by J M Guillen
Abruptly, a loud CRACK echoed down the passage, and I smelled scalded metal. The door collapsed inward, pouring down like fine black sand.
“I’m killing it.” Wyatt struck a few of his keys. The spike pulsed once, an indigo shine. “Okay.” He nodded. “We clear, Anya?”
“Indeed,” Anya breathed with a glance over at Wyatt. “Ambient axioms have returned to their previous levels.”
“I can scout ahead,” I offered as I peered into the hatch.
“Below?” Wyatt suggested.
Unease washed over me as I tried to make sense of what I saw. Greasy, multicolored light shone there, its radiance eager, almost lustful.
“We have confirmation.” Anya focused on the space before her. Her fingers moved more quickly. “It is Sathantür.” She crouched down next to the hatch and peered over the edge into the unearthly light.
“Wellity well.” Wyatt also crouched down and peeked in. He blinked and turned away. “Vertigo.”
I understood exactly what he meant. The realm below sat at a ninety-degree angle to this one.
Wherever this hatch emerged, that world didn’t consider itself to be ‘down.’ Our hatch opened on a wall, like a doorway. The dust from Wyatt’s hatch melting episode had fallen in and gathered to one side.
I turned to Anya. “Readings?”
She nodded as her fingers twitched. “Sathantür is different here. Something at this locality is drastically altering physics.”
“What kind of something?” I asked.
“Unknown.” That tiny furrow between her eyes deepened. “I am not getting clear readings from out here. We will have to be very careful in our mecha calibrations.”
“And you know how to do that.” I turned to face her. “Right?”
“I have the same specifications as previously.” Her fingers stopped for a moment and then started again. “There are easily a dozen small axiomatic conflicts, but I believe the mecha will be capable.”
“Conflicts like what?” Wyatt asked as he secured his hat.
“Folic acid will break down. Serotonin seems to become an unbonding molecule. And there will be endocrine system issues.” She glanced at us both. “I do not read nearly enough oxygen. I estimate that we cannot stay inside longer than seven hours, even with standard mecha covenant calibrations.”
“Seven hours.” I drew my disruptors. “I’m going to behave as if I understood the rest.”
“Huh.” As Wyatt shouldered the Tangler, he asked, “Will our gear function, Anya?”
“I am uncertain about Michael’s disruptors.” Her brow wrinkled. “They rely on null-point energy to create kinetic force.” She gazed at me. “Some of the very basic forces are in flux.” Her head twitched. “I am sending a packet for mecha specs.” She turned to Wyatt. “I also cannot ascertain if you will experience your accustomed level of field control for similar reasons.”
We both nodded slowly, applying her specifications.
“Understood.” I turned to Wyatt. “You ready?”
The large man grinned. “Born to raise hell.”
Together, we stepped into a world sideways to everything we knew.
3
The avocado green carpet belonged somewhere in 1973. Gray particulates and brass fittings lay next to the hatch—all that remained of the door. The wood paneling caught my eye as well. Just as in the silo, the décor evoked a style from decades past.
“We all clear?” I kept my voice low, as I didn’t want to attract attention. Immediately I began to cough.
Wyatt nodded.
Incoming mecha specs. Anya’s blue eyes unfocused. Give me a moment. I will determine the survivability rations of this area of Sathantür. We may need to make further alterations.
Beyond the simple baseline covenants? I gave her a sideward glance.
Perhaps. Unknown.
A series of screaming whines and blips sang in my Crown. It chirped a long moment before Anya connected, flowing like sunlight into my mind.
Crown sync request detected. The slow prompt dragged through my mind. Asset 108, do you wish to allow Petrova, Anya, to create connection 01-026wk?
Yes, I linked. Allow connection.
My Crown filled with the high-pitched whines and clicks that calibrated the viral mecha, an annoying sound. I much preferred the way the Crown worked with the Lattice.
For a long moment I watched as she tinkered with the dialogues.
“It is not enough.” Anya glanced down.
“Our current mecha supplies?” I exchanged worried glances with Wyatt.
“I still gotta few here, Anya.” Wyatt dug into one of the many pockets he kept filled with odd rambles of random detritus.
“I am in possession of the matrix numbers of every injectable we carry,” Anya informed him. “Trust me when I say they have been accounted for.”
“Well shit,” he grumbled.
“So, given the baseline axioms in there, our physical requirements, and the injectables on hand, we don’t truly have the resources we require,” I clarified.
“Correct. The mecha are meant to supplement and augment your existing bodily processes. They will create the required oxygen, but they were not designed to keep your endocrine system functioning. They cannot alter axiomatic processes to such a vast degree for the time we require.” She hesitated.
“Damn it.” I sighed.
“We require a Caduceus. I apologize. We can survive for approximately four hours within this topiatic locality with current resources—almost half of my previous estimation. It is the best I can do.”
“I’d like a countdown.” Wyatt eyed her. “Something that adjusts and keeps our resource time up to date.”
“Easily done.” Anya’s gaze went distant for a moment, and then the numerals appeared in the lower left corner of my visual array.
Four hours, three minutes. That was how much time our mecha would buy us in this realm. After that…
“Okay.” I nodded at her. “Worst case scenario, we’ll fall back into hatch-town.”
“That’s no better,” Wyatt grumbled. “Twitchy here says Rationality is this way. Yer goin’ backward that way.”
“I know.” I popped my knuckles as I thought. “I explored those hatch-filled hallways. There’s nothing there. Those misty tunnels functioned like a foyer—” I stopped mid-sentence.My eyes widened.
“What is it?” Wyatt scratched at his beard.
“Wyatt.” I turned to him. “I had a thought.”
“Have another, then rub them together and see if they spark.” He gave me a wide grin, which fell when he saw the expression on my face.
“I know Anya patched you the phaneric record of our mission, even though you were drunk at the time.”
“She did.” He nodded affably. “But I wasn’t drunk.”
“Your blood alcohol level registered 0.18%.” Anya blinked, confused. “I would most assuredly say you—”
“Whatcher point, Hoss?”
“I had a thought,” I repeated. I’d already accessed the data in my Crown, though it came a bit slower without the Lattice. “The spikes of Irrationality. They could have rent the veil.” I reviewed the visual of Anya’s Fibonacci numbers. “But they didn’t. Also, no Irrational after-echoes showed up.”
“That’s a fact.” Wyatt shrugged. “So?”
“Well.” I stared at them. “What if that’s because those were the after-echoes? What if all we picked up were the remnants of some gargantuan event that didn’t take place in the Rational world at all?”
“That’s…” Wyatt paused to juggle numbers as he perused the data in his Crown. “A strange idea. What would be the point?”
I glanced up to indicate the topia we’d just dropped from.
“It’d have to be something incredible, if our spikes were just after echoes. How much energy do you think it would take to connect several topias together, like some kind of—”
“Like a goddamned trans-dimensional train station?” Wyatt’s eyebr
ows shot up, somehow offended, as if he found the thought personally insulting. “Hoss, that’s—”
“That’s what we just stepped through, right? A hallway that contained dozens of doorways to different places? A nexus?”
“The theory does answer some questions regarding the lack of Irrational echoes,” Anya mused. “There are known instances of large Irrational events creating harmonic reflections in nearby Rational space.”
“I’m not the numbers man,” I said with a glance to Wyatt and then Anya, “but I wager there’s math that shows what would happen if a topia, say this one, were forced to make an incursion on another. And if each of those hatches has a different topia behind them…”
“Each fucking one of them.” Wyatt adjusted his Stetson. “Damn it, Bishop, that’s monstrous! Why would anyone have any cause for such a thing?”
“‘The Vyriim are a hyper-intelligent species that constantly seek to create new colonies,’” Anya quoted the Designate back to us. She met each of our eyes. “Everything we know about them indicates their primary goal involves invasively spreading as far through the Myriad topias as possible.” She gave the tiniest of shrugs. “Creating a realm to function as a waystation could fit that goal.”
I had nothing to say to that. We stared at each other for a moment and pretended we weren’t avoiding the topic of genius-level aberrations invading Rationality.
“Not for us to make that call.” Wyatt cleared his throat. “If we don’t get out of here, no one else will be able to either.”
“Agreed,” I said. “I’ll take point.”
“Don’t slip off too far.” Wyatt turned to Anya. “Can he use the Wraith in here without it melting his eyeballs or making his tongue explode?”
“I will check.” Her gaze drifted off and she nodded slowly. “My readings indicate neither of those things would happen.”
“I…” Wyatt took off his Stetson and ran his fingers across his closely shaven pate in frustration.
“I’m initiating the Wraith. Keep a good bead on my systems, please.”
“Understood, Michael.”
Coolness and shadows washed over my skin as I vanished from sight. I crept from the small room and padded down the hallway, soft green carpet beneath my feet.
The carpet and paneling weren’t the only leftovers from the era of funk. The halogen lights overhead revealed a hideous orange chair tucked off to the side. After approximately four meters, I found a door on the left with a small window and a brass plate.
Mr. Oglemeyer
Associate Director
As I read at the nameplate, a short, balding man strolled into view of the window. He shut another door. Had we been anywhere else, I’d have assumed he came from the director’s private washroom. He wore khaki pants and a suit jacket that might have been at home in my closet.
Perfectly normal. Except…
Except he wore an old, battered gas mask, by the looks of it, from the Second World War. A small green tank hung at his side, and various tubes ran from the tank to the mask.
He sat at his desk and began to leaf through a manila folder full of papers.
I stood, entranced, and watched the man. He might have been in any office building in any city in the world. He would have passed for an insurance adjustor or an accountant.
Except.
He reminded me of an insect, wearing a gas mask as he worked. Apparently, whatever else might be going on, these folks had adapted to the local axioms well enough.
I have visual contact.
Armed? Irrat? Wyatt sent eagerly. He didn’t exactly spoil for a fight; he just felt powerless and wanted something he could control.
Unarmed. Unless you count a business prospectus as a deadly weapon.
Michael, Anya linked. Will the contact see us as we pass? Do we need to eliminate him?
Well. I glanced down at the door. We can slip by if we want, but he shouldn’t be too difficult for us to take out if needed.
Perhaps we should hold our position. Anya’s tentative link worried at me. It wouldn’t do for us to engage the contact without more knowledge of the situation.
I agree with Twitchy. I’d hate to have ’Rats swarm us while we focus on one guy.
Sure. I grinned. Understood.
I slipped down the hallway to two more offices, both with brass nameplates. Similar but empty rooms met my gaze. I decided they didn’t warrant much attention.
I crept to the end of the hallway. A metallic door with an oily sheen sat squarely in front of me. To my right, a short hallway ended in another door. To my left, the door-studded hallway stretched into a corner.
There’s a door at the end of the passage. I pressed my ear against it and listened. Shocking cold met my flesh, and I nearly jerked away.
Anyone home? Horrible tentacle monsters?
I pulled my ear from the door and glanced down the intersecting hallway, first right and then left.
Negative. Just as I linked, I heard rustling from behind a door to the left. Check that. Potential contact. I stepped close to the door and pressed my ear against it.
The door slammed into the side of my head and threw me back on my suited ass.
“Fuck me!” I cursed. My katana, previously held in my left hand, flew from my grasp and clattered on the floor.
Michael! We heard that!
Great. I turned and glanced up at the person who had come through the door.
She looked positively surreal.
Her hair had been styled meticulously, at least what I could see of it. Just like the man in the office, she wore a relic of a gas mask with large green lenses over her face. She had short hair and a figure to die for, all wrapped up in a power suit.
Unable to see me through the Wraith, her gaze dropped to my katana.
Shit.
4
Even though I couldn’t make out the woman’s eyes through the goggles of the mask, I imagined her wheels turning as she twisted her head to peer about.
She reached underneath her jacket to a holster.
I heard her raspy breath.
Wyatt. Get ready. I tensed. I had one chance to do this and be quiet about it.
Slowly, she wrapped her hand around her pistol. Drawing silently, she settled into a crouch and studied the corridor.
I struck, all grace and dexterity from the Adept.
Leaping, I swept her leg. As she went down, I lunged, hoping to silence her before she screamed. This could be over before she knew what happened, if things went my way—
Nope.
She struck far quicker than I expected. As she went down, her arm whirled toward me.
Fuck!
She managed to fire twice as she fell.
I tumbled sideways, dodging a third shot from her, then a fourth. Bullets tore into the ceiling and the wooden paneling, a thundering sound in the small space.
Excellent. Eagerness echoed through Wyatt’s comm. Let’s rock.
WHUF.
The woman tried to step back to get a wider shot on the entire hallway.
I caught her forehead, which I slammed into the doorframe with a satisfying crunch.
The gun dropped from her unconscious fingers.
No sooner had I grabbed for it than someone else shot from inside the room.
I glanced up and saw four more people in business attire and creepy gas masks. One of them held an old, World War II-era machine gun, while another emptied his pistol into the air over my head.
Quickly, I grabbed my katana and threw my back against the wall, staying low.
We have four more. Two with guns that I can see, I linked.
Got Mr. Oglemeyer trapped in his room, Hoss.
We have no axiomatic disturbances yet. No data on Irrational capabilities, Anya chimed in.
Right. I glanced back through the door.
The two with guns advanced slowly, while another slipped out the back door.
Dammit. I had to move before he summoned reinforcements. Advancing. I spun
into the room, low, silent, and invisible. As far as I saw, I’d entered a simple office. Boxy desks hunkered in neat rows, weighed down by reams of paper. Four clocks hung near a door on the far wall.
I let the men get a touch closer since they still couldn’t see me.
The one with the pistol out in front trembled the smallest amount.
I’ve said it before: the Wraith combined with the Adept is a lethal setup. Unseen, I spun toward the first man and sliced with the katana. I opened his neck before he even knew what happened and turned to the second.
The figure only stood still for a moment. He turned from the slender woman on the ground to the empty hallway. Then he aimed the antiquated machine gun straight toward me.
It barked as he opened fire.
Target may be able to see past the Wraith, I linked as I rolled to the side and came up behind one of the desks.
What? Wyatt’s incredulity made me smirk. That’s no fair!
Agreed. I aimed my Stiletto and fired three quick shots.
One caught the gas-mask-wearing jerk in his side. He yelped as he spun and fired off several more shots. One of the bullets hit my shoulder. I whirled from the impact and went down in a controlled fall behind the desk.
I’m hit. Shoulder.
Did the shot pierce the quasi-steel armor, Michael?
In and out. I thumbed my shoulder. Still operational.
Four more shots tore into the desk, showering splinters all around me.
From somewhere in the room, a gruff voice barked out commands in a tongue I didn’t know.
Russian? Maybe. If I’d been connected to the Lattice, I could have patched it in for a translation.
Maybe Anya would know.
You still have mecha on standby, Michael. If you are wounded, I suggest tasking them for pain and tissue repair.
Copy that, Anya. I had untasked mecha? Hard to believe. No time, though.
The gruff voice cried out again, more urgently, and I heard surging movement.
I pushed up, aimed the pistol, and shot twice.
One blast punched through the gas mask. The other caught him in the neck. He fell.