by Garon Whited
I don’t want to talk about the mouth, if you don’t mind.
Okay, conclusions.
The chaos outside the universe, at least locally, is a high-energy state of disorder. From what I can make out, this energy is constantly impinging on the Firmament and, to some extent, being absorbed by it. The Firmament is kind of like an Ascension Sphere in that regard. This makes the Firmament and the world it surrounds a tiny island of order amid a seething sea of chaos energy, feeding on that chaos power and turning it into ordered, structured energy—matter and energy as I understand them.
At least I no longer have to wonder where the local sun gets its power. Come to that, I don’t have to wonder where the magical power of the world comes from, either. Several million square miles of power-absorbing surface area can supply energy for some pretty power-intensive things.
The reverse is also true. The ordered, structured nature of the Firmament has a stabilizing effect on the chaos in close proximity. I think the Things roaming the void don’t have actual forms. As far as I can tell, they don’t exist as solid, material objects. Up close to the Firmament, however, they have to take on physical shape because of the effects of the Firmament on the chaos. The ones trying to get into the world seem to prefer a physical form over a chaos-energy existence. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just some types of chaos entities. Maybe it’s all chaos entities. Maybe it’s only the ones that think organic beings are tasty. I haven’t taken a poll.
I decided to test the waters, so to speak. I reached through the Firmament into the void. Why not? The sun wasn’t up. At worst, I would lose a hand. I can regrow a hand.
At first, nothing happened. I paid close attention to my hand, watching and feeling for anything unpleasant. No changes occurred. The void tingled, yes, but it was no worse than the tingling of a sleeping limb.
I pondered what this might mean. I recall falling or sliding or flowing through the void at one point… was I partially shielded by the unstable wormhole? That would seem likely, since I was successfully delivered to my destination. What about now, though? Was the supposed chaos in my blood acting to somehow immunize me against the forces beyond the Firmament? Or were the effects minimized by the proximity of the Firmament, itself?
While I wondered about these things, I wasn’t paying attention to my hand. I was aware of the tingling, of course, but nothing happened to indicate anything untoward. When I redirected my attention, looking at my hand, it snapped back into its proper shape and color.
I jerked my hand back through the Firmament and examined it. The tingling faded over the course of several seconds. I felt a faint itching sensation all through my hand, similar to the feeling of regenerating flesh. Nothing seemed obviously wrong with it, though.
With some trepidation, I extended my hand again, watching closely. The chaos beyond the world engulfed it, naturally, but nothing more than tingles occurred. I moved it around, opened and closed it, but it remained a hand. I pulled it back and examined it. Perfectly intact.
I looked around. Outside the Firmament, I didn’t see anything in the local neighborhood, so I continued fooling with the raw forces of creation. I stuck my hand into it again. Again, nothing happened.
So I glanced away for a moment. It didn’t feel any different, but when I turned back, my hand was larger than expected, the fingers were assorted sizes, and the whole of it was somewhat prismatic. At least, for a moment. Then everything flickered back into its normal shape. My hand felt perfectly normal through all this.
I pushed my luck. I imagined reaching out into the chaos, extending my fingers. They lengthened. My whole hand distorted, changing shape, stretching as though viewed through a funhouse mirror. I closed my eyes, concentrated on my hand, flexed it, formed a fist, drew it back. When I opened my eyes, my hand was perfectly normal. Normal for me, I mean.
I propped my chin on my hand and considered.
If I pay attention to it, it’s fine. If I pay less attention to it, weird things happen. Offhandedly, that reminds me a little bit of the observer effect in quantum mechanics. Of course, that normally applies only to things on a subatomic scale…
I poked a stick out into the void and concentrated on it. It remained a stick.
I imagined the stick growing, like a branch growing, sprouting smaller twigs off it and various flowers. It did so.
I pulled it back. The stick remained a stick with small branches and flowers. The flowers were particularly worrisome, to me. I’m not a botanist, but shouldn’t a single plant have a single type of flower? Yet there were a dozen blooms, each different from the others. Was that my unfamiliarity with the details of flowers? Or the effects of a chaos environment?
I dropped the stick over the side and pondered the infinite void.
Does all this make chaos a macro-scale quantum uncertainty? No, but it’s certainly similar in some ways. The fact I can alter things bathed in chaos is interesting, but also troubling. I’ve already established the area near the Firmament is partially stabilized due to the local interactions with the Firmament itself. What are things like out in the deep waters of the void? What are Things like? I have no idea. Do they have any sort of consciousness? Some of them surely must—or must they? Are they horrific entities when they get near the Firmament because we think they are? Do they remain horrific entities in the deep void because people insist on it?
If Things become demons because we think of them as demons, is that how the local gods started?
There’s a whole bait store I don’t want to open.
A different can of worms is the astronomy of Karvalen. If Karvalen is floating in a sea of chaos, what are the stars? Are they similar little worlds? I saw a few other worlds when I was visiting the local Olympus. Could those be out there, twinkling in the sky because Things flit by every so often, momentarily obscuring them? Or do flickers and ripples in the void cause it? Maybe both?
My head hurts. I think I’m done researching the void—no, I shouldn’t call it that. I don’t have a good name for it, though. Okay, it’ll stay “the void” until I think of something better. But I’m done for now. I need to think about this and work out new experiments for conditions beyond the world. Besides, it’s getting on toward dawn and I should get a move on if I want to spend the morning in the Imperial Palace.
Zirafel, Wednesday, December 7th, Year 8
The Imperial Palace in Zirafel was relatively unchanged. There were a few signs of looters and the like, but no general vandalism. The accidental statues in the entryway were gone, probably broken at some point and therefore cleaned up by the repair and maintenance golems. One of the large statues, a defensive golem, was also missing. I suspect a bunch of people visited the place, got into a fight with the house guardians, and the magical janitors cleaned up afterward.
If this keeps up, someone’s going to succeed in breaking in. Eventually. The place will run out of guardian statues if the looters keep it up long enough. Erosion is a powerful force.
I announced myself when challenged. They didn’t give me any trouble, but I speak the language.
The private quarters, on the top floor, were still in perfect condition. I lounged in the tub as I waited out the dawn.
The rest of the morning was spent inside my headspace, meditating and concentrating on the problem of how to analyze the otherworldly—or unworldly—qualities of raw chaos. It’s not a trivial problem. Of course, it meant I also had to correlate what I discovered about the Firmament, itself, as well as how magic interacted with each.
I don’t think at computer speeds while in my headspace, but I think much more quickly than normal. I suspect it’s a function of several things, including the magical nature of how my headspace formed, vampirism-altered nervous systems, and the intense mental focus involved. It always seems far longer in my mental space than actually passes out in physical space.
Once I had my mental ducks in a row, I came out and realized it was time for lunch. I should have brought supplies, but I didn
’t think so far ahead. I have a standard kit of supplies on the rare occasion I go exploring a whole new world, but I seldom bother with it when visiting established worlds. I didn’t expect to have to spend so much time outside civilization. Well, I was delayed in my research by an unexpected slaver caravan attack. Hardly my fault. At least I soaked up some nourishment in the process.
I drank all the water I could hold, instead. It wouldn’t kill me to go a day without eating, but it would be a distraction and make me cranky. At least I could examine the Firmament and the void in the light of day. Contrast could be important, and it would help take my mind off my stomach.
Whistling, I strolled back to the bridges to infinity and sat down at the far end of one. Yep, the Firmament itself had a bluish tinge by the light of day. Of course, that brought up the question of the thickness of the atmosphere again. If the Firmament arcs a thousand miles up, is there air all the way? On Earth, the air only goes up—effectively—to about fifty miles. At a hundred miles, you can put something into orbit, but it won’t stay there forever. The International Space Station is only about two hundred and fifty miles up at any given moment.
Is there a nine-hundred-mile vacuum between the atmosphere and the uppermost arc of the Firmament? Or is the air pressure stable in relation to altitude? If the sun travels through a vacuum for the majority of its journey, that might be a good thing…
Maybe I should open a gate from the top of a mountain down to a deep valley and check to see if the pressures are different. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Some of the qualities of this world’s base structure annoy the hell out of me.
The Diogephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sweetie,” replied Mary’s voice. “Where are you?”
“I’m sitting a little beyond the Edge of the World meditating on infinite chaos.”
“Metaphorically?”
“Literally.”
“Oh, there. Okay. Have you figured out where and when we’re going out?”
“No, not yet.”
She paused before answering, which is generally a bad sign.
“Have you—” she began, and started over. “Dear, perhaps we should discuss the idea of you taking an interest.”
“I am interested.”
“You’re right, and I didn’t say that well. How about we discuss you more actively showing an interest?”
“Oh. Have I been ignoring you?”
“Have—grr.” There was another pause. “When you have time for me, would you please come home?”
“Ah. I see. I’m on my way.”
“Thank you.” She hung up and I got to my feet. I recognized my peril.
How to get back to Apocalyptica in a hurry? I know I can only dial in to the Great Arch of Zirafel. Dialing out always connects to the twin of itself in Tamaril, on the eastern edge of the world. Can I transfer a micro-gate connection from the phone to the Arch? I might as well try it…
I told Diogenes and he had the general-use gate in silo three ready for the connection. The Great Arch took the transfer. The image through it rippled for a moment, like a flexible mirror settling into stillness, and I stepped through. Diogenes closed the connection.
“Welcome back, Professor.”
“Nice to be back. Mary in?”
“Yes. She arrived from Fonzarelli moments ago.”
“What do we have going on in Fonzarelli?”
“I believe she has designated it a recreational world. Identities, investments, and a residence with shift-booth. No regular cargo, but she occasionally brings back some rare-earth elements, faux collectible items, and similarly portable materials.”
“Okay. Oh, I’m expecting some new tissue samples of elf variants. It looks as though we’ll need to produce male and female elves for the customers.”
“I will have suitable cloning resources prepared.”
“Thank you. Where’s Mary?”
“She is in the residence, silo two, library level.”
I arrived through the variable-destination gate in silo three; it’s got a silo all to itself. Maybe I’m unreasonably cautious, but I like being unreasonably cautious. I went through the hatches and blast doors, took the tunnel and slidewalk to silo two, and rode the escalator up to the library level.
I picked escalators for a reason. Elevators, when they break down, are deep pits with steel boxes in them. If you’re lucky, there are cables you can climb. If you’re unlucky, you’re in a steel box and plummeting to the bottom of the pit. Broken escalators, on the other hand, turn into stairs. Maybe no one will ever bomb my home in Apocalyptica, but you never know. When I made sure it was deep underground, it wasn’t just for the sunlight resistance.
“Honey, I’m home!”
“That was quick.”
“You asked for me when I had time for you. I always have time for you.”
“That’s a nice sentiment.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Don’t like my tone?”
“No, I can’t say I do. Am I in trouble?”
“Maybe we should sit down.”
I gestured her to the sofa. She shook her head and sat in one of the armchairs. I nudged the other one toward her, faced it toward her, sat in it. The things are designed to be sat in while wearing a sword; it’s almost a requirement around my house.
“Significant discussion?” I asked.
“Yes. Because my patience is worn thin and I’m about to start screaming at you.”
“Right now? Or as in, scream at me if you don’t do something about it?”
“The second one.”
“Thank you for your consideration,” I said, sincerely. “What can I do for you?”
Mary took a deep breath—in the daytime, those are useful. She let it out slowly, pushed some pale-blonde hair back over both ears, licked her lips.
“I’ve been doing my own thing for a while now,” she began. “You’ve been on what you call a vacation, doing your own thing, yourself, for… well, for local years. I don’t know how long it’s been for you.”
“I think about twenty, but that’s just a ballpark figure.”
“This is not a good moment for you to talk.”
I shut up.
“I’ve been patient with you,” she went on. “Sometimes I get you to come with me on something fun. I can’t complain about you ever refusing—you never do—but I’m not sure you enjoy it. You never complain and you’re always willing, but… but you never… hmm. You never show enthusiasm. Like that place you called ‘Thunderdome.’ The place with the post-apocalypse survivors. We had a fabulous time—or I did—killing random raiders, finding good places for humans to build communities, and so on. You went, you contributed, you helped, you made suggestions and recommendations, the works. You involved yourself. You were the ideal sidekick, and I appreciate that, but you didn’t… you didn’t want to grab the place, shake it out, and put it back together like I expected.”
“I agreed to bring home that one bunch of—”
“Still not a good time to talk.”
I resolved to speak only when asked a direct question. I’m not afraid of Mary, as such, but she is exceptionally deadly and she was holding back, trying to say what was bothering her instead of letting it all pour out. If at all possible, I prefer not to settle domestic problems with bloodshed—and not just because some of the blood shed might be mine.
Sometimes, I wonder if our personal levels of violence stem from who we are or what we’ve become. In my mortal days, I hardly raised a hand to anyone. Maybe it has something to do with being part of a society, rather than mavericks outside it. Or, yeah, maybe it has something to do with regarding strangers as potential food.
“I guess the thing,” she went on, “is you never—and I know I’m not supposed to say ‘never’ in these kinds of discussions, but it’s true. You never initiate anything. You just want to sit in your room and play with your magic, or talk to Diogenes about building a gadget, or build something in the garage—n
ot literally, I know, but we have how many shift-booths to specific worlds?” She held up a hand when I opened my mouth. “Don’t answer. It’s a lot.
“I think the problem I have with you—No, that’s not the right way to say it, and it’s not true. I think my problem is I… I feel I’m… I’m not ‘ignored,’ or a ‘low priority,’ or any number of other things. You just… you seem to not want to do anything with me. Not that you refuse to, but you don’t have a desire to do so. You don’t… you don’t take an interest. You aren’t thinking about where we can go and things we can do together. You don’t tell me what you want, so it feels as though you don’t want anything from me.
“Take the Manor, for instance. You love it there, mostly because nobody wants anything from you, I think. I show up and you’re glad to see me, but you don’t miss me when I leave. Or Samhain? It’s a world with a decent magical intensity, sort of Dark Ages with a splash of the medieval, and you didn’t even ask if I wanted to see it. It’s the same with Firebrand. You leave it with Bob most of the time and don’t seem to miss it. I feel like you do that with me, but I have legs and can move myself. Everything is like that. You go to places because you’re asked. You do things because people ask. You don’t go out and make things happen on your own. Someone has to poke you to get you to move.”
Mary took another deep breath and laid her hands gently on the arms of her chair.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, you don’t seem like yourself. You’re… quiet. Unenthusiastic. I might go so far as to say you’re depressed, but depressed people tend to sleep a lot. You don’t sleep at all, as far as I can tell.”
“I can’t. I keep thinking of unpleasant things. Johann figures big in my lying-awake-trying-to-sleep times. Bronze, too. And Tort, and—”
“You’re not helping!”
“Sorry,” I said. She sighed in exasperation and started again.
“You make me think of the discussion we had about what happens when you kill a living vampire during the day. What’s left is a shell, a husk of what used to be. You don’t have any urge to go out and do anything. You just sit with your books and your spells and never seem excited. You act like you’ve lost that spark of who you are. From what you described of it, it seems to me you’ve lost your soul. ”