Mobius

by Garon Whited

  My first impression of her was not overwhelmingly positive, either.

  She was tall, bordering on giant. She stood around nine or ten feet in height. Her eyes were pools of crimson fluid, like blood, but it filled her eyesockets without dripping down. Her hair was the same color, possibly the same substance, rippling as though she were in an underwater current and ignoring minor things like gravity or wind. Her skin was white, chalk-white, milk-white, even to her lips and fingernails. Her hands were long and thin, appearing quite delicate. Each finger had an extra joint, even the thumb, making her hands even longer. She was shaped much like a woman. I could tell because the toga-like robe she wore pressed against her, as though the invisible current moving her hair affected her robe, as well. It was mostly red with a touch of white and no trace of pink. It was like a bloodstained sheet, but the red kept creeping around, changing shape—or maybe it was the white that kept moving, like a Rorschach inkblot for driving people crazy. I couldn’t see her ears under the rippling hair, but her throat looked strange, as well—almost cylindrical, without the usual muscles. She was almost a mannequin in many ways, but realistic enough to be horribly alien.

  I felt her crimson gaze fix on me and I didn’t like it one bit. There was power there, moving below the surface of those blood-filled pools. It was a power both strange and strangely familiar, though I couldn’t place it. Whatever it was, it was vast and ancient and had nothing at all to do with anything human.

  I’m a mortal man with chaos in my blood. She was a Thing born of chaos.

  She asked me who I was. I didn’t hear her voice. She never opened her mouth, never moved her lips. I felt her question, nonetheless. Despite the way I’ve interwoven protection into my brain to prevent this sort of thing, it was as though the knowledge of what she wanted dropped straight into my awareness without any need for anything as crass as words. It made my skin crawl and various other parts of my anatomy prepare for a battle to the death. Damned glandular reactions!

  “I am called by many names,” I admitted, trying to hide my desire to run. “You may call me ‘Halar.’ May I ask who you are?”

  I didn’t hear her ask Bronze, Firebrand, my altar ego’s sigil, or my cloak, but I felt them answer her, as well. Neat trick, that. I wondered if she asked my shadow, but I didn’t bother her for clarification.

  As suddenly as a plunge into cold water, I knew her name was Maddarrah, the Bloody-Eyed One, the White Lady of the Heru.

  She wanted to know why we came through her Gate.

  I was busy being amazed at encountering what might actually be considered a god, or I would have been more surprised. I thought the magicians of Zirafel and Tamaril built the things. Then again, it was a long time ago—or would be a long time from now—and the facts can be distorted by the centuries. The good news, as far as I was concerned, was she obviously felt somewhat proprietary about her Gates. It gave me an idea for the proper spin on the truth.

  “There’s a being who is misusing your Gates,” I told her. “I saw it go through the other one, so I came after it to stop it.”

  She found this information troublesome, but, since she approved of my goal, she permitted me to continue. I had the distinct impression she was willing to waste no more time on me. I was of no greater significance to her than a squirrel on the Ardents’ farm would be to me. The squirrel lands on the roof and scampers across. I go outside to see what the noise was and see the squirrel. I dismiss it from my thoughts and return to what I was doing. She dismissed me from her thoughts and her attention moved to the Arch again.

  I wasn’t sure if a verbal expression of thanks was in order, so I simply tried to feel thankful at her—copying, monkey-fashion, her mode of communication. I wasn’t sure it would work, but once I felt it, it seemed worth trying. She didn’t acknowledge, so I don’t know if I succeeded.

  She instructed the Arch to form the connection, a permanent one, the task I interrupted with my arrival. It chimed, connected, snapped close, and we bowed at her before stepping through. She might have noticed, but gave no sign. She walk-float-glided around the Arch and presumably went about her business while we went about ours.

  A withered old man sat in the grass, holding the Orb in his lap, and I heard laughter coming from both the Orb and the man’s throat. I wanted to make a snarky comment. Maybe something like, “You know, indulging in triumphant maniacal laughter distracts you from potentially important developments.” It was a severe temptation, but I resisted it.

  Instead, I stepped forward, drawing Firebrand. The Orb had already sensed me and the old man—presumably possessed or controlled—stopped laughing and started to turn. His head made about thirty degrees of rotation. Firebrand hit him in the neck like a white lightsaber at slightly below the speed of sound. His head, white hair now aflame, rolled to my left. As the body went limp, it released the Orb. It rolled a couple of yards forward in the grass. I sheathed Firebrand again and moved to stand over the Orb. Looking down at it, I saw it seething with all the colors of darkness and every shade of black. I felt its hatred, its rage. All those careful plans, all those years in hiding, all those secret machinations and preparations, and all gone to hell in the proverbial handbasket. I could almost sympathize. Almost. My sympathy for Evil Orbs got shot off in some war or other.

  It seethed, but made no attempt to communicate. It sat there, a ball of evil and darkness, hating me. I have to admit it was mutual.

  “You,” I told it, “have been a constant source of worry and dread in the back of my mind for more years than I like to contemplate. Got anything you want as last words?”

  It continued to hate at me. I felt it and was forcibly reminded of Aragorn challenging Sauron through a Palantír. The Demon King would make a decent Dark Lord if he ever got out of Tort’s containment sphere. He would even be bodiless until he could find someone capable of containing his malevolence. Lots of similarities there, but not quite right.

  I looked around, taking in the view. The sky was cloudless and bright as the eye of a cat. The terrain, pre-Zirafel, was mostly flat, with some slight irregularities. Grass came up to my knees. Someday, this would be the Plaza of the Arch. Since it faced this way, the Way of Kings would run that way, the Street of Summer would run perpendicular to it, and the Theater of the Sun would be over there, up against the Edge of the World.

  Sadly, there was nothing at hand for carrying Orbs of Evil. I did such a good job of planning and preparing everything else, but I forgot to bring a Bag of Orb Containment, or even a sack. Well, you can’t think of everything, I guess.

  I tried using my cloak as a bag. I laid it down on the ground and prepared to kick the Orb onto it. My cloak had other ideas. It flipped up, as though caught by a wind, and fluttered aside. I tried again, just to be sure. It definitely wasn’t the mild breeze. It was daytime, yet my cloak strongly exerted itself to avoid being used as a bag.

  I held it up by the black clasp and looked at it. It hung there apologetically. Don’t ask me how it managed to hang apologetically. Just go with it, okay? It’s not the weirdest thing it’s ever done, not by a long shot.

  “Okay, no bagging the Orb. Got it.”

  I put my cloak on again and it seemed much happier.

  “Hey. Altar Ego. Did you make it through?”

  Yes. It had a definite sense of direction. The psychic voice came from the box at my belt.

  “Any ideas on how to carry this thing?”

  Kick it like a soccer ball?

  “For a while, maybe, but eventually I want to pick it up and put it somewhere. Will gauntlets be good enough for handling it?”

  I don’t know. I’d look, but I’m a micro-god, not even a demigod at the moment.

  “Fair point. I’m kind of at a loss for what—”

  Boss! Firebrand exclaimed.

  “What?”

  Incoming!

  I turned. The Great Arch was high and wide, suitable for traffic to and from the two cities, so there was plenty of room for the white-sk
inned, crimson-eyed, woman-thing. Whatever she did on the other side, she was done and coming through the gate. Her movement was as alien as the rest of her. She glided forward, as though levitating beneath her billowing robe. I felt a terrible chill down my spine, envisioning her as a mass of writhing tentacles from the waist down, all twisting and slithering to give the illusion of a smooth stride. I can’t say it was true, but I can’t prove it wasn’t, either. I, for one, was not prepared to try sneaking a look up her dress. All I know is the robe rippled far too much from the waist down.

  I think I’m right in saying I’ve seen some seriously mind-boggling shit, but looking at her move made me want to be elsewhere. Anywhere. Away.

  What’s-her-name, Maddarrah, took no real notice of us, but turned and regarded the Arch. I have no idea what she was thinking and I’m not sure I’m capable of comprehending her thinking, even with telepathy. She walked around it, her head moving, presumably, to direct her vision toward every inch of the Arch. There was power in the gaze. It wasn’t directed at me and I still felt it. My guess is she was doing something to the Arch, finalizing it somehow, or repairing whatever damage the Orb’s time-looping spell did.

  I kicked the Ball of Badness off to the side and strolled after it. Bronze would have kicked it for me, but I was afraid to make too much noise. When the Heru-lady didn’t react, I kicked it again and we continued to move farther away. The Orb did not appreciate this humiliation. I didn’t care. My goal was to get all of us as far away from the entity of primal chaos as possible without attracting its attention. If she was content to ignore me as too insignificant for notice, I was willing to remain insignificant by quietly moving farther and farther away—without running.

  A wise man once said, “Never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention.” Usually, it applies to anyone trying to run from me. I did not enjoy the reversal.

  The Heru-lady minded her own business while I minded mine. There are advantages to being regarded as inconsequential. We all walked—or rolled—away, one kick at a time, for the better part of a mile. I stopped when we were hidden from sight by a swell of ground and an outcropping of rock. I figured we were well beyond where the Plaza of the Arch. The Edge of the World wasn’t much farther. I couldn’t see the Arch, but Bronze could rear up and see just a bit of the top. Good enough.

  We stopped by an upthrust lip of stone and I sat down on it. I took off a gauntlet to wipe my forehead—I was sweating with the heat and the tension—and realized I still stank. I worked several spells, cleaning myself up, speeding the repair of my armor, cooling myself off, and refreshing the repair spell on my belt and baldric. The local magical environment was strangely depleted, less intense than I expected. Was that from using a lot of it to manufacture an Arch? Or was it from the youth of the world? If the Firmament produced magical energy from the chaos, it might not have built up to what I think of as Rethven’s normal levels.

  I’m not sticking around to study it, either.

  Busy day? asked my altar ego.

  “No kidding.”

  And it ain’t over yet, he added. What are we going to do with the Black Ball?

  “I have no idea. I had several ideas, but they involved being a few thousand years in the future.”

  How so?

  “Diogenes could build rockets and robots. With a gate to go places, I had lots of choices. For example, I could park the Orb on a comet—say, one in a really long-period orbit. It would be billions of years before it thawed, and no one would look at it twice.

  “We could find a nice stretch of intergalactic space, put the Orb in a suitable capsule, and launch it. Over time, an appropriate drive system could pump it up to relativistic velocities, forcing it to effectively exist in a slow-time bubble—a year goes by for it while the age of the universe comes and goes.

  “Or I could drop it in a star. Pick one large enough and it would eventually become a black hole. Or we could skip the star and go straight to an existing black hole, dropping off a rocket far enough away to avoid gravity-distorting effects on my gate wormhole. The rocket would then fire itself on an intercept course to plunge the Orb into the black hole. I figure nothing gets out of a sufficiently large black hole until the universe either crunches in for a Big Bang, or dissolves in total entropy.”

  I’m not sure even these methods can destroy it….

  “I know! What I don’t know is how to destroy it! I can lock the Bad Ball in an enchanted box of containment and hide it, but I don’t know how to kill… whatever it is!”

  Fair point. At least all these methods get it out of our hair for an extended period.

  “Exactly.”

  But Diogenes doesn’t exist, yet. He won’t for… I don’t know how long.

  “Me either. So I’ve got some problems.”

  Do you want to bury it in your basement—a physical basement, wherever you finally settle down—and stand guard over it?

  “No! The last time I did that, nutjob mages meddled in my business and stole the damned thing! That’s how we got here!”

  There’s more to it, but I take your point.

  “No, you’re right. There were a lot of other things involved, but this thing,” I kicked the Orb and bounced it off the rocky outcrop, “is what forced us to hotwire an Arch!”

  The Orb, while hating me, managed to feel smug at the same time. It enjoyed seeing me angry.

  All right, what do we do with it? Bury it? Dump it in an empty universe?

  “It’s too detectable. Even with all the cloaking and shielding spells I know, it’ll worm its way through them eventually. Burying it is out. And if we dump it in an empty universe, according to M-theory, it’ll be the only consciousness occupying the brane. As a mystical/spiritual entity, I’m not comfortable with the possible results.”

  Reasonable. We could open a gate to a black hole—relatively close, anyway, in astronomical terms—and you could simply throw the thing. You’ve got one hell of a pitching arm at night, and the gravity well should do the rest.

  “Maybe,” I allowed, rubbing my forehead with the back of one hand. I glanced at my shadow. It wasn’t falling in the correct direction. If it had, it would cover the Black Ball. I kicked the Orb again, moving it aside so my shadow could relax.

  “I don’t suppose we could simply dump it into my cloak this evening?”

  I don’t know, my altar ego replied, thoughtfully. I set it up part of it as self-propagating plenum of negative space, or thought I did. I’m not sure I did it right.

  “I’m not going to ask what you mean by ‘negative space,’ mostly because I’m in no mood for the explanation.”

  Good, because I’m not sure, myself. Not anymore, anyway. At the time, it seemed to me the membranes of M-theory should exist in a superposition—

  “Later.”

  Sorry.

  “I notice, however, how my cloak is now wrapping around me rather tightly, as though trying to tell me something.”

  Weird. I didn’t expect it to be sapient. I’m guessing it doesn’t want to be used for the Ball of Bad?

  “Let me try something.” I cleared my throat. “How about we do not use my cloak to dispose of the Orb?”

  It relaxed, slipping down to hang like a piece of cloth instead of hugging me tightly.

  Fascinating. And I’d say that’s pretty conclusive.

  “No kidding. All right, we’ll go with the nighttime pitching arm and a doorway toward a black hole. I’m going to need to set up some stuff, though.” I checked the time by the shadow of the rocks, since those shadows were well-behaved. “I need a place to hide from sunset—we’ve got a couple of hours, tops, before it becomes a burning issue—and some sort of gate to enchant. I don’t suppose you can do a quick recon?”

  Give me a minute. I need to project myself into the local energy planes and see if there’s anything to eat.

  “Go ahead.” I waited for several minutes while, as far as I could tell, nothing happened. Eventually, I heard him again,
still sounding as though his psychic voice emanated from the sigil.

  Okay, I’ve done a basic look. It takes effort, you know, and I’m low on energy. From my quick glance at the overall world, there’s nothing even vaguely civilized. I might have missed some villages or even a small town, but it looks as though you’re the only one here. And the Heru, obviously, but I’d rather not poke my nose close enough to get it bloodied, if you don’t mind. For all practical purposes, you’re in the wilderness.

  “Oh, fine. Now I need to add finding food to my list.”

  Minor snacking shouldn’t be a problem. There are plenty of animals, just no intelligent life.

  Firebrand cleared a psychic throat.

  No dragons? it asked.

  Technically, yes, my altar ego replied. They’re the chaos-born creatures created by the Heru.

  Oh, wonderful.

  At least they’re busy being mounts, rather than roaming around at will.

  “Thank Heru for small favors.”

  Not funny, they both informed me. Bronze chuffed a hot chuckle.

  “I thought it was. Let’s look around for something I can use as a sunshade and something I can use as a door.”

  We didn’t find anything truly suitable, but we did find things that would do. One of the rocky hills near the western Edge had an almost-vertical face on the northeast side large enough to scratch different-sized door shapes into, and the hill itself provided shade from the sunset. Combined with my armor, riding out the sunset was inconvenient, but not actually dangerous—much like wearing a spacesuit on the Moon is inconvenient, but not actually dangerous. Spring a leak, though… have to defend yourself… suffer any number of minor accidents…

  Of course, the transformation is no less disgusting in a spacesuit. It’s worse in many ways. Sweating in a coffin doesn’t keep the gunk on me. In the armor, there’s nowhere for it to go. I get to wear it. At least I stop breathing about halfway through the process.

  With the stinging, semi-sickening feeling of sunset over with, I opened my visors and immediately saw the moon. It had barely risen and I froze for a moment. Not because it had risen, but because a second one was rising right behind it.