by Dima Zales
All the myriad scenarios replay in front of my eyes, each worse than the next, like the times I fantasized about Criss Angel while using Copperfield… or that time I was thinking about Nero after Harper sexed me up.
For that matter, I hope he didn’t see my memory of last night’s kiss with Nero—though something tells me Darian wouldn’t be in a humorous mood in that case.
“I hope it didn’t drive you mad, your hallucination,” I force myself to say with a straight face.
“Not yet.” He finally lets his grin out. “But madness isn’t the only danger from a chat such as this.” His face grows more serious. “If one isn’t careful, a more powerful seer can drain one’s powers during an encounter in Headspace.”
“Oh?” The curiosity makes me feel buoyant, and I catch myself floating up, just a little.
“In case you didn’t know, longer visions are more draining than shorter visions.” He floats up so we stay on the same level.
“I noticed.” As though in response to my irritation, I float down an inch. Why did he not warn me about power drainage in his tape? He easily could have.
“Talking this way is similar to having a vision.” He again evens our gazes. “The longer we talk, the more power we use up.”
“Crap.” As though in response to my concern, I float down again.
Do positive emotions literally lift me up here and negative ones bring me down?
Darian seems to be able to float at will.
I will myself to float down and grin when it works.
“Yes.” He looks at my bobbing up and down more patiently than I might’ve done in his shoes. “Another thing to bear in mind is that this type of conversation can only end when both of us wish it, or if someone runs out of power, or if a seer is willing to give up a huge burst of power to disconnect. So a more powerful seer can drain a weaker one this way.”
“Sounds like a nasty trick.” I catch myself floating down and will my hologram to stay on the same level. “Is that what you’re doing now?”
“I’m actually trying to accomplish the opposite.” He bobs up and down, like a float on a rippling lake. “I want to give you information as quickly as I can so we can both leave. Keep in mind that when it comes to raw power, I’m not sure you’re the weaker seer here. Nor do I have any reason to drain you, in any case.”
“If this form of communication is so dangerous, why would seers ever risk using it?” I let myself float up.
“Let’s say you and I wanted to have a secret negotiation.” He floats to my level. “Let’s further assume we agreed to meet someplace on Earth, or in some Otherland at a given time in the future.”
“Sure. Let’s.”
“Another seer can in theory have a vision of that conversation—annulling the secrecy of our meeting.”
I float down but don’t say a word.
He joins me and continues. “More importantly, if only one of us foresaw the conversation, he or she would have the upper hand in the actual negotiation.”
“I think I understand.” I steeple my fingers—only to discover that they go through one another like a fork through mist. “Even if we both saw visions of this hypothetical meeting, we could then see a new vision of the new future where we both know about the meeting, then another set of visions, recursively.”
“Exactly. That is, until one of us runs out of power.” He shakes his head. “You have a devious grasp of this, which confirms my long-held suspicion: you’re becoming a seer to contend with.”
“So, let me guess.” I float up. “Headspace conversations cannot be foreseen.”
“Exactly.” He again floats up to my level.
“And that’s why a weaker seer would be willing to take the risk associated with such a meeting,” I say. “At least like this, they can be sure what they say isn’t already known to the more powerful seer.”
“That and total privacy.” He looks at me intently with his strange holographic eyes.
Something clicks and I try to smack myself on the forehead—just to have my hand go through my imaginary head.
“This is why you’re talking to me, despite Nero’s ultimatum,” I say. “Even if he had a seer on his payroll, that seer wouldn’t know about this meeting. No one ever could.”
“Unless you turn out to be a tattletale.” He floats down, then catches himself and floats back up. “Even then, I’d see the ripples of your intent to tell him—like, say, me getting skewered in all foreseeable futures.”
“Interesting.” I catch myself before floating up and stay even with him. I need to learn to hide my emotions in this place. “I guess I won’t tell on you… at least if you keep behaving like a gentleman.”
“You won’t find a more authentic gentleman,” he says, his British accent thickening. “Now, I’m sorry to rush this, but I must.”
“I understand,” I say quickly. “I just want to ask you a few more questions.”
What I leave unsaid is that by his own admission, he needs my willing participation to end this metaphysical chat without a huge expenditure of power.
“Proceed,” he says, his face unreadable.
“Do I merely think of a seer I want to talk to in Headspace to initiate a call such as this?”
“It’s more like you need to evoke their essence,” he says. “But it will only work if the other seer is also in Headspace, which in itself is a tricky feat. It will also require that seer to want to accept your summons—and few will without a prior agreement.”
“How can they reject my call?” I ask. “Do they simply not touch my shape in return?”
“It’s more of a willpower thing,” he says. “Though willing participation is usually required, some very powerful seers can force the call to happen. The safest action is to leave Headspace when any hint of a call is about to transpire, which is basically when you see anything but the vision shapes.”
“Leave Headspace?” I float up. “How do I do that?”
“Oh, that is simplicity itself.” He floats up too, a smile touching the corners of his ghostly lips. “You just need to touch yourself.” He says this deadpan, but I can tell he’s suppressing another annoying smile. “I’m confident you can figure that out.”
I float down almost a foot.
He must’ve indeed seen my memory pertaining to Copperfield—what else could he be implying with that?
Hey, at least I have never thought of him during my sessions. Or have I?
Wait, I need to focus on the important part.
It sounds like I can leave Headspace without having a vision by metaphysically touching myself.
As in, doing what I do to shapes to myself—nothing dirty about that.
If this works the way I suspect, it could be very useful when it comes to my Headspace practice—
“Time is of the essence,” Darian says, and I suspect that if he had a watch, he’d look at it just then.
“Fine, but can we do this again?” I will myself to float back up so we’re on equal eye level. “I want to learn more—”
“I’m sorry.” He looks down at the darkness below us. “I fear we will not be able to talk again anytime soon. Either in this fashion or in person.”
As disappointing as that statement is, there are interesting implications there. It might mean we just used up so much of his power that he will need to recover for a while. If true, and assuming I don’t completely lose my powers for just as long, this could allow me to gauge which of us is a more powerful seer.
Or he could simply be low on power now because he used some earlier today.
“Don’t be so glum,” he says. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”
“Sure. Keep dreaming.” I bob up and down like a feather in the wind. “How am I supposed to learn to be a seer then?”
“Not from Nero, that’s for sure,” he says, his ghostly features darkening. “Speaking of him, I wanted to tell you something of dire importance.” He slides down a noticeable distance, then
floats back up. “Do not fall for Nero… I’m telling you this as a seer, not as a man.”
I nearly choke on the million possible replies that range from, “It’s none of your business,” to, “That was never going to happen anyway, so don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”
I settle for something in the middle of those extremes and with exaggerated sarcasm say, “I’ll take that under advisement. Any other pearls of wisdom you wish to impart?”
“Practice your seer powers,” he says. “It’s a matter of life and death in a much nearer future.”
I drop two feet down. “What do you mean by that? Whose life or death? What is going to happen to them? Is there something specific I need to worry about?”
“Yes,” he says. “Your priority is your—”
I don’t hear what Darian says next because in that very moment, our conversation short-circuits.
Chapter Nine
“No!” I try to scream, but there’s no way to scream when you’re exiting a vision—which is what just happened.
I find myself sitting on my meditation cushion, back in Nero’s metal cage.
“Your what?” I shout, but to no avail.
He could’ve been about to say “your friend” or “your mother” or “your unborn child.”
I punch the cushion beneath me in frustration.
That was clearly an important warning.
Plus, I had so many more questions.
Did Darian know my father?
If so, did he also know my mother?
I launch to my feet and start pacing from metal wall to metal wall.
Why did the conversation end so abruptly? Did Darian lie when he said it couldn’t be ended by him without my consent, or did one of us run out of seer juice after all?
If it’s the latter, I hope it wasn’t me, or if it was me, I hope I recover soon so that I can practice my powers, as he advised.
Not that I need that advice. I was going to practice my powers in any case.
Something tells me it wasn’t me who ran out of power. I had that multi-hour vision about playing video games with Felix and recovered in a few days. Our conversation lasted a few minutes at the most.
Unless those conversations use more power than visions do.
I stop pacing.
I need to calm down and try to go into Headspace again.
If it works, it probably means Darian ran out of power.
Does this mean I’m more powerful?
No.
Like I surmised before, he could’ve had a long vision recently and was running low on juice when he got my call.
I catch myself pacing again and stop next to the screen with Nero’s digital countdown.
I’ve only completed an hour of my eight-hour allotment.
Any hope of relaxation bursts when I realize how cooped up I’m already feeling.
I pull out my phone to check on my emails.
At first, it seems that I have none, but then I see it.
No cell connectivity or Wi-Fi.
Now this is just cruel, even for Nero.
Am I supposed to be like some modern-day Robinson Crusoe, stuck on this uninhabited island without internet access? Actually, I’m more of an Edmond Dantès—put in a horrific prison by a traitorous enemy.
I take a deep breath.
I have to seriously figure out a way to calm down.
Then I recall that Nero left me some comforts that Count Monte Cristo lacked in his cell at Château d’If.
Going into the bathroom, I turn on the faucet for the shiny new Jacuzzi.
Leaving the hot water to pour, I navigate my way into the kitchen and fix myself a gourmet snack.
Impossibly, the escargot is even better than it looks.
Did Nero’s private chef make this?
I go for seconds, then thirds.
Hmm. I’ll have to watch my weight if I stay in this room for eight hours every day. With food this yummy and no place to exercise, I might easily balloon out of control.
Done with food, I head back into the bathroom. The water in the Jacuzzi is just right, so I close the door, pray Nero isn’t watching, and take off my clothes.
The jets in the tub are almost as good as a massage therapist, and I soon find myself relaxing, especially when the food coma arrives.
Once I’m good and pruney, I gingerly leave the tub and dry off.
Now I’m ready to meditate.
I assume the position and start the breathing.
Soon after, I find myself in Headspace.
I float among the shapes, musing.
Seems like I had some seer power still in the tank.
I sense my surroundings as though for the first time.
This is a place.
A location.
If any seer, anywhere in the multitude of Otherlands, is currently trying to get a vision, they’re here somewhere, also surrounded by shapes not unlike these ones.
Could I meet one by chance?
How big is Headspace?
If my intuition is right, Headspace might be vast—a whole universe size or larger, making a chance meeting unlikely.
Which is probably for the best, given what Darian told me.
I wonder… could I chat with him again so soon?
Thinking about Darian makes me recall the happy look on the face of Sasha from the strange future—a future where she seems to care for Darian.
I refuse to think I would’ve ended up in that position otherwise—pun intended.
Do I want that future?
The shapes around me change as I ponder this question, but Darian doesn’t show up.
Well, I didn’t expect him to. Clearly, he’s the one who ran out of mojo.
Suddenly, an idea occurs to me.
My biological father is a seer.
Could I call him in Headspace?
Pulsing with excitement, I think the word “father” over and over to myself.
Nothing happens.
Crap.
I might need to evoke his essence, whatever that is—which might be tricky to do, given that I know nothing about him.
“Grigori Rasputin,” I think over and over.
No luck.
I try to recall everything I’ve read about the man.
Zilch.
I dwell on fictional accounts, like his villainous roles in the Anastasia cartoon and the Hellboy franchise.
This time, I’m glad it doesn’t work. If his essence were anything like those fictional depictions, I’m not sure I’d want to meet him.
When I tire of futilely summoning my biological father, I contemplate using the same method to summon my biological mother—assuming she’s also a seer.
I try my best, but it doesn’t yield any fruit.
Then something occurs to me.
I shouldn’t “Headspace call” important people like Rasputin when my powers are as drained as they are; else what happened to Darian will happen to me.
If I want to practice my powers today, I think I’d better focus on the concept of leaving Headspace that Darian mentioned.
Right.
That might let me leave and come back here over and over, until I learn to activate visions as smoothly as Darian did in his memory.
If I had lungs, I would sigh.
All I now need is to touch myself.
Chapter Ten
Okay, Darian definitely made this task harder by turning the idea dirty.
At least I think that’s why I’m having trouble with this.
I don’t even know where to start.
When I activate a shape here in Headspace, there does seem to be some sort of an appendage involved, but I have trouble feeling it now—especially in reference to myself.
The problem is that I don’t know where I am. What passes for my senses doesn’t have the capacity to “look at self.”
Wait a second.
Maybe this works like those calls?
In that case, maybe the first step
is for me to think of my own essence?
Easier said than done, though. What the heck is my essence?
Darian thought of me as bold in his memory—and I might agree, to a point. I’m definitely bold when it comes to the methods of my magic, but I’m less sure about my boldness outside that context.
He also called me adaptable and creative—but I’m not sure how much of that is true either, at least outside my performing persona.
I do get playful with the audience as he suggested, but is that something that can be considered my essence?
I’m not sure I’d think of myself as brave either—which is something else he thought. There are spheres of my life where I’m not brave at all. My love life is a great example.
As to the idea of me being, and I quote, “bloody gorgeous,” that is ridiculous. I’m cute, at best, and more importantly, I don’t see my appearance as part of my essence at all.
My bout of introspection doesn’t yield any results. Does that mean I need to dig deeper into my essence?
Who would’ve thought that “touching yourself” could feel so much like a therapy session with Lucretia?
I’m sneaky, I’ll admit that. I try to channel my mischievous deviousness into my illusions, but it doesn’t always work. Sometimes Felix ends up with a keyboard that sprouts greenery, or super-sour cake—
Something finally happens.
Wow.
Trippy.
This is what those out-of-body experiences must feel like—except I didn’t have a body to begin with.
Metaphysics aside, I sense the shape I was connected to during the Headspace chat with Darian.
Somewhere in my nonexistent gut, I know that this is me.
Now I just have to figure out a way to “touch” her/it.
This part is easy, though.
I do what I’ve done with shapes—and Darian’s version of the entity.
First things first, however. My Darian-dirtied-up mind demands I change some earlier terminology. Henceforth, what I dubbed my metaphysical and nebulous appendage is going to be called my ethereal wisp.
Because if I’m going to “touch myself,” I’d rather do it with that than anything that brings to mind tentacles of a Lovecraftian monstrosity.