Bridgeworlds: Rise of the Magi

by Randy Blackwell

  Myles sat on the bed and grabbed his black boots, custom-made in China, checking the secret compartments in the heels—one contained two vials and the other contained 25 feet of wire for illusions. One vial contained an acid that could eat through metal. The other contained a tarry poison made from tobacco leaves. It could render a man unconscious within a minute and kill him within three. Just in case… I could never endure torture. His life had indeed become exciting. “Myles moved on to the casino in Cherokee, NC.” Savannah got old. It was refreshing to live in the mountains. “That is where Myles forged documentation so that he could claim Cherokee descent, allowing him to work in the casino.” Hey! I’m 1/16th!

  “Myles perfected the art of cheating at the casinos by seeing how everything worked from the inside.”

  Myles laughed. With that job I only meant to be a ‘railbird’, but that vault was too tempting.

  “But he was banished from his adopted tribe and kicked off the reservation for trying to break into the casino vault. Since then he has just kept one step ahead of the law.” Europe seemed a safer place to work than the United States with its more fluid borders.

  “But the FBI assures us that these kinds of criminals are always caught eventually because of their daredevil nature. They are always wanting to outdo—“

  Myles walked into the other room and used the remote to turn off the television. That’s enough of that.

  Tonight he was plagued by thoughts about possible repercussions, since he'd cheated mob boss Don Marinelli out of 2.5 million dollars, more than he’d ever taken in one night. He stared at the tiny note someone had slipped him just outside his room. The don’s wife wants a secret meeting? Myles had a weakness for dangerous, attractive women, and the don’s wife qualified in every way.

  Myles passed by the tacky pink and pastel green-striped wallpaper of his room and shook his head at the vaulted ceiling with its dangling chandelier twenty feet above him. The lamps and furniture were antique knockoffs with gilded trim but Myles was glad he wouldn’t be enduring mob boss chic decor for another night. Get out before they get you. Don’t play the game with a ‘cold deck’.

  The woman’s message sounded fishy to him. Myles made his way back to the bedroom, packing the fake passports. Where is the one I chose for my next identity? Ah, here it is. Kevin Axtell, venture capital CEO from New York City, representing Middle East oil investors from the U.S. He savored his admiration of his own chameleon abilities for a moment.

  Then he grabbed an airline ticket to Bahrain from his bags. Potential exploits danced like the sun on that sapphire Bahrain Sea. His head swung around just in time to see a fist about as big as his head punch through the door.

  “Message from Don Marinelli.” A thunderous voice followed the equally thunderous crash.

  Every gambler gets a ‘bad beat’ sometime. Guess this is mine. This thug probably wouldn’t kill him, but Myles was fond of all his fingers and also of the 2.5 mil. The window wasn’t an option at eight stories up. The hired goon reached his arm through the hole in the door and jiggled the latch open while Myles locked himself in the bathroom.

  Myles kicked straight through the drywall and rapidly widened the hole into the space between his room and the one next door. Is there a class that guys take on punching holes through doors? He wondered as the fist came through the bathroom door.

  Myles squeezed through the hole into the narrow space just as the bruiser shoved open the bathroom door. Myles turned on the small flashlight he carried in one of the many pockets in his suit. He made his way as fast as he could down this narrow passage, through several twists and turns inside the wall. Surely the large goon behind him was going to have a difficult time following him.

  Suddenly Myles hit the end of the passage, and to the left was a small room that apparently had been walled up for some reason. This hotel was in an old, gothic building that had been renovated many times over the past 200 years. Unused space in the walls was no surprise.

  He stared for a moment in the dim light from his flashlight at the crumbling brick wall. A small opening, as if a fireplace had once been there, caught his eye. It almost looked like the back of the tall fireplace was just an empty space, maybe a small tunnel. The back of this space should be the wall of the unoccupied honeymoon suite next door. He decided that all he’d have to do was break through the back of that crazy dark space, and he’d be able to get away.

  Kicking had worked before on the bathroom wall. He jumped up, aiming both feet at the shadowy spot in the wall. But Myles’ legs went right through what he thought was the back wall, his momentum flinging him into a black space. A flash of light blinded him and then he bashed into a wall, bricks scattering past him through the small hole his feet had made. The dim light beyond the bricks didn’t seem to come from another hotel room. Where did I end up, anyway?

  Myles threw his entire body against the damaged wall. The rest of the brick collapsed in front of him, sending him flying through. Where am I going? If anybody’s there, get ready, because the gambler’s coming!

  3

  The Light

  Omar had packed excessively for his experimental journey, like he did for everything. Weaponry in case of hostiles -- check. Solar-powered laptop, fully charged, good for two days -- check. Libraries of scientific and historical information on the hard drive -- check. And all of my favorite movies and music. Nice. Omar shook himself mentally, pulled his eyes away from the movie list, and went back to double-checking the hard drive contents. Software for my electronics -- check. USB cables -- Check.

  Everything had an important purpose, Omar reassured himself. Some of these things might not help him return, but they’d certainly be good to have if he got stuck on the other side of the portal. He had used the government credit card for the project to buy everything else he needed, surprised and thankful that they hadn’t snatched the funds out of the account already.

  Deciding to bring the motorcycle that he’d recently invented had been a real debate. It would be helpful in getting around quickly, and it was powered by common trash. If the natives of this other dimension were primitive he’d have to hide it, along with most of the other things he was bringing. Visions of Cro-Magnon man playing with his C-4 or the M-16 did not encourage him, but he had to go armed. He’d also packed a dispensary's inventory of medical supplies.

  Omar finished loading his backpack and the saddlebags on the motorcycle. The backpack felt like the one he'd taken on that field study in Anchorage, Alaska, but it was all necessary. He groaned as the straps imbedded themselves in his narrow shoulders.

  Omar had put the section of the wall with the portal tunnel into a sealed room with a separate oxygen supply where he believed it could sit for years undetected. No technology that Omar knew of could penetrate the room's "skin", a material he had designed. This ensured that Omar would have safe passage back through the portal, if anything could guarantee that. He also had arranged for Tyree to faithfully care for the coma patients in his laboratory until his return. Tyree had access to the sealed room but Omar ordered him never to enter it.

  Omar revved up the motorcycle and surged into the portal, ducking and cringing at some unseen barrier. He couldn’t feel the weight of the bag on his back or hear the roar of the motorcycle. Everything faded away in brilliant, beautiful, blinding light.

  The moment faded. The roar of the motorcycle and the weight of his pack crashed in on him like an interruption to a wonderful dream. He immediately turned off the motorcycle and waited a moment for his normal vision to return. As his eyes adjusted and he took in his surroundings he studied the walls for a moment. Stunned, he realized that they looked exactly like the tube he’d just passed through. That meant that his portal was actually from this dimension. Did someone want me to enter this dimension?

  Omar searched for a satellite signal with his laptop. Nothing. Same story with his cell phone. He sat there on the bike for a few minutes contemplating the knowledge that he might the first conscious
person to travel inter-dimensionally. A sense of accomplishment flooded over him.

  Omar grinned as he put the laptop back into his pack. Time to explore. 20 mph kept the noise down and seemed likely to avoid a collision. The actual tunnel walls were gray brick, mossy, muddy, and undisturbed except for an occasional vine or root. In spite of the likelihood that he was underground, this tunnel didn’t smell like a sewer system despite its resemblance to one.

  The tunnel forked several times. Omar chose randomly and went on. After going about ten miles Omar began marking an occasional brick with red spray paint. He traveled for several hours this way but never came across one of his markings, smugly congratulating himself on jamming that paint can into his bulging bag.

  Omar finally decided to try a different fork in the tunnel. He stopped. All the markings have disappeared! He sprayed one of the bricks and watched in surprise as the paint slowly faded into the brick and completely disappeared within a couple of minutes. All the “what-ifs” began to bombard his mind. Omar decreased his speed and set off again, still hoping to find some sign of civilization.

  Why does this tunnel seem familiar? And what is that rumbling? Something smashed through the wall, right into him. Omar flew forward and the bike veered to the right, smashing into the opposite wall. A huge patch of moss softened his fall so he only was slightly bruised. He got up to survey the damage to the bike, but to his amazement, a man lay unconscious beside it.

  Omar, being a true scientist, spent only a moment in shock. He dug out his video camera, turned it on, and narrated as he recorded. “The subject is a six-foot tall male, approximately 180 lbs., with shoulder-length brown hair. He’s wearing what seems to be Western-style clothing, which includes a white shirt, red vest with silver buttons and black pants. Overtop he has on a tailored black trail coat and a large black cowboy hat with a red feather in the hatband.”

  Omar examined the man’s head wound and reported to the video camera, “His injury will, more than likely, have only caused a mild concussion. Sir, I’m not sure if you understand me, but are you okay?”

  Myles moaned and opened his eyes to find a short, skinny man standing over him. The man studied him like he was a lab rat, and it made him more than a little uncomfortable.

  This fellow might not understand English, but Omar hoped he would understand his tone. “I’m Omar Metzger. I come here from far, far away. I’m from a planet called Earth.”

  This guy must be a nut case! When Myles started looking around, he realized that they were in a tunnel. He quickly felt for his wallet, fearing the worst. So this freak isn’t out to rob me. The guy wore a lab coat, spectacles, and a huge motorcycle helmet. Now he was sure; this guy was certifiable.

  In a desperate struggle to establish communication, Omar pointed to himself. "O-mar.” Then he pointed at Myles, almost shouting now. “Name?”

  Myles looked at Omar sideways. “Yeah, okay, and my name is Myles. Look Professor Nutty, I haven’t got time to play the name game with you. We got to ‘call the clock’, doc. There’s a big ugly man behind that wall who wants to deliver a message to me by pounding on me until I give back his boss' money. I definitely won’t be able to answer your questions if I don’t find the way out of this funny farm and fast.”

  “You mean, you’re…not from this place, either? But…how?” the man stared at him as if Omar had the head injury.

  “No, I'm from Sallisaw, Oklahoma! What in the world is wrong with you, anyway? Did you hit your head, little guy?”

  Omar fought to hold back a grin. So, this new acquaintance, judging by his refined gift for sarcasm, is either a genius, a jerk, or a jester. He was pretty sure he could rule out genius, but he had been proven wrong before. So he moved on to one of the other two options. “You’re dripping with sarcasm, Myles, but the joke is on you. You don’t even have a clue, do you, as to the magnitude of what you’ve just stumbled into? It must have been some form of dimensional pocket. That means that my portal isn’t the only way in! Oh, but wait!” he stood there in thought for a moment, then added, “Unless you’re a coma victim.”

  “Oh brother. You must’ve gotten on the wrong bus today. This is Italy! That convention you escaped from is back in Geek-ville, USA. I’m no coma victim. In fact, I’m never the mark.”

  Maybe this Myles is one part genius and two parts jerk. “Check your cell phone, then, if you don’t believe me. You won’t have a signal.”

  “So? We’re in some kind of underground sewer or something. Cell phones tend not to work underground.”

  “Did you say sewer? That’s funny. Then why is there no sewage here? What was the last thing you were doing? Is it plausible that, whatever you were doing, you would have landed in a sewer?”

  Myles scowled. This guy was making more sense by the minute, and he wasn’t acting quite as crazy as he first seemed. I was in an eighth story hotel room, and now I'm in some kind of tunnel system. Venice has no sewers because of the canals. “So then, genius, where are we?”

  Omar took off his helmet. “Myles, look at me.”

  Myles took a long look at him wondering if this guy was trying to play a con on him. “I’ll admit you look familiar, but I’m not good with names. Why, do I owe you money?”

  “You’re just full of jokes aren’t you? Let’s see if any of these words ring a bell: Scientist, inventor, revolutionized the harnessing of solar power, my face was on the cover of Time magazine.”

  "Nah. Not really ringing any -- "Myles stopped." That motorcycle. It's the one that runs on trash, right?" He walked over and touched the machine reverently. "I was gonna buy one with...” he choked off before saying he'd planned to use the profits from his last con. “But wasn't it discontinued? Who invented this thing? Dr. Metzger! Yeah! Doesn’t the government all but own you now? Sure. I saw it on CNN. They took one of your inventions off the market, right? You revolutionized the motorcycle, but they said that it was harmful to the economy because it decreased the value of fuel. Hey, is that what you ran over me with?”

  “Nobody owns me! I was working on teleportation for the military, but they were going to cut off the funds. And yes, the motorcycle was my prototype and it runs off of trash. It would have revolutionized the way that we harness energy, but the government does what it wants to. I’ve learned the hard way that freedom is a relative term with them.”

  “What’re you doing in Italy?”

  "We aren’t in Italy, Myles. Our geographic position is…‘unknown.’ ”

  Myles blinked in bewilderment. “You mean…you found a way to teleport people with your bike?”

  “No, Myles. I found a way to teleport, but not to a controlled and desired location. It’s actually inter-dimensional travel, and they were cutting my funding because of that. So, before that happened, I just drove through the portal to collect as much proof as possible. And here we are, wherever here is.”

  “Wait up! Hold the phone, Doc. Are you telling me we’re not in Kansas anymore? Nah, that’s too big a pill for me to swallow. I don’t know what you believe, but I’m sure that I’m in Italy, and I just need to find my way out of these sewers.” Dimensional travel? Could it be? Myles knew Omar Metzger was no joke. But dimensional travel would be the greatest discovery ever. I’ve got good luck, but it isn’t that good.

  “Have it your way. I have a feeling you’ll come around to my point of view.”

  Myles tipped his hat and winked at Omar. “All right Doctor Jekyl, we’ll see, won’t we? How about for right now, we get on that trash-eating scooter of yours and see who knows what?”

  Omar suspected that Myles was the type who learned by trial and error. So Myles climbed on the back of the motorcycle and off they went. But after they drove for fifteen minutes, the tunnels always looking the same, Myles realized the futility of their journey. He finally asked Omar to stop so he could think.

  Myles studied every inch of tunnel. "It’s actually a complex puzzle. I don’t know how, but it’s definitely a puzzle, and there’s got to b
e a pattern we can discover that will help us solve it. Let’s drive and I’ll tell you when I think we should turn, okay?”

  Omar didn’t have any better ideas so he decided to go along with Myles and see what he came up with. He drove, turning when Myles told him to, and learned a lot from the man’s strategic approach to things. When they took the last turn, Omar looked ahead in shock. “This is different!” he shouted. Omar slowed down as they approached a large square junction with paths leading in four different directions. “How did you do that?” Omar asked with amazement. “Who are you?”

  Myles beamed. “Well, Doc, sometimes I’m Ragnar the Illusionist, and I know a trick of the eye when I see one. Not quite sure how it’s done, but I could tell that there had to be a pattern or a combination to unlock the secret. So I tried the easiest combination in the book. Right, that’s one, left and left, that’s two, and right then right then right, that’s three. See? It’s as easy as one, two, and three.”

  Omar, for the first time since arriving, began to laugh. “All right, Rags. You’re more genius than I first thought. So where to next?”

  Rags, this guy has the gall to nickname me? “Well, this is a number puzzle. We’ve already done three so I’m guessing that the next number is four. We’ve got to travel through four tunnels this time. Have you got a compass somewhere in all that junk?”

  “Junk? All that junk is worth more than you are!”

  Myles just shook his head in disbelief. Omar handed him a compass. Myles watched as the needle went from pointing straight in front of him to pointing to the right.

  Omar watched over his shoulder. “That means something has a magnetic pull in that direction!”

  “Enough said, Doc, let’s book it.”

  They both hopped back on the bike and headed into one of the tunnels again. As they sped along, Omar laughed. “Why Myles, I’m starting to get the impression that you’re enjoying yourself.”