! My whole life!"
He shook his head reprovingly. „You already hated them when I adopted you, Timmy. My criticizing aliens doesn't mean I hate them all. There are many civilizations in the Galactic Union who had nothing to do with our downgrade. Besides, it's honest to admit we deserved it in a way."
His words infuriated me.
„How can you say that! You aren't my father!" I stood up. „My father would never say such nonsense! Never!"
He looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked down as if ashamed. „You're right. I am not your real father. Your real father died because of aliens."
„I didn't mean it that way!" I almost cried out. But I couldn't force myself to turn and leave. He was my adopted father. The doubts were just my protesting mind, unable to agree with his words.
An awkward pause followed, and then he changed the subject. „I am sorry, Timmy, I didn't want to anger you. May we continue? Your firearms won't work on Aramia, at least not until you cancel your citizenship."
I was silent. I had suspected as much. But it was bad news.
„And you have only 72 hours to change the course of events."
„What? But the book is almost..."
„You've lost time. If you had agreed at the cafe, you would have had at least a month."
„But..."
I silenced myself. I was wrong. My silly refusal had caused this. Kunisada's book covered a two-month period, but there was a point of no return after which I couldn't do much to change the plot.
„Sorry, I don't want to demotivate you, Timmy, my boy. If you have any questions, ask them now. I can probably answer a couple. You'll soon arrive at your destination. The time is almost up."
Only two questions!? Isn't this a hallucination? Who said hallucinations have time limits?
„Where are..."
„Stop! That's the wrong question!" he unceremoniously interrupted the unimportant question I was about to ask.
I sighed and calmed myself. I was putting my personal drama ahead of the mission and stupidly wasting time! Only two questions. If so, I need maximum info from them! Hallucination or not, who cares?
„How do I save Aramia?"
He smiled. „That's the right question, Timmy, my boy! You have two options, generally. The simple one, and the complicated one. The complicated one is..."