Wizard (The Key to Magic)

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  "Yes, we do. We've made our own straw brooms and have checked out shovels and buckets from Vice-Commander Berhl. We'll be all done down here by this evening."

  "Excellent wo--"

  The comm link to the audio spell failed and no response came to a diagnostics request.

  The subroutine did not have a branch initiated by equipment failure and the default instruction was Communicate With Oversight. Obligingly, AS4 packaged the abbreviated audio in an encrypted packet, flagged it with an action query, and transmitted it on the dormant but still vigorous comm to Command Oversight One.

  CO1 replied within .001 seconds. "STANDBY AND OBSERVE. DO NOT ENGAGE INTERLOPERS."

  Not bothering to report that it had nothing with which to engage the personnel designated as INTERLOPERS, AS4 settled in to watch how and where it could.

  Aboard Orbital B, the automaton designated as CO1 initiated its primary programming.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  2170 by the Common Reckoning

  (3211 Before the Founding of the Empire)

  Secured City of Dhiloeckmyur

  To get through the barricades that surrounded the consulate of the Khyvhnhe Republic, Fynd had to pass through a gauntlet of humorless Oaurlervy Faction clerks, endure repeated physical searches by male Enforcement Officers, and explain her desire for a tourist visa to no less than six unidentified Commonwealth bureaucrats. As the Republic was the only foreign nation with which the Commonwealth had diplomatic relations of any sort, she unfortunately had no other option but to submit to the intentionally discouraging process.

  At the completion of the three hour ordeal, she was permitted to cross the cleared esplanade and approach the gates of the consulate.

  The eight Republican guards were in formal uniform but carried battle rifles equipped with bayonets. Like eagles considering a rabbit, the uniformly big soldiers watched her as if daring her to do something that would give them an excuse to open fire.

  Their officer saluted as she drew near. "How may I help you, madame?"

  "I wish to apply for a tourist visa."

  The tall officer peered down at her as if she had said something truly bizarre. "Perhaps there has been some mistake."

  "No, I want to make a visit to the Republic." She grinned. "I've always dreamed of seeing the Nyrten Falls. My great-grandmother was born beneath the rainbow."

  Still unconvinced, the officer asked, "Do you have a Commonwealth exit permit?"

  Fynd produced the document, its text nearly obliterated by endorsement stamps. The permit was entirely authentic and had cost her, in total, one point three million Bazaar tokens.

  The officer examined the permit by eye and then subjected it to three different magical devices, but in the end begrudgingly dispatched her, along with two stiffly marching chaperons, along the long walk to the main entrance. As she entered the splendid old building, the chaperons came to a halt, saluted, turned about, and marched back toward the gate.

  Though furnished with two score identical wooden framed chairs arranged in precise rows, the marble floored lobby was empty save for an inactive clerk seated behind the leftmost of three immaculate desks. Above the waiting area, a hovering sign proclaimed in glowing large blue letters in both Common and Eastern, Take a number. You will be called.

  As Fynd moved up the left aisle and approached the emplaced dispenser, the clerk, a woman, glared pointedly.

  Happy to comply, Fynd allowed the dispenser to vomit a ticket onto her palm. It said #1. She did not, however, take a seat. That would have been irredeemably ridiculous.

  After adjusting a small figurine of a dog, the clerk looked up, donned a smile that the rest of her face did not reflect, and said, "Number one, please."

  Fynd approached the desk, seated herself in the chair, which was positioned exactly on the desk's centerline, and then presented her ticket.

  The clerk took the ticket, made a show of checking the number, then asked in only slightly accented Common, "You wish to apply for a tourist visa?"

  "I am fluent in the Kalali Valley dialect of Eastern," Fynd told her in the language of the western half of the Republic. "I would prefer to converse in it."

  The clerk gave Fynd a slightly suspicious look, but said in the same tongue, "Very well. You wish to apply for a tourist visa?"

  "Yes, I do, but first I would like to speak to Undersecretary Rondou."

  "Undersecretary Rondou is not in today. If you would like to make an appointment, I can direct you to his scheduling secretary."

  "Tell the undersecretary that the matter concerns the Bodarth Consortium."

  "Just a moment please."

  The clerk whispered something that caused a privacy glamour to enclose her, so that Fynd could hear nothing and saw only a heavy blur where she sat. After just enough time to make a quick comm call, the glamour cleared and the clerk tapped three fingers on her desk, causing an imp in the form a blinking yellow ball to appear adjacent to Fynd. "Please follow the guide."

  The imp led Fynd through a door, up two flights of stairs, along an empty hall, and finally into a small office that only contained a small table, two chairs, and a large portrait of the Hereditary President of the Republic.

  The imp dissolved and Fynd sat down.

  She had to wait for only a moment for Undersecretary Rondou, a trim, faultlessly attired older man sporting an avuncular grin, to port into his seat.

  "Good afternoon, Madame Fynd. It is a pleasure to meet you. May I ask how you know me?"

  "I habituate the Bazaar. You are spoken of there on occasion."

  "Indeed. Nothing untoward, I hope?"

  "It is said that you are the chief Republican spy in the Commonwealth."

  Rondou chuckled. "People do have imaginations. What has prompted your visit today?"

  "I am given to understand that the Khyvhnhe Republic is interested in acquiring a copy of the research notes of the Bodarth Consortium."

  "The Republic has always supported the advancement of magic and it is true that we have expended resources in the past to investigate the Mount Trindle tragedy, but the explosion was forty years ago. It has been thoroughly established that all records and documents were destroyed along with the laboratory."

  Fynd smiled. "One archival copy survived."

  She took the lace trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve, spread it upon the table, and made the intricate gesture that keyed the hundred thousand riel Kendis transmutating glamour. When the shape change completed, a notebook page had taken the place of the handkerchief. She rotated the page around so that Rondou could read the hand printed title: Investigations into the stable propagation of ethereal resonance waves.

  As Rondou's eyes grew wide with interest, Fynd settled back in her chair with exquisite pleasure. "The price is five million riels for the complete set of notebooks."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As Mar froze in place and continued to read, attacking the text like a starved man devouring a crust of bread, Mortyn launched into an earnest and -- outwardly at least -- heartfelt appeal.

  "Jaunts in time notwithstanding, you belong here, Mar. This is your era and your home."

  WARNING: Unprepared interactions with undertime are nearly always fatal. Experimentation with the techniques outlined herein should only be attempted by the most proficient and practiced sorcerers. At all times, exercise extreme caution when utilizing wizardry. Seven out of ten wizards DIE as an immediate result of their first attempt to open a portal and any wizard candidate should practice for a minimum of five years prior to any...

  "It may seem to you that evil men rule here and I cannot deny that totalitarian lunatics like the Faction are the bane of our civilization, but the Project is an attempt to make such tyranny impossible. One of our primary goals is to reduce the rarity of the top end talents required for complex magic. Once these talents become widely distributed throughout the general population, power derived from magical inequality cannot continue to prosper. If you were to remain here among your own p
eople -- your own flesh and blood -- you would be part of our ongoing work to transform our civilization and bring about a future in which magical equality brings true personal liberty to all the people of our world."

  ... and unlike the subordinate disciplines, very few individuals have an innate ability to sense the ethereal flow of undertime. The most liberal studies suggest that the ratio is as small as one in ten million. More conservative estimates place the ratio at as much as ten times higher. Without exception, this ability does not manifest until a magical practitioner has advanced his skills in the subordinate disciplines to a preeminently advanced degree...

  "Regrettably, I am afraid that the time allowed you to make a decision is short. The current geopolitical situation is untenable. Several of our sorcerers have received forebodings of imminent wars, some of them of unprecedented proportions. Though the full extent of the outcome is unclear, we fear that a complete global disruption of social and economic systems will occur. This disruption may last on the order of years and in order to preserve our data and ensure the continuity of our work, the Project has elected to withdraw from the surface of the planet."

  WARNING: Do not enter the central core of undertime. This will result in instant ethereal dissipation. WARNING: All attempts to create a spell that would directly affect the ethereal impetus of undertime have resulted in catastrophic failure. WARNING: Theorists believe that significant disruption of the ethereal flow of undertime will cause the dissipation of the entire universe. WARNING: Long term exposure to undertime has been known to cause mental instability, paranoia, psychosis, agoraphobia, hysterical blindness, heart failure, nerve damage, brain injury, seizures...

  "We are relocating the majority of our personnel and our operations to the Orbitals. Although officially controlled by a neutral international consortium, both of the stations are in fact controlled by the Project."

  ...and while a large number of theories have been proposed to standardize the techniques for travel in undertime, no two sources agree on the efficacy of any particular technique. Bint-wha-nyutp, Sorcerer-King of ancient Ssoli, is famously quoted as saying that a passage through undertime is "a state of mind rather than a process." Expanding upon this, it must be said that all techniques outlined herein should be regarded as templates rather than finished methods. That said, the majority of techniques described in various monographs can be condensed in broad terms into a single three stage process whereby...

  "Given the current state of known ethereal combat technology, our refuge is unassailable from the surface and we have high confidence that we shall survive the oncoming disaster and be able to return once peace and normal order are reestablished."

  ...a proper portal should be only as large as necessary to accept the entrant. This will reduce the flux potential required to pierce the external boundary (membrane) of undertime and also reduce flux outflows whose negative interactions with observed time create resistance to the passage of ethereally imbued entities. For a more complete discussion of portal dynamics and a critical examination of major unproven theories, including the oft proposed linkage of pairs of harmonious undertime portals in a similar manner as is done with common port technology, see Appendix III.

  "We are endeavoring to convince as many of our Participants as possible to join us so that our work may continue without disruption once the emergency has passed."

  ...will invariably cause negative ethereal feedback. Great finesse is required to calibrate the strength of the piercing modulation in order to create a stable portal. An excess of flux in the applied spell can result in a dangerous collateral release of energy...

  "Because of your unique lineage, you would be an invaluable asset to our efforts and we would be greatly pleased if you would consent to join us."

  To reiterate: First, establish a point of entry. Second, slowly enlarge the point to achieve an opening. Third, stabilize the portal.

  "We are your people, Mar. Stay with us."

  An oft used analogy for undertime is that of a dark river whose banks are shrouded in fog. If a wizard wades through the shallows where the current is weak, he can progress without much danger and perhaps make out landmarks to keep track of his position. But if he should go deeper, then he risks being swept away and becoming lost. To put this in more technical terms...

  Mar stopped reading and looked up at Mortyn. He was tempted to tell the Proctor that no matter what he and his fellows did, this world was doomed, but thought that such a warning would be impossible for the man to accept.

  "From my perspective, you're not even history," he stated flatly. "My people and my time aren't here."

  Mortyn looked downcast. "We of course respect your decision, but might I ask that you visit the Orbitals with me? Once you meet with some of the other Participants and see all that the Project has accomplished, I am hopeful that you might be moved to reconsider."

  It would take time to absorb the text and more time to experiment with the methods it described. With the prospect of true wizardry as an incentive, he could abide the irritations of phantom Dhiloeckmyur and its ghosts for a few more days, especially now that he knew enough of the place to feed himself and to get about. Once he had learned all that he could, he would finally escape this condemned city. He rolled up the text, slid it into the cylinder, and then secured that in a trouser pocket.

  "Sorry, I won't reconsider. Where's the way out?"

  Mar's unease twanged, but he could think of no cause for the warning. Did the Proctors have some plan to force him to go with them?

  Reacting to Mar's question, Mortyn looked wounded for a moment, then gave a tight-lipped nod and raised a hand to point through the trees to Mar's left. "On that side is a door that leads to a set of emergency stairs --"

  Mar sensed a wave of nearby ports crashing through the ether. In a blink, a score of Faction monstrosities appeared at a distance of no more than a few paces to form a wall around him and the Proctor.

  At the same instant, Mortyn dove to the ground on his side, made a fist of his left hand, and threw a backhand at nothing.

  The wave of ethereal fire that sprang from the Proctor's hand tossed Mar like chaff but did not penetrate his hastily erected flux armor. Monstrosities, trees, and earth were likewise carried away. The force of the blast fractured the subfloor and the dome, adding slabs of not-quite-stone and twisted lengths of steel beam to the mix. Like storm wrack, he, the monstrosities, and the rubble were washed out through a breach that opened out to one side.

  Suddenly bathed in sunlight, he infused his brigandine in an attempt to retard his flight as a cloud of encamped automatons began to unleash bolts of blue ethereal fire and darts of flux driven steel. The initial torrent fell equally on all of the concentrated wrack that came out the side of the tower -- him, the monstrosities, and the hurtling rubble. The bulk of the fire pummeled the not-quite-stone and metal, but a number of the monstrosities took strikes that spun them this way and that without apparent damage. One, not as fortunate as its companions and not ten armlengths away from him, belatedly burst apart in an unspectacular fashion.

  Snarling with bared teeth, he began to ignite the metal shells of the automatons and dozens compliantly flew apart in strobes of aqua light.

  But there were thousands of them, filling the sky overhead and swirling around the towers, and the few he eliminated did nothing to interrupt the attack. The surviving monstrosities and the rubble had now fallen clear, leaving nothing to intercept the automatons' attacks but his own inadequate magic.

  Enchantments and contrary spells kept him alive, but he could not stop everything. The steel slugs were particularly difficult to manipulate and a great many of them penetrated his defense, screeching by close enough to feel the heat and wind of their passage.

  Then one struck his boot, penetrating his ethereal armor with stunning ease, and took his foot off.

  In the fraction of an instant during which horror kept either from registering, his spells staunched the blood and numbed
the pain, but he had nothing to erase the realization that the next one he allowed through might take his head off.

  Shaking in delayed reaction, he hummed the opening bars of The Knife Fighter's Dirge.

  It took him a few seconds to realize that the world had not become immobile. The spiraling ruble and tumbling monstrosities continued to accelerate down toward the city and the projectiles zipped by unrelenting. The instantaneous flux transition normally keyed by the spell had not occurred.

  Having no time for shock, he resumed the desperate task of dispersing and deflecting the fire and steel.

  He flew onward for a moment, then two, shedding the deadly rain, but no matter in which direction he turned, he found only more automatons.

  Surrendering to his desperation, he formed a flux modulation that would summon a scalding-Black to rip open a portal into undertime, but to his great distress another spell of prodigious power, a grating-puce behemoth, intervened, scattering his flux before it could fully coalesce.

  He screamed for the lightning again but it would not come. Powerful spells had flooded the background ether and one, a celebratory-onyx, seemed to suppress the particular flux surge that his demanded lightning bolt required.

  More projectiles penetrated his defense. One raked his right shoulder, cutting a burning gouge through skin and muscle.

  He bawled the most vile curse that had ever proceeded from his mouth, spewing unbounded hatred at non-existent gods. His rage drove the sound to an ethereally amplified climax that rang the entire world. The stupefying tone shifted the background ether in a globe half a league across.

  Dancing in impossible ignorance of the rush of the air and the pull of the earth, his hair stood on end, then twitched in brief spasm as the ether sprang back, and the rain that fell about him was no longer steel or fire, but dead automatons.

  He flew higher, dodging back and forth to clear the plummeting devices, and for a few seconds, the area around him was clear.