Events proved unkind to Dennet's judgment regarding landmarks and milestones, though not about jerks. “You guys got dispatched! Wow!” Ipons Ulsrada burst into the Rare closet, energized from top to bottom and eyes wider than usual. He twitched and hopped and may even have been said to caper. “I should have kept leveling, but I forgot the Public Service rewards cap out at 340 combined levels. I'll catch up today! Tell me what it's like out there later, OK? I can't wait!”

His excitement infected the rest and mutated into horror as it spread, for only then did the happy levelers realize they had become viable candidates for Public Service's auto-fill. The seven level 40 Rares rushed for the door as one and got stuck the same way, backed up, and walked through one at a time as if they had not been raised by cyberwolves in a cyberbarn.

After that, their true natures reasserted themselves and they raced for the bulletin board in the courtyard, shoving and tripping all the way. Dennet traveled half the distance on the ground, gripping tight Ulrik's ankle, whose level 40 Attack allowed him to ignore the burden. So he reasoned, though in fact the lack of a movement speed stat did the real work.

By the time they arrived, the board was surrounded by URs and smirking SRs. Hyl DeMereanch opened his arms wide to welcome them. “At last, the latest heroes have come. You too will know the rewarding tedium, the pleasant drudgery of Public Service and grow to love it as much as we. It is an elite society we have, and at this, your induction, I will tell you our motto: 'Better you than me.' That sums up my feelings at the moment, and yours, I am sure, when you happen not to be chosen.” The useless Super Rares and less-used Ultras applauded the speech and thrilled at the possibilities for novel configurations. Two URs and an R, of course. A UR at 150, an SR at 120, and a 70+ R? In the future, even 2 SRs and an R or 1 UR and 2 Rs could be imagined if the Rares continued their diligent Vigilant Patrolling, though the ratio of Rs to SRs to URs made those unlikely.

The login calendar entered and exited the main hall, and the Public Service teams began disappearing as they were sent on their dispatches, their expeditions, their whatever players chose to call them. What mattered was that a few officers would vanish only to reappear hours later holding some gold and materials for the pile.

Ulrik manifested somewhere in Perandra Splendida with a hose in his hands and a helmet and fire-resistant clothing on his person. Next to him he saw Dosellian Urapta and Lasva similarly accoutred.

“Firefighting? Neither the activity nor the raiment suits me,” Dosellian Urapta said, robbed of his bejeweled jacket and fine court hose. “Perandra Splendida is the largest and richest city on the continent. Surely it can hire more men to handle all these burning buildings, unless there has been some, shall we say, misappropriation?”

“Spicy! Keep talking! You didn't say I can't quote you, not that I wouldn't anyway. Them's the rules.”

“The building continues to burn,” Ulrik reminded them.

“Haven't you taken care of that yet? You're an Inferno, aren't you? I can tell by your vitality and optimism. I am a Storm, as is this annoying reporter. Agonizing as it is for someone of my rarity, I must admit your superiority for the task.”

“I know the players don't let you fight nowadays, but Infernos have bonuses against earth stuff, not fires. Also! You have penalties against earth, not fire stuff.”

“An interesting theory. How may we test it? Ah, I know.” Dosellian grabbed Ulrik by his temporary yellow coat and pants and tossed him into the building. “Please, let us know how you make out. Now where was I? Accusing every last municipal official of corruption?”

Elsewhere in Perandra Splendida, patterns of light and darkness crept across the gulf's surface as the clouds passed over in the wide blue sky and the sun's rays reached through the gaps to paint the waters gold. Splendida's harbor, while inferior to Fanbaran's and less active, hosted ships and boats of all sizes except for “really, really big,” because the locals did not yet have the technology for that. As chaotic as the maneuverings of those seacraft seemed, there was agency and intelligence behind them. Boats sent by the harbor authorities guided ships on their assigned courses.

“But there is a shortage of personnel for the task. That is the meaning of Rowing. Are we ready, ladies?” Aerywe Beruvo waited for any questions or concerns on the part of Uamna and Vinnette Melban, the breeze rustling her long purple hair and dress of green, white, and gold, but none came. Both of them curtsied, gathered their dresses in their hands, and stepped into the boat, which rocked no more than if a mouse had run across it. Aerywe followed them in, and all three sat at their oars, the two crewwomen facing the captain. “Very well. Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Look lively. Stroke! Stroke! Marvelous. Stroke! Simply marvelous.”

When the depredations of uncontrollable pirates had ended and the reigns of strong and popular rulers such as King Ostros, Beruvia's twin queens, and Lord Protector Havamal promised future political stability, economic enthusiasm burst forth and made demands on construction that outstripped the ability of the available manpower to provide. Freegate's new lord was happy to lend his army's officers to aid the rebuilding efforts, or even plain old building.

“I can't see!”

“Why not?”

“Hold on. I have extensive experience in analyzing soldiers and determining what must be done to improve their performance. I might be able to figure something out.” Flawless Pedigree leaned down and examined Tramda Olex, clopping around to come at the problem from all angles, his tail rising and lowering as his opinion changed. It then straightened out to announce he had reached a firm conclusion. He backed up, supported his chin with a thoughtful-looking finger, and reported what he had discovered. “Your hard hat doesn't fit because you're too tiny. None of them will fit. Sorry.”

“You're saying we're short-handed because our luman's too short? Terrible. What can we do? None of us are Strategists, but . . .” Eten crossed his thick, toned arms and looked down, far down, at the problem. “Have you tried getting taller?”

“All my life.”

“We could station her as a lookout in case any robots attack the construction site. She'll be invincible with her hard hat down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. How about this?” Flawless Pedigree drew a tape measure across Tramda's face, grabbed a drill and the largest available hard hat, and opened up two eye-holes. He dropped the hat on her and admired his own craftsmanship. “Perfect. You'll get marriage proposals from every turtle in the country.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“Great work, Flawless. Time for work! Raaaaargh! Tramda Olex, you're not shouting.”

“Rawr.”

“Good enough!”

A village like any other on a river that could have been any river. Three fishermen who could have been any people holding springy rods and wearing hats with flies and lures strapped to them, except they had stats. Clazdius Oranio, Georgia Anne Cooper, and Burmin Trivvis to represent the Rares made the scene, in that order from right to left but not from shortest to tallest. The last two would have been swapped in that case.

“A new companion, eh? Well, well. Well, well, well.” Clazdius smoothed out his bushy mustache, adjusted his pants around his portly self, and sat in a riverside chair. “This particular activity is called 'Fishing,' and I believe that statement is sufficient explanation, is it not? Come, sit.”

Georgia Anne Copper already had a line in the water and a hat over her eyes. Burmin edged around the third chair. “Is that OK? I mean, uh . . .”

“Sit.”

He sat. “I've never fished before.”

“Well, I'm one up on you. I've never caught anything.” Clazdius leaned back and adjusted his leghorn hat to achieve a similar effect to his neighbor's. “How about you, Ms. Cooper?”

“Nope. Didn't see a need.”

“No need at all. I quite agree with you on that. That being the case, Mr., ah . . .”

“I'm Burmin Trivvis.”

“Mr. Trivvis. You have an opinion, and a second opinion, from two bona fide Medics, that the thing to do is take it easy for a few hours and deliver a bauble or two to the Armory afterward. You might even read some articles from Public Service Monthly, if you like.” He rolled up the latest issue issue and tossed it over.

“'Lawn Mowing Is My Life.' That doesn't sound bad. Thanks, Mr. Oranio.”