Harmonics: Rise of the Magician (Harmonics Series Season One)

by Chris Snelgrove

  Unnoticed by the students or the professor, the suits looked at each other and nodded something in agreement.

  "So what is our semester going to look like, professor? I mean, I thought this was a theoretical physics class."

  "Yes, but what is a theory that can't be proven? We will delve deep into the possibilities of harmonic frequencies this semester. This class is theoretical in basis, but you will also be required to log lab time to earn a full grade. After all, what would a university be without the ability to harvest so much free labor? We wouldn't want your thousands of credits going to waste, would we?"

  This last statement was met with mixed emotions from the students. The bell rang and the students started to log off the classroom net. The professor killed the vid as the lights came back on in the lecture hall. Students chatted with each other as they collected their things. They all seemed to completely ignore the two people in the back row who had not moved during the entire presentation. As the students filed out of the room, these two stone-like men sat, apparently waiting for something. As the last student left the room, the two stood and strode down the steps towards the professor. The professor seemed oblivious to them as he collected his papers and remote, putting them into his faded leather bag. As the last paper was shoved in, he looked up, grabbed his chest, and stepped back.

  "Sorry, professor. Didn't mean to sneak up on you like that," the first man lied.

  "Oh, goodness. Well you did give me a scare, that's for sure."

  "My name is Kingston, and this is my associate, Mr. Creed." The man motioned to the taller man standing next to him.

  "Well, Mr. Kingston, Mr. Creed, it's nice to meet you. What can I do for you?"

  "We enjoyed your lecture very much, Professor. You seem to have some bright students this year," remarked Kingston.

  "Yes, well the semester is still young, and usually the increase in the frequency of party attendance has a negative correlation to one's achievements in my classes, so we'll see how they shake out. Are you two fellow physicists? I think I recognize you from somewhere."

  "No. I could barely understand what you reviewed here today, professor," said Kingston. "My colleague Mr. Creed, however, is a whole lot smarter than me, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself." Creed smiled and nodded at the professor.

  "Yes…well, I am glad. Now if you'll excuse me, I have office hours." The professor made his way between the men and started to walk up the stairs.

  "My friend had one question about your lecture, professor," said Kingston offhandedly. "That last part about the timeline. You really believe that it will take centuries to be able to use harmonicum practically?"

  The professor continued walking as he replied over his shoulder. "Yes, I do. Hopefully we can trim a few decades off with the work I am doing now, but I feel it is an accurate estimate."

  "Huh, well then I guess I lost my bet," replied Kingston.

  The professor stopped at the top of the stairs. "And what bet would that be, Mr. Kingston?"

  "Oh, it's just Kingston, and Mr. Creed and I bet that we were within a year or two of using harmonicum in practical applications. He said that without you it'd be at least five or six decades out. There goes my hundred credits."

  "Please forgive me for my confusion, Mr. Creed, but what do you mean 'without me'?"

  Creed spoke up. "Oh, simply that without your contribution to our research that we would be hard pressed to finish our practical application trials."

  The Professor stared at them, confused. "Practical application trials? What trials? What research are you referring to? I don't mean to boast, but I am considered the world's authority on harmonicum, and practical application trials are a pipe dream."

  "We know you are the expert, professor," replied Creed, "But academia has its limitations. Namely resources, and more specifically, credits. How would you like to advance your research at a greater pace?"

  "You must be joking," laughed the Professor. "Where are you two from? Did Parker put you two up to this? He is quite the practical joker."

  The two men's faces clearly showed that this was no joke.

  "Professor, I work for a corporation called MESA." Kingston watched to see if there was any recognition on the Professor's face. "What if I told you that if we worked together, we could shave a century or two off your timetable instead of merely a few decades?"

  Black Magic

  Time: Current day, dusk

  Scene: Desert village on the edge of the Jade Empire

  A man dressed in beggar's rags slumps against a sandstone building in the fading moments of desert twilight. His alms plate holds a meager collection of coins and bits of food. He chants in a low voice as others shuffle past him on the dusty street adjacent to the now closed open-air market. Unnoticed by the passing citizenry, no one thinks anything of him. He appears just as any number of other beggars throughout the village.

  His soft chanting prayer continues uninterrupted as a merchant slowly wheels his cart full of wares past his spot of rest. The merchant scoffs at the beggar's ragged appearance.

  "When will they take care of trash like you?"

  The beggar says nothing, but continues his chant. His head moves to the left and then to the right in a slow, deliberate fashion.

  The merchant leaves his cart and reaches down to grab the man, but then their eyes meet. Deep beneath the rags that cover his head, the orbs of this beggar bore into the merchant. The merchant takes a step back, almost as if the man in the rags had shocked him.

  The merchant regains his composure. "Bah, you're not worth the time," he says, trying not to betray the fear in his voice as he hurries off.

  For the past two weeks this beggar has sat in places around the market, seemingly collecting food and money to support his scant existence. The people of this area, like the merchant who just ran from him, noticed him at first, but as time went on the beggar has become just another part of the village.

  The beggar continues to stare across the almost vacant alley. Despite moving the location of his solicitations over the past few days, he has always faced the guarded door across the alley. The beggar sweeps his eyes from one side of the market to the other, taking in each person still lingering in the area. He mentally reviews the information that he has gleaned during his observations. He recalls the early part of his recon, as he had shuffled around the village listening to the merchants and townsfolk. The information he desired was easy to find. The target's location was within the confines of the very building he is now watching. He has sat observing the guarded door over the days that followed.

  The beggar continues his chanting, bowing slightly as a passing woman leaves two coins on his plate. He counts down the seconds in his mind. He knows that soon the guard will call to his companion to cover for him as he goes to visit the harlots on the outskirts of the village. The beggar has witnessed this each night the guard has been on duty, tracking the time down to the very second.

  His count reaches zero. Without fail, the fat guard picks up his timepiece and looks at it. He calls to his younger companion to cover for him. The stout man sheepishly looks around before proceeding to the end of the street. He turns a corner and is swallowed by the darkness. The beggar counts the seconds.

  One, two, three…then very slowly and with wobbly legs, he rises to his feet with his alms plate. Just as he has done the previous three nights, he staggers across the alleyway towards the remaining guard. The beggar hunches over more and puts a deeper tremor in his gait, almost falling into a wall at one point.

  He moves his head side to side in a drunken fashion as he clandestinely confirms that no other person is on the street. As the beggar approaches the guard, he sees the expression of recognition dawn on the young man's face. The beggar bows his head low as he comes closer. The guard holds out his hand shamefaced and speaks in a foreign language, insisting that he has nothing for the beggar that night. The beggar holds out his plate anyway, mumbling something in the same foreign language. The gu
ard again repeats his protest and walks to the beggar to stop him from coming closer.

  Just as the guard nears, the beggar stumbles hard, spilling his plate of coins onto the dirt. The beggar begins to wail and stoops down to retrieve his fallen donations. The guard, exasperated, squats down to help. As he picks up the coins, he stops, hand out stretched. He notices that the beggar's wails have ceased and that his posture is no longer unsure or unsteady. Slowly, the guard glances upward to look at the beggar. Only then does he see the dark, cold eyes that do not belong to a downtrodden vagabond, but rather to a trained killer.

  The beggar's hand glints in the faint light of the crescent moon as it flashes forward. The young guard's eyes close, never to open again.

  ***

  Dirk Garrett was screwed. Really screwed. He had been screwed before, sometimes even by choice and thoroughly to his liking. But this time, he was totally and utterly screwed. Dirk looked around the cramped cell he had called home for the last eight months. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had been even remotely this screwed. Well, there was that one night with that cute Jadian woman from the brothel in the first of the Seven Cities, but that really didn't count. He had paid for that.

  During Dirk's various incarcerations, he would always try to occupy his mind. When he would run out of rocks to scratch vulgar messages on the dingy cell walls, he would turn to pacing his cell. When that had lost his interest, he would start to sing. After realizing that he didn't know that many songs, he would turn to writing. Upon realizing almost instantly that he had nothing to write with or to write upon, Dirk would settle into reviewing his life to see where he had gone wrong. And this ritual had only occupied the first two days of this particular incarceration.

  Just like other incarcerations Dirk had survived, in his mind this one was just as bogus. He honestly could not believe that someone could get so upset about a bunch of stupid relics. Sure, they just happened to be located on so-called sacred ground. And he guessed he maybe, possibly could see their point about removing old artifacts from said sacred ground. But honestly, there wasn't a sign anywhere that said "Sacred Temple of the Goddess of Fertility". He was just attracted to the naked statues and all the gold. How was he supposed to know that they didn't want men entering the temple? If a restroom could be clearly marked, then so should that shrine.

  It was similar to the situation a few years ago when those natives in the Burning Plains had chased after him because he borrowed that ancient scimitar. The thing had just been sitting there in the brass and gold mounts. Again, no signage. He had brought that issue up at his trial, but alas, the judge had failed to see how the posting of a "Do Not Pilfer the Holy Sword" sign would have saved Dirk so much trouble.

  The remaining months of his current captivity had been spent solving the world's signage issues. He had completed most of the ancient sites that he had visited in the Jade Empire, and had been working on the Southern half of the UWC. Ever since he had overheard the guard mention that the transport escorting him to the Seven Cities would be there in the morning, Dirk had tried desperately to occupy his thoughts with things other than the impending doom that awaited him.

  It seemed ironic that for months Dirk had been able to remain anonymous in the prison. It was one of his survival techniques, especially when he was locked up in the outer region where the technology wasn't that up to date. Then they had figured out who he was. He was sure that he had at least a few Empire warrants in his name. And sure enough, days after they linked his name, he was going to be on a transport heading to a very bad place.

  Dirk tried to return his thoughts to his signage project. He thought about the cave he had visited in the Southern region of the Collective, the one with all the platinum in it. Just as he was coming up with an appropriate sign for the massive store of metal his skin started to prickle.

  Dirk's skin was an amazing organ. Some people spoke of the ability of ancient sages from the Jade Empire to see things before they happened. While Dirk was not from the Jade Empire, his skin apparently didn't know that. Every time Dirk was about to strike proverbial gold, or if trouble was on its way, his skin would ignite, his hairs standing on end. Dirk had learned to pay attention to this phenomenon, and it had saved him more than a few times.

  Dirk sat watching as the hairs on his arm stood at attention. He noticed a sound that he hadn't heard before in his long months of solitude. A small metallic scratching seemed to be coming from his cell door. He stared at the iron door, focusing on the faint scratching sound. He slowly stood and crept towards the rusty old door. Just two paces from it, he heard a faint click. Dirk's skin almost leapt from his body.

  With a sound that he had grown accustomed to all these months, his cell door squeaked open to reveal…darkness. No one was there. Dirk started to get antsy. He tried to peer into the darkness down the hall, but it was almost as if the hall was gone, replaced by…nothingness. He took a small step forward. Just as he picked up his foot to move closer to the door, a figure separated itself from the darkness. It looked to Dirk as if this person was at one moment part of the blackness just outside of his cell and then he wasn't. Standing before him was a man wrapped head to toe in what looked like black synthetic material. Parts of this man seemed to almost fade in and out of existence as Dirk continued to process what he was seeing.

  The man raised one gloved finger to his covered face, right about where his lips should have been. It took Dirk just a moment to recognize the gesture, but Dirk found it absurd. If this man thought Dirk was going to yell out for help while standing so close to someone with that much of a creep factor, this guy would be sadly disappointed.

  Dirk cautiously, and a bit nervously, nodded his understanding. The shrouded man made another gesture indicating for Dirk to follow him. Even more cautiously, Dirk reached out, grabbed the doorframe and peered out into the darkness.

  As soon as he looked into the black hallway the other man disappeared completely. Dirk started to lean back into the poorly lit cell, but then felt a fierce grip wrap around his arm and propel him forward into the hallway. Dirk could not see a thing. He knew the prison had lights, but none of them were on now.

  The iron grip on his arm relaxed to a firm squeeze that led him down the hallway. Calling on his skills as a relic hunter, Dirk imagined in his mind the path they were taking. He had kept good mental notes on the numerous times that he had been hauled back and forth from his cell through the maze of the prison. Foolishly, early on in his stay he had entertained thoughts of escaping and had wanted to memorize the routes to aid his attempt.

  The man led Dirk down various hallways, turning at some, pausing at others. If Dirk's mental map was correct, they were approaching a very special room. Dirk had only seen it once through the crack of a slightly open door. It was where they were keeping the artifacts that Dirk had so ineffectively hidden away. Who knew these guys would have searched everywhere? Dirk involuntarily shuddered at the memory. Two more right turns and they would arrive at the room. One right down, one to g-

  They turned left. Dirk stopped moving his feet. His rescuer's grip tightened. If he were going to make his move, it would have to be now. Dirk stumbled and fell down to the ground. The invisible man tried to keep him up but released him as he twisted away. Dirk hit the ground for a mere instant, then popped up and sprinted back down the hall. He turned up the previous hallway and made the last right. He could see the faint shimmer along the bottom of the doorframe. He was not going to leave without his stuff. Three meters. Two meters. One met-

  Thump!

  Dirk hit the ground hard. Something had wrapped around his legs, rendering them immobile, but his upper body was still free. The arrested momentum propelled him hard into the dirt floor. He started to moan when a hand clamped down over his mouth. Dirk tried to yell; the hand just clamped down harder. This wasn't working. Dirk tried something else. He played dead. He let his whole body go limp and played dead better than any Fido he'd ever seen. The hand still did not l
oosen its hold. In the passing seconds, Dirk started to hear muffled sounds. He realized that since he was playing possum, he was not making them. He doubted his masked man was making any of them either. That only left…

  He could hear it clearly now. The sound that he had heard so many nights in his cell. The thumping of dirty, ratty old boots coming down the dirt hallway. Dirk was paralyzed with indecision. They had to get out of there. Panic started to course through his veins. Harder than the metallic grip covering his mouth, adrenaline pounded through his system at a blistering pace. Dirk's skin crawled with goose bumps.

  ***

  He had heard something. He knew he had heard it. One minute he was taking a piss, the next a loud thud. And this damned blackout wasn't making anything any easier. Why hadn't the generators kicked in? Without thinking about it, he unstrapped his weapon from its holster and rested his hand on it, just as a precaution.