A Prophetable Dimension

by Pam Uphoff

  A Prophetable Dimension

  Pam Uphoff

  Copyright © 2019 Pamela Uphoff

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN

  978-1-939746-09-2

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional.

  Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art:

  Insspirito on Pixabay

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  A few preps . . .

  Chapter Two

  Infiltration

  Chapter Three

  Dhaka

  Other Titles by Pam Uphoff

  Chapter One

  A few preps . . .

  Arno caught the sound of his step-brother’s voice coming from the other direction and turned back to follow it . He hoped Ebsa wouldn’t mind being used as a buffer, but he didn’t know Ra’d well enough to just walk up to him and start talking.

  Everyone tells me to get over being shy. Well, this isn’t shy. This is cautious. Because if this isn’t illegal, it’s just because no one’s thought about the possibility before . . . All right. Actually, it’s illegal.

  He spotted Ebsa sitting at a table lecturing a Warrior of the One.

  Well, that makes it easy.

  “. . . Not our world. Not really your father. That Prophet Nicholas can join, or not join, the One Mind as he wishes.”

  Ra’d drummed his fingers on the table. “No, he’s badly injured. They’ll have subsumed his personality, taken over, before he’s strong enough to fight them.”

  Yes! I knew he’d feel like this! That other One World only split off of ours sixty years ago . . . forty-nine for them . . . but it went in a totally poisonous direction. And the Bags of the Prophets split with them. Including the people inside, experiencing practically no time.

  Ra’d and his group reemerged sixteen years ago. The second group of Rangpur survivors just a month ago. On our One World. Where they were welcomed.

  The other One world? Right now, somewhere over there, there’s the second group, still sheltered in their bag. Injured. Low on supplies.

  That hive mind tried to take Ra’d and Abbas. What will they do with, or to, a Prophet who has never been a part of the Hive Mind? Who is injured, and helpless?

  But I know where they are.

  “You are under direct orders to not go to that World.”

  Ra’d spotted Arno as he approached, and sat back.

  Ebsa turned. “Hey Arno. What’s up? I thought yesterday was your last lesson with Q?”

  Arno grinned. “Yep. I opened three gates. And closed them.”

  Dimensional gates. Totally awesome.

  “So what’s up?”

  Ra’d was getting up, ready to get away from more lectures, no doubt.

  “Actually, I need to talk to Ra’d. Alone.”

  That caught both their notices.

  Ebsa raised a dubious eyebrow, but moved to stand.

  Ra’d snorted and waved him down. “Finish your breakfast, you were so busy talking you didn’t eat anything. C’mon kid. You need an interview for school?”

  “Yeah . . .” Arno took a quick peek back to be sure they were out of Ebsa’s hearing range. “You know, the advantage of being sixteen is that you’re not in government or working someplace where . . . misbehavior . . . could reflect poorly on your immediate superiors. Or your Empire. Because, you know, nobody thinks to order you to do, or not do, anything. And who’s going to get belligerent over something some stupid teenager did?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend misbehavior, merely because you wouldn’t get too many other people in trouble . . . you can open gates?”

  “Yes, and I’m good at spotting targets. Q pointed a bunch out to me.”

  “A bunch.” Ra’d’s voice was extremely neutral.

  “Yeah. And there are things that need to be done, the sooner the better.”

  “I agree with that.”

  “One disadvantage of being sixteen is that I can’t buy an old nondescript car. That I could, for instance, drive through corridors to Calcutta, and then north to about ten kilometers south of Bogra. Where I could open a gate, slip through and find, oh, something just lying around, pick it up, reverse course and . . . oh, take it to the Comet Fall hospital here and drop it off anonymously.”

  Ra’d hadn’t varied his steady pace, but his expression had gone from grim to thoughtful. “A car? And . . . I thought I heard Ebsa say something about you two getting learner’s permits? I, of course, have been expressly forbidden to cross to that world. But I could drive as far as ten k south of Bogra on our One World.”

  “My parents don’t expect me back for two more days.”

  Three hours later, Arno took the “Parking Lot Five” bus through the dimensional gate back to One World, and out of the Secured Gate Area. The bus dropped everyone off under a covered waiting area. Most of the other passengers walked off to find their cars, but he wasn’t the only one waiting for a ride.

  An old black car, well kept and clean, pulled up, and Arno sauntered across and got in. Ra’d returned his grin.

  “Apart from being too shiny, it’s perfect. New motor and transmission, but the body’s twelve years old. So, no second thoughts?”

  Arno shrugged. “Plenty, but this needs to be done, quickly, before the Other One learns about them, and starts a search. So let’s go.” He pulled clothes out of his pack, a long shirt and loose pants. Sandals.

  Ra’d laughed. “I see that you have also been shopping. That’s good. No upscale city clothes if you’re just going to be wandering around in the country.”

  “Yep, and this.” He pulled out the tube of dye. “It’s supposed to be temporary, washes right out.”

  “Good idea. Your skin tone is about right, I was thinking an illusion would be needed to darken your hair, but dye’s even better. Have you considered being a spy when you grow up?”

  “That was a part of my Biodad’s career I was thinking of skipping. I’m more into the science side of things.” Arno squirmed. “Despite my current . . . project.”

  “Taking after your Aunt Q? Not a bad idea. And they’ll never send you into hazardous places once they hear you can open gates.”

  Arno had to agree. “Yeah, right now I’m a rare commodity. Maybe after some more of the gang grows up and starts doing gates, I can lose the limelight and do interesting things.”

  He put on the plastic gloves and worked the black dye through his hair. “It’s supposed to wash out.” I hope, because I don’t want to explain to anyone—especially the soon-to-be Interior Director, my stepdad—what I was up to.

  “We’ll find out.” Ra’d turned the car and lined up behind some large trucks. “Pity Calcutta doesn’t have a direct corridor. We’ll have to work our way through New Delhi traffic to get to the Calcutta corridor. Arno . . . do you speak Hindi? At all?”

  “No . . .”

  “May I give you a transfer memory? If you don’t practice, it won’t last, but it’ll be good for a couple of weeks.”

  “A transfer . . . Wow!”

  “What you need is two mental shields, one interior, blocking out your essential self and your permanent memories. An outer one, about like you already have. Pull that one in close, just your surface thoughts and emotions showing and then reach out and take this. Think of it as a book you’ve read and know almost word-for-word . . .”

  “Dhanyavadoh. Oh, main ise ka upayog kar raha hoon!” Arno grinned and they practiced all the way through New Delhi traffic, Calcutta traffic, and out into the countryside.

  The hair dye dried and he finger combed it into what Ra’d called “the disreputable peasant boy
style.”

  “I can detect the bag from five kilometers away, but it may be well off the road, so I may take a while to find it and get back.”

  “Hmm. I’ll find a good place to drop you off, wait until you’ve gotten a gate up . . . pop through, see if you can see it, and come back and tell me. If it’s not within five kilometers, we’ll drive on another eight or so and try again. If it’s going to take you several hours to get to it . . . I may need to drive off and come back.”

  Arno grinned. “You could make a nostalgic visit to Rangpur, in case anyone realizes you came this close.”

  “Indeed. You’ve got the right mindset for espionage. Rangpur’s another hundred some kilometers north, but it might be worth a visit for cover.”

  “And if I get back earlier than I expect, I’ll wait. One person being less noticeable than a car.”

  “Mental frequencies. Real high. Yell for me.”

  Arno felt a mental tickle way up . . . “Right. Got it.”

  Ra’d slowed and pulled over until traffic had cleared, then backed up into a rough dirt road. The brushy verge made them . . . not obvious, but far from well hidden.

  “If I turn the gate away from the road, it’ll be a lot less obvious.” Arno stepped out and eyed the thorns and stepped carefully around. Sat down under a small tree, facing the main road.

  Arno relaxed and closed his eyes. Saw the fizzing blue . . . looked for the Other One. That odd feeling of familiar-but-strange he’d gotten from it. Yeah, right there.

  A cone . . . bump it into place and stick it down without shifting it away from the same place he was in, on the world. Another cone, bump it . . . twist their tails and the base leaped at him. He opened his eyes and grinned at the white whirlpool half a meter from his face.

  “Ouch. You’re going to be stepping into a tree trunk if you don’t stay in the left third. ”

  Arno grinned. “Good thing I’m skinny.”

  “And you’ll be in brush.”

  “Right. Shields up!” Arno stood up, edged to the left of the whirlpool, and stepped through.

  Tripped on a big root and fell flat.

  “Good thing I had my shield up.” He kept that to a mutter and looked around . . . no dirt road, but he could hear the fast traffic on the main road. He forced his way through the brush far enough away from the gate to see other dimensional phenomena . . . And there it was . . . well within his detection range . . . and there were rather a lot of people . . . a cluster of bright spots that differed from regular Oners . . . Priests!

  They are searching for the bag already! I’d better get out there fast!

  He shoved back through the brush . . .

  And I’d better not mention the people to him, else he’ll disobey orders and . . .

  He jumped back through the gate.

  Arno grinned confidently. “There’s a bag three kilometers away. It’s off the road a good ways, so it may take time to get to, especially if it’s in brush like this. So . . . five hours, at a guess.”

  Ra’d nodded. “See you then.”

  Chapter Two

  Infiltration

  Arno strode up the side of the road, watching the traffic, slow and heavy. He could hear some of the drivers grumping about a blockage ahead. Across the road the oncoming traffic was beginning to spread out and speed up. On his side the traffic was slowing still more

  And an odd coincidence it would be if it wasn’t connected to all the people, and especially the priests, right here, roughly where an eleven centuries old captain of the Islamic Alliance Army was holed up, resting before another attempt to get away from enemies he didn’t realize had been defeated a thousand years ago.

  The One, the Hive Mind, had suffered a pair of disasters on this parallel world. The death of the last Prophet six years ago and then the deliberate sabotage by a rebel priest two years ago.

  But in Arno’s parallel Empire, Captain Dave Ibn Daiki had saved the Prophet Nicholas as the fortress at Rangpur was overrun. Badly injured himself, and caring for his injured brother as well as the injured and only sporadically conscious prophet, he’d rested near here, in the time dilating phenomenon called a Bag of the Prophets. Three days on the inside, eighty years out here.

  If the priests could find that same bag, here on this close parallel world, they would have a prophet again.

  And as badly wounded as the prophet was, the priests might well have a prophet they could overwhelm, take control of. Enslave.

  Because no one trusted the priests to respect the sovereignty of a man who could restore their power. Arno had heard too many tales of the One’s dismissal of any young priest candidates’ refusal to join them, to expect different in this case.

  Ra’d knew all about it from his own experience, and the experiences of his parallel world self and the other children who’d survived the Fall of Rangpur in a different bag.

  The One must not be allowed to so treat a Prophet.

  Once he’s recovered, he can decide if he wants to have anything to do with them.

  As traffic came to a complete stop, Arno slid between vehicles to take a look down the other side of the road.

  Police directing traffic, one lane closed, orange traffic cones marking an area bustling with people, a bus pulling out.

  The police stopped the oncoming traffic for it, and Arno skipped across the road in the gap.

  He walked carefully along that side, wrapping an unnoticeable spell around himself. And remembered Master Xen’s joke about not using that spell when in traffic . . .

  The blocked off area sported a couple of tables. A line of men were being handed . . . metal detectors? Yes, and quick instructions in their use. Arno stepped up to the end of the line and received a metal detector. The disk at the bottom to induce a magnetic field in nearby metal. A shaft, the batteries and control box, earphones . . . pretty standard. He swung it across the ground and found a twisted scrap of metal a couple of centimeters under the soil.

  The watching priest nodded, and handed him a sack. “Good. Now head out that way. A priest will give you an area to search.” He tapped a picture on the table. “This is what we are looking for.”

  Right, the metal handles stuck onto a dimensional bubble, so someone with no dimensional ability can handle it.

  Arno ducked his head respectfully and headed west. I’m getting closer, but I can feel that it’s still further northwest.

  The path he followed wound through woods, filled with people sweeping their detectors around, all moving roughly north. A priest was grabbing the new hires and sending them both north and south from the path, retreating and designating strips for each searcher.

  Arno was sent south, and dutifully swept his detector around while marching along. Picked up a few scraps, a nail. And walked out into a plowed field. Another priest waved him west and sent him back north. A rusty nail, size extra-large. He dropped it in the sack as he got back to the original path. Sent further west . . . Close, just a hair further west and maybe half a kilometer north.

  The guy on his left was giving him a dirty look, so he edged to the right.

  “This is my strip! Scat!” The old guy on the right glared, and Arno skittered as if nervous, away to the left. Where the first guy glared, so he shifted further west . . . He started sweeping quickly, hoping no one else would try to get him to move, because it was close . . . it was right under that dense bush.

  Now how do I conceal the handles of a bag . . . oh, of course.

  He closed his eyes and looked for a bubble. Grabbed one and opened a hole. Stuck it to his right wrist and crawled under the brushy thing, and the wretched metal detector whooped.

  He turned it off hastily, and dug through the leaves and into the topsoil . . . and there it was. He slid it into the bubble. A twenty centimeter long rod, or rather two square cross-section rods so tight they looked like one with a faint groove running the length. He sealed the bubble and backed out of the bush on all fours.

  “What did you find? This is my
strip!” The big man was looming.

  The old man trotted over and glared. “No it isn’t. As soon as they turned us around, it would have been mine!”

  An insult to someone’s mother, Arno wasn’t sure who the third man was aiming it at. “This is obviously my strip. Hand it over.”

  The big man growled. “I caught a glimpse. I think he’s got it.” He stepped forward and reached for Arno.

  Arno shoved the detector between the man’s legs and rolled out of the way as the big man stumbled into the bush. He got to his feet, dodged the third man, and ran.

  I’m in trouble now! I could say the big nail I picked up is what I found but . . . maybe it would be better if . . . they thought the search was over?

  He bolted past the priest on the path and fumbled in his bag for the big nail.

  Just a slight change in the shape. Shorter, fatter. Leave the corroded point and square off the shaft, flatten the head . . . It’s way too short, but . . .

  He dodged through the crowd he was attracting and up onto the road.

  “Quiet! What is this . . .” An old priest loomed and Arno skidded to a halt.

  Swallowed and glanced down at the nail he’d been molding by feel . . . not bad. Four centimeters, square cross-section, rusty, ending in a corroded stump.

  The priest’s shoulders slumped.

  Another priest applied an instrument to it . . . “Magically molded. Where did you find this, boy?”

  “It was in my strip!” The big man, sweating buckets and breathless, shoved through the crowd.

  “Liar! It was mine!” the third man.

  “Mine!” The old man was staggering.

  “Show us!” The priests moved in on the trio. The old priest paused long enough to pull a card from a pocket and hand it to Arno. Then they followed the contending trio down the trail. Half the crowd followed them. The other half eyed Arno.