He was an accountant by trade, who had acquired a bar in a will when he’d lived on a parallel earth, blissfully unaware of Xai or any other alternate worlds. Now he was blissfully aware of the parallel Earths of his patrons, and he found that owning a bar to serve people who lived or worked at the crossroads of Earths was a lot more interesting than balancing books.
He saw a lot, he did a lot, and he made his money and made people happy. It kept him going, it made life worthwhile. He was in the support business.
So were his customers. He worried about his regulars, they were like his children in their way. A lot of his customers were people from the University, Guild Esoteric, and Guild Medical. He heard things a lot of things, though, at times he heard too much.
He heard about how the Esotercists were close to cracking, having become the dumping ground for the social problems of the city.
He heard how the Rancelmen were cracking down on everyone who Traveled, annoying the Outriders (who claimed they were simple explorers), the Messengers (who claimed they were simple deliverymen), and most anyone else.
He heard about how the Council was tied up in negotiations about the Communicants, to the point no one remembered the original goal was to put them under control of the guilds. In fact, they barely discussed the Communicants, and just argued over how each other was acting.
He heard so much, and after awhile you got tired of listening.
“Richard!”
The portly bar owner turned to face a customer who’d just entered his establishment. This was what he lived for, this was …
“Hey, hand me a Northern Stout. And did you hear about the latest with the University …”
Richard still managed to smile.
Barely.
May 27, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar.
Jade found her foot entangled with other, non-her feet. She was pretty sure they weren’t hers; they were larger, furless, and she couldn’t feel them. Those were the kind of clues you looked for when you were in those moments of disorientation when you awoke.
The black-furred Vulpine shot into awareness. They were HuanJen style feet. You could tell by the size. Oh, and the lack of fur. And the smell of HuanJen next to her.
“Good morning dear, a bit affectionate?” HuanJen’s voice, somewhat bemused. The voice was also coming from very, very close to her.
“Uh, sort of.” Jade shifted around in the large bed she and her lover had purchased weeks ago. Despite the space, the couple and their bedclothes occupied only a small area of the mattress. “Gods, I’ve got us wrapped up like a burrito.”
“You tend to do that when nervous,” HuanJen remarked casually, extracting himself both from her embrace and that of the blanket. He moved like a relaxed bolt of lightning, there one moment, standing the next.
“Nervous, yeah.” Jade tried unrolling herself from the bedclothes. “I’m … everything. I had some bad dreams and I think I kind latched onto you. No offense.”
“None taken.” HuanJen began rooting through the overstuffed dresser in the bedroom, sorting clothes for the day. They were still figuring out how to share the bedroom after deciding to share a bed, which had resulted in some unexpected distribution of outfits. Constant interruptions had not helped.
Jade wondered if other Esotericists had similar problems - and probably did. There was a weird outbreak of Obsidians at the Northwest Trade Zone. A small shrine in Piscion had a statue or idol that had started crying blood, or so it was said. So much …
… and in her life …
“I … am still scared.” Jade figured she should be honest. HuanJen would read her eventually.
“The Historian?” HuanJen asked calmly.
“Well … yes!” Jade managed to get to her feet. “We’re waiting, I mean we get a report here and there, but we’re waiting. Then there’s … everything else.”
“Yes.”
HuanJen tossed one of his dark work coveralls onto the bed, followed by some underwear. Calmly, he handed Jade a bra and a pair of panties. Jade, feeling no response was forthcoming, couldn’t shut herself up.
“I mean we … I know we’ve got to be careful, we don’t want to make stuff worse, we don’t even know if his body can take it, but … you’re worried too?”
“Concerned.” HuanJen picked his clothes off of the bed. “Strange, isn’t it? You expect me to be calm, and I am, but … you are surprised that I … worry?”
“Eh, I expect you to be the calm one.” Jade took a look at the mirror-doored closet near the bed, then sat down hard on the mattress. “The Historian?”
“Everything. This is me.” The mystics smiled. “I’m not perfect, I have limits, I get stressed. I may have studied the enlightened, but I am not one at this time.”
Jade patted the edge of the bed, and HuanJen sat next to her. She gave him a curious look. You never saw him as capable of cracking or feeling, he flowed with life. She felt she hadn’t been looking too close.
“I know. I try and remember when you were crying over Old Man Green. I forget. Hey, I haven’t been a burden, have …”
The Magician-Priest touched Jade’s lips gently, blocking her words. “No. Now don’t you start. I know any burden I am wise enough to bear I can share with you. It makes all things lighter knowing you are here - and I find you’re usually sharing burdens before I need to ask.”
Jade tried to figure out what to say, then nodded. Words fell away around HuanJen, which was terribly irritating - it was like having your favorite tools denied to you.
“We have work to do, love,” the mystic said finally. “I’m proud of you. You’re understanding. “
“A … bit.” Jade kissed her lover’s palm, holding his hand to her cheek. “I sometimes can feel it all around me, like I’m in the center … and other times I want to grab the world and make it work.”
“Grab me instead, it’s less destructive.” HuanJen’s words held enough seriousness that Jade couldn’t help but laugh. From any other person, it would have sounded transcendently sleazy.
“I’ll keep it in mind, Huan.” Jade placed a friendly hand on her mentor-lover’s knee. “I am doing better, you know, I can … feel what you showed me last year. You are a good teacher now. I can feel the unity. It’s like the top of your head being opened.”
“And?”
” … and I want to kick ass on people who don’t get it and fuck around. Sorry, this is me.”
“I know. But until the time is right, ass kicking, my expressive fox-lady, best waits …”
May 31, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar.
Slate sat in his apartment, alone, thinking.
People still assumed he wasn’t good at thinking, when in reality, it was just getting it out that was the problem. He thought a lot. He probably could have thought more about some things.
He’d had an argument with Garnet, and was waiting for her to come home so he could apologize.
Actually, not an argument per se, not the kind he used to have with Jade. Those were something terrible to behold - even HuanJen had stepped in once to inform him he was being an idiot. Sadly, HuanJen had not been informing him of his idiocy lately.
He’d argued with Garnet over Brandon. Brandon.
Brandon Thylar. The smiling, charming, and above all sex-addled Technologist of the little group Slate had found himself part of. Brandon, who’d helped Garnet keep Lorne and Clairice’s apartment in order. Lorne was busy like all Gendarmes, especially with helping the Rancelmen of the Traveller’s Guid avoid smuggling and keep order at the Portals. Clairice was a Nurse, and after the bizarre bombing at Shard Tower, busy as well. Of course Garnet needed help …
… and Slate had gotten jealous again. Brandon, who even made it a point of pride that he would never sleep around with involved women, had been his target. Brandon, whom he’d actually liked.
Maybe he hadn’t been thinking. Slate had found himself busy, like all of his friends. He was in the security business after all, and maybe he was
stressed, and …
The Vulpine shook his head.
Sometimes, Slate wondered if he was cut out for a relationship, more than Garnet had ever suspected, more than Jade would believe. His sister still treated him as a product of Colony - he considered himself a refugee. She knew he wasn’t like others, like their father, but still …
… he had his moments. Moments like an hour ago when he’d said something to Garnet just before she’d gone to Lorne and Clairice’s. Moments that the woman he love gave him a look of pained confusion. Moments she didn’t seem to know him.
He didn’t know when she’d be home. The Trolleys had been more unpredictable as of late - rumor had it the Transport Guild was going to strike if the Guild Council didn’t resolve their conflicts. So he waited, waited to apologize, apologize for something crazy.
It was a crazy age in Metris, but he, at least, could be sane.
June 2, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar
“You heard me. I’m quitting,” Verrigent said, his batlike wings trembling with tension.
Fang Xianfu looked at his partner curiously. Verrigent’s eyes were an eerie red, his blue skin held an odd magenta flush. He was definitely upset - no matter how far his parents had engineered his physiology, there were signs to read.
“Why the hell would you do that?” The Xianfu finally asked, crossing his short, muscular arms.
“Why do you think?” Verrigent stormed around the storage locker, placng items into a large rucksack.
Xianfu’s handsome oriental features warped into an expression of distaste. “The Communicants? Or maybe the Merchants and the University having that argument over who messed up the plan to reorganize the Communicants? Or maybe … everything.”
“Bingo, bingo, and bingo, as some would say.” Verrigent spat.
“Look, Verry …”
“No.” Verrigent raised a long-fingered hand. “No. We’ve stayed in Metris on and off because Greenpole can’t even fix the damn sewers. We get to watch the great and glorious Guild Council argue and argue and argue, and I can go elsewhere …”
“I’ll miss you.” Xianfu stated flatly.
Verrigent paused in his rummaging. It hadn’t been what he’d expected from his fellow Outrider. They’d been on many mapping missions for the University and other clients, and Xianfu had rarely shown any sentimentality. Outriders, in Verrigent’s opinion, weren’t suited for it.
He, sadly, probably was.
“I will . .. visit, or be back. I’m going to be at the 3-56 Outpost for awhile at least. Maybe set up there permanently now that the dome’s up. Hell, that Earth may even have transcendi technology.”
“And …” Xianfu began.
Verrigent smiled lopsidedly. “You and Donovan can handle the next assignment, I mean it’s seeing about weather anomalies on 3-242 for the Path’s sake. Besides, it won’t keep you away from your boyfriend for too long.”
“Heh. Yeah.” Xianfu looked down for a moment. “I think you’re making a mistake by going.”
“I know politics, Xianfu. I know too well. That’s why I came here, that’s why I’m leaving. There’s no reason to stay.”
“There’s a life here, Verrigent.”
“No,” Verrigent tried not to shout, “there’s chaos and everything I can see elsewhere. I want space.”
“No, you want peace.” Xianfu smiled at Verrigent’s look of distaste.
“Well, I won’t find it here,” the blue-skinned Outrider answered after a moment’s thought, “Look, help me pack, give me some time, and we’ll see …”
Xianfu tried to protest, and found he couldn’t.
June 4, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar
Lorne Thompson slept, barely.
He tossed and turned, and occasionally made incoherent mutterings. He was a large man, and his thrashings were not quiet.
The door to his simple bedroom cracked open, light from the hallway spilling in, a single sliver-blade of illumination. A female figure dressed in a simple nightgown peered in, brown-agate eyes glinting with concern.
Clairice Bell looked into the bedroom and shook her head.
It was happening again. It was probably getting worse.
Lorne’s love life was just getting turned around, and now that Xianfu’s partner had quit, he worried about the changes. He worried about his job; the Rancelmen and Gendarmes short alliance was splitting over investigating the Messenger’s Guild and their paranoid politics, along with a half-dozen other odd incidents and fears of smuggling. His whole life …
Hell, her life.
Clairice closed the door, shut off the hall light, and fumbled her way to her own bedroom in the apartment. She desperately needed sleep, especially after a dobule shift - after the bombing and with concerns in the City rising, Metris General was trying to keep enough people on staff.
She fell into her bed, and didn’t even try to arrange the covers.
These were times, the few times, she thought back to her own Earth and her accidental stranding on Xai. Were things so much different there? Here, at least the politics had that personal touch, but …
… it still meant Lorne having trouble sleeping. It still meant her tired and angry and waiting for something to go wrong that never happened, it still …
Clairice Bell drifted into a deep, but troubled sleep.
June 5, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar
One of the places that is not dark, merely dim.
It is the Maze, the underside of Metris, the crazy-quilt of forgotten and remembered pipes and tunnels and basements and passages. The kind of place to make any young hero with a ball of twine give up and leave the Minotaur alone.
Unless, of course, you know the Maze. Unless of course, you know it’s history.
There is a chamber hidden away from even the hidden, and in it a man sat by the light of some poorly-rigged fluorescent lamps. There was little light - it seemed to hurt his eyes more and more.
Radios and televisions were running, making a chaotic tapestry of noise and images. The antennas of the devices seemed oddly-rigged.
“Yes … ” whispered the seated man. His red and brown robes seemed to move unnaturally.
Television buzz. ” … of the Constructionists Guild joined the Powersmiths in boycotting the Guild Council meetings until an agreement is signed to stop Guild infighting. Now …”
“Ah, perfect …”
Radio sounds, tinny, poor. ” … suspect the Farming Collective and the Transport guild are about to release a similar statement …”
Laughter.
“Soon, soon, we can feel it. I can feel it …”
The man called The Historian, once known as Paldayne, waited for something. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he’d find it.
He had faith in people, in his own way.
June 6, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar
Riakka Bale woke from a nigthmare.
It wasn’t a defined nightmare, it wasn’t a specific nightmare. It was the feeling of something very dark behind her in all of her dreams …
… then it tapped her on her shoulder, and she heard a word so loud it shook the foundations of Xai.
Then, she awoke. Just as she had for two weeks, every few nights.
It was getting annoying, but she didn’t tell anyone. It felt personal, it felt like it was part of her. It felt like there was a secret just between her and someone else.
She’d even considered telling the Esotercist’s she’d been helping. But … no, this was for her.
“Galcir …”
She stepped out of her sweat-soaked sheets and sat on the edge of her bed. She hoped it was Galcir, god of her Guild, the Historians. She’d touched him weeks ago, hoping to find out if her mentor Paldayne had become the mysterious entity known The Historian. Galcir had answered in the affirmative, and had promised to inform them of Paldayne’s actions if he could - The Historian was not necessarily part of his realm anymore.
She liked to believe that he wa
s in her dreams and she was just reacting wrong. She was religious in her own mind; she worshipped the gods of Xai, she did her prayers and observations. She wanted to believe she’d reached them.
Certainly, one of them had reached her …
June 9, 2000 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar.
Rake, minister of the Church of the Works of Christ, carefully cleaned up after the evening service. He’d been having a few extra ones as of late. People needed comfort and guidance - and with the political and now economic issues, people moving in and wanting jobs wasn’t as common. His side business of job placement was just not what it had been a few months ago.
Still, things were hanging in there.
Barely.
He sat on a pew. He felt old. He was in his late 30’s. He was tired. He was pursing a malicious supernatural entity. He was tired of people looking to him for answers, to the point he’d wanted to scream that God was there, he wasn’t some service you rendered.
It had to end, sooner or later.
“Lord …” he began, looking up at the simple cross over the alter.
The Voice kicked at the back of his head. The Voice which had come to him years ago. The Voice that was so hard to restrain sometime.
” … in this darkness, I ask …”
Rake sighed. He stood and began pacing.
“I’m not feeling formal, I … ah. I’m tired. I’m, ah, so angry. It just, ah, shouldn’t be. I will, I will try, but I fear the burden. I prefer, ah, the peace, and the quiet, and the, ah, obscurity … and sometimes I want do a Jericho.”
The minister looked up at the simple cross. He knew the answer. He always knew the answer. Part of being a holy man was knowing things directly - faith seemed like too crude a word for his life at times. Fath was blind belief. He dealt with knowing without words.
“We do, ah, things because we, ah, do. I forget at times.”
Then, the lights went out. Rake ran to the door of the church, threw it open, and found that Temple Street was dark.
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