by P. K. Lentz
And there was the crater from which Qilliara had climbed after her fall from the gray sky in a flash of blue fire. It was near the edge of this that Qilliara halted their vehicle.
She disembarked and walked to it, Blaik following. Down inside the deep hole he could see a metallic object, oval-shaped with markings on its smooth surface, some deliberate and some the apparent result of scorching.
On the drive, he had asked Qilliara how she could know be sure her 'capsule' was still where she'd left it. Her answer was that it had defenses, like her razers, designed to dissuade any who tried to open or move it.
Piece under arm, she started down the steep slope of the crater.
“So...” Blaik said. “That's it? You're really... you're just leaving me here?”
He knew the answer and did not particularly enjoy swallowing his pride to ask. But soon she would be gone, and along with her the chance to say anything at all.
Stopping, she looked up the slope. Blaik wanted to believe that was sympathy in her violet eyes, but he knew it wasn't.
“It's not a choice,” she said evenly. “The capsule is for one. Even if we could manage to fit, we'd both die in the subverse.” She indicated the Piece. “And this would be lost.”
Blaik nodded understanding, but not really.
“If...” he asked. “If it were for two... If it were a choice... could I come?”
Qilliara stared back for a few beats, her expression blank. Then, “No.” The answer was unequivocal, and it hit Blaik hard in the chest. “You don't belong out there.”
In that moment, he despised her. He hated Qilliara more than he had ever hated Jaxitza or anyone he had met in his meaningless, bounded existence. He wished he had parted with her right here in this spot after meeting her, left her to go it alone. One day he might have seen her again: when the Witch-Queen made a public appearance wearing her body.
But he swallowed his anger. The turns spent with Qilliara surely marked the high point of his life. No sense in spoiling them with harsh words in the final moments, words which could never be taken back.
“I understand,” he lied, voice a little choked. “I'll stay in Scratch a while, I guess. Hear they need a new Sheriff. And the food's... less awful than it looks.” He paused for a breath, needed to steady his voice. “You be careful out there. You think you're invincible, but you aren't.”
Qilliara nodded, and then in silence she resumed her descent.
“Oh, wait!” Blaik said. He fished the fra... infractor and shield generator out of his coat pockets, which were also crowded with trinkets from the tower. “These are yours.”
She did not look back, only touched a spot on her capsule that caused a section of its top half to slide back, revealing a small hollow.
She was right: even pressed intimately face-to face, there was no possibility of two passengers fitting.
“Keep them,” she said of the devices, then she stowed the Piece before climbing into the capsule.
Gratefully, Blaik returned the fracker and shield to his pockets. His life from this turn might seem even more pointless than before. But these things might make it easier.
“My exit will obliterate everything in a wide radius,” Qilliara said. “Go to Scratch now. That should be far enough. I'll wait until you're out of range.”
“I—” Blaik began, but there was nothing more to say. Or too much. And so he whispered, “Goodbye. And you're welcome.”
Of course, she heard. Lying on her back in the cramped capsule at the bottom of its crater, Qilliara looked up with her eyes of a color this world had never seen.
“Thanks, drifter,” she said just before the opaque cover slid into place, sealing her inside the capsule.
Blaik's body did not want to leave the crater's edge, but he forced it to move. On the walk to the vehicle, and as he boarded it, his eyes demanded a final look back. But he did not allow it. He drove away at maximum speed.
His hands begged to spin the wheel and send the vehicle into a sideways roll which, with luck, would kill him. If it did not, the blast from Qilliara's capsule would.
He did not allow it.
At the outskirts of Scratch, he stopped and climbed onto the vehicle's flat roof to sit facing the expanse of white nothing which stretched up and up until it blended into gray sky, the Wall that separated within from without, confinement from freedom, wasteland from worlds of wonder.
Williym Blaik from the universe.
The wait was not long. In the distance, there was a brilliant blue twinkle. Small at first, then expanding and expanding in a ball of pale blue light. A deep, heavy rumbling sound strangely did not shake the vehicle underneath Blaik, but only his ears, as hot air hammered his face.
When the ball of light grew so expansive that Blaik had to raise his eyes to see its upper bound, his heart skipped with the thought that perhaps he had not gone far enough, after all. But as he braced himself for yet a second imminent death in Scratch, a prospect which bothered him even less now than it had the first time, the ball began to recede, the wind to diminish, the rumble to grow fainter.
And then the light was gone and all was silent again, but the world in front of Blaik had changed. Where the horizon had been flat, there now was a new, sharp-edged crater which intersected with the Wall, giving the landscape a strange and entirely unnatural appearance. The area around Qilliara's landing site looked as if someone had scooped out the land—not burned it or blown it up. It was just... missing. But not the Wall. It was unscathed, as ever. A neatly defined section of its white nothingness that had previously been concealed by land now stood exposed.
Blaik did not venture back into the deep, smooth crater to verify that Qilliara was gone. When all had been still for some time, he wiped his eyes, resumed his seat at the controls and drove into Scratch, where no one knew yet. He would have to be the one to tell them, although they were not likely to believe until confirmation came through other channels.
The Queen was dead.
* * *
Twelve
For ninety turns, Blaik had dwelt in Scratch. For about eighty of them, he had been its Sheriff, appointed not by a distant tyrant but the residents of the town. Some had been resistant to his appointment, and still were—mostly the families and friends of those who'd died in the slaughter when Qilliara arrived. Two pockets full of trinkets from Jaxitza's tower had gone some way to easing the opposition. And so he had taken office.
Mostly he broke up drunken brawls. Occasionally he locked up a thief who reminded him of himself, then found a way to let him go, so long as he promised to stay out of Scratch.
News from Witch City was that three factions were locked in a violent struggle to decide who would rule and how. Which faction won would determine what the city was called. Some would have it remain Witch City, others would call it Center, while a third faction would rename it Kingtown. Word from refugees leaving the place, few of which had come so far as Scratch, was that the Center-ites held the advantage, which seemed for the best, given what little Blaik knew of each faction's plans.
But who could know? Blaik concerned himself with Scratch. If and when an envoy arrived from Witch City—or Kingtown, or Center—with some proposal, it would be considered based on its relative merit, or lack thereof, to the people of Scratch.
Most turns, Blaik ate his main meal at Wirzel's, and two meals out of three he ate there contained no meat. He gave Wirzel ideas for dishes, brought him ingredients, and sometimes came into the kitchen himself to experiment. Most of his experiments were failures, although Wirzel did currently have an item on his menu named 'The Blaik.' It was not popular, and probably only still available on account of Blaik being Sheriff and a good customer. Blaik himself only ordered now and then, on principle.
It was not only in his dining habits that he remembered Qilliara. In nearly every quiet moment, when work wasn't keeping him busy, or he wasn't making work to keep himself busy, he thought of her. Out there, on her own. Or maybe not on her own, but
without him to save her neck, carry her when she crashed, absorb her casual insults. And every so often to be saved by her... as a favor, of course, so that her superior air might not be invalidated.
He wondered if she even lived. Or had she been killed in the war? Maybe by refusing to take him with her, even if she could have, she had meant only to spare him the same fate.
It was nice to think that was true. But even if the reason was just that Qilliara was a bitch, Blaik regarded it as the best decision of his life not to have called her one. Had his final words to her been harsh, selfish ones, he knew he would have regretted it for as long as he'd lived.
Had he been living with that regret, he might not have lived as long as he had. Instead, he might well have chosen to walk into the Wall and take his chances becoming one with the subverse.
As it was, there were plenty of turns he felt he might as well do just that.
* * *
On this turn, his ninetieth in Scratch, give or take, Blaik took his usual seat at Wirzel's and ordered a meat dish because it was one of those days where he felt nothing much mattered. While waiting for the food, he was drawn into a discussion with a Scratchite over a borrowed shovel that had never been returned. It was the third or fourth time Blaik had had the same conversation with the same resident. After the previous time, Blaik had decided to just get the man a new shovel with instructions never to lend it. But he'd forgotten, and so reminded himself not to forget again.
The man had just relented, and Blaik's plate had just arrived when a distant, humming whine filled the air. Then shouts from the streets, some of which were, “Sheriff! Sheriff!”
With a sigh but no hesitation, Blaik slid from his stool and grabbed his duster and saber from the pegs by the door, putting them on as he exited Wirzel's. As a precaution, he drew his infractor from the custom holster he had commissioned for it.
Looking around, Blaik saw nothing amiss, but the sound persisted, and down the dusty street, a handful of people ran in his direction. They were the source of the shouts, but their frantic voices already were drowned out by the pervasive, rising whine. It seemed to be coming from—
Above the runners' heads, Blaik spotted it, a dark shape against the perpetual gray, growing larger in tandem with the swelling of the mysterious sound. It was an aircraft of some sort, but no balloon, and not a bat-winged lizard. It was larger than either, Blaik quickly surmised, and had no moving parts. It was roughly triangular, its edges sharp against a soft light from behind.
“It's from Witch City, it has to be!” a few of the growing number of onlookers concluded.
Not knowing what to expect, Blaik switched on his force shield and aimed the infractor at the unidentified flying object. But he held his fire, lest he wind up picking a fight that he and Scratch could not win.
“Everyone get inside!” Blaik shouted at the Scratchites. Some obeyed; most just moved to the sides of the street to hang anxiously in doorways, shopfronts, side alleys.
The whine's growing intensity stopped just short of hurting the ears, and the flying object drew nearer and nearer until finally halting and hovering near the end of the street, revealing its true shape and size.
It was made entirely of smooth metal, painted bright yellow in spots, and angular indeed, like seven wedges had mated against their will. The 'front' (assuming it moved forward) was the narrowest point, while the back was flat and had been emitting a bright glow while it flew. The glow faded, the whine subsided, and the object sank to the ground, its landing sending a gentle vibration through the soles of Blaik's boots.
Infractor held ready but no longer aimed, shield arm in front of him, he advanced toward the metal craft. Apart from a few hushed whispers, none of the many Scratchites lining the street spoke a word. Blaik felt more exhilarated than afraid or anxious.
This was new.
It was something. And something was better than living the same old turn, over and over.
As he walked closer, he heard a loud hiss, and a line appeared on one of the craft's flat surfaces. The line became a dark triangle, which expanded into a dark rectangle: a hatch.
A figure stood in the opening.
She wore sleek, close-fitting armor of matte black. Her dark hair caught a breeze which seemed to come from the craft itself, and where light hit it, the ends of the hair turned deep red.
She looked at Blaik with violet eyes. For ninety turns, he had seen the color nowhere but in his memory.
“What are you waiting for?” Qilliara said. “Get in.”
For longer than he liked, standing with arms hanging slack, Blaik was able only to stare. Then his body made clear what it desired: to run straight to her, crying out in joy.
As a matter of pride, Blaik denied it.
“I don't have all turn, drifter.”
“It's Sheriff now,” Blaik corrected.
“Well, Sheriff Drifter, there's only one line out of here, and it's about to snap. Move.”
Out of here. The words stole Blaik's breath.
“People depend on me. You suddenly show up, and—”
Abruptly, Qilliara turned her back. The hatch began to hiss shut.
“Wait!”
The hatch stopped closing, but did not reopen. “One chance,” Qilliara said. “Five... four... three...”
Blaik let her get no further. Shedding the irons of pride and hurt, Blaik's legs acted as they wished. They ran to her. They propelled him up to the open hatch in which she stood, across its threshold and into the metal craft. He did not look back at Scratch; he could not have, for no sooner had he entered than the hatch hissed shut behind him.
* * *
Surrounding Blaik in the somewhat cramped space, lit by a soft glow from above and below, were surfaces unlike any he had seen. They resembled metal in hardness, but they were off-white, and their polish was of a type that did not sparkle. Nowhere were there any angles, only smooth curves.
The passage in which he stood led away in two directions. Qilliara strode down one. Forcing his jaw shut, Blaik followed, lest he become lost. The tip of his sheathed saber brushed the smooth walls, bouncing off occasional irregularities, some of which may or may not have been doors leading to chambers or other passages.
“What is this thing?” he asked Qilliara, struggling to walk a straight line and keep up while his head busily swiveled in every direction.
She replied, “This is the hardliner Extravagant Proposal.”
“Estra... Esgravent...” Blaik attempted to repeat. “I understood 'This is the'.”
The passage reached an apparent dead end, which was actually a hatch that slid open of its own accord as they neared. Beyond lay a large room, strangely shaped with almost no square or rectangular walls, only triangles, or whatever shape it was when a triangle had one of its points cut off. The smallest part of the room, a rectangular wall to which the smooth, white ceiling sloped down, was the one directly opposite the hatch they had just entered.
Blaik gasped on seeing this wall, for it mostly consisted of a window through which was visible the street he had just left, clogged with Scratchites staring directly at him from a safe distance.
“It's not a window,” Qilliara said, oddly helpful in volunteering information. “They can't see us.”
She went to a sculpture near the center of the chamber and sat down in it, causing Blaik to understand it was actually an elaborate chair.
Blaik practically spun as he took the place in.
“Sit down,” Qilliara instructed.
Finding a somewhat less elaborate sculpture nearby, Blaik sat in it, fumbling with his saber to make it fit. When he had inserted himself, the feeling was one of extreme comfort bordering on ecstasy. He looked forward to his first sleep there.
At her seat, Qilliara's hands swept over some oval-shaped panels attached to her elaborate chair (which Blaik could not imagine could possibly be any more comfortable than his, but he would ask to try it sometime anyway). The room began to hum gently. In the not-win
dow, Scratch and its gawkers, some of them now scattering, became gradually more distant.
Blaik understood: the craft was rising into the sky. With him aboard.
There was the tiniest glimmer of guilt in the back of Blaik's mind over leaving a town and people he had come to find mostly bearable, and which, in his own opinion, was better off for his presence in it. But guilt could not last in the face of pure elation.
He was leaving. Not just Scratch, but—
Perhaps he had better assume nothing.
“What did you say this was?” he asked Qilliara.
“The hardliner Extravagant Proposal.”
“I don't know any of those words.”
In the not-window, Scratch was already a clump of black dots on a desert plain. Blaik struck a conciliatory tone, lest Qilliara decide to turn around and drop him off again.
“If you don't want to explain more,” he said, “that's—”
“The universe is made of many, many layers,” she began, keeping her attention on her ovals. “Each layer is a separate reality. Like yours, but much bigger. In between layers is the subverse. Are you paying attention? When I finish, I don't want to hear, 'Huh?'.”
“I'm trying,” Blaik said, and it was true.
“Connecting the layers, passing through the subverse, are lines. Hard lines are stable, although they can decay or be destroyed. Which many have. A hardliner, like this one, can navigate the lines, crossing the subverse into different layers. See? Simple.”
“Sure,” Blaik said. “But maybe you could write it down.”
“You can read?”
“Yes. But the insult is appreciated. Now I know I'm not dreaming.”
“It's a legitimate question. I've given you access to the ship-mind. Guest access, so you can't wreck anything. It can teach you more than you'll ever be able to learn, at whatever pace you need. Which is to say... never mind.”
The not-window filled with the Wall's white glow.
“Say goodbye,” Qilliara said. “You're about to leave your little pocket of reality forever. You'll be its only survivor.”