by Garon Whited
“I don’t see a way,” I told her. “But, upon consideration, maybe I shouldn’t bother.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no way to directly scan other universes the way I do within a single universe. No scanner spells, no sensor spells, nothing of that nature. In theory, I could open a small gate, cast a spell through it, and search individual worlds, one by one. I could spend the next decade in frantic haste—or the next millennium—searching, universe by universe, effectively sticking my face into a world just long enough to detect whether or not the Black Ball is in it—assuming it isn’t shielded from my detection spells—and moving on to the next one. The problem is, if I go down that road I won’t do anything else.”
“And the alternative?” Mary asked, watching my face carefully.
“The opposite.”
“What? Do nothing?”
“No, on the contrary. Do everything I want to do. Don’t devote my time and energy to searching. Don’t rush off to waste my time. Don’t joust with this windmill. Instead, do all the other things. Take a vacation. Revitalize my weary spirit. Nurse a wounded heart. Experiment with other spells, maybe even work out a searching spell. Explore some other worlds and build a baseline of data so we can learn how to dial for specific qualities, rather than open gateways at random—assuming there’s a way to do that at all. That sort of thing.”
“I’m for it,” Mary agreed, immediately. “My only question is about the Black Ball of Bad. What will it be doing?”
“I have no idea. Hiding from me, probably, because wherever it is, I’m certain it thinks I’m coming for it. It has no way of knowing I’m too tired to chase it. At a guess, it will be building some sort of fortress, much like it did when the entity possessed the Prince of Byrne. If I were the thing, my first concern would be personal safety, then building a power base from which to operate.”
“And…?”
“And it will show up, eventually. If I don’t go after it, it will eventually come after me. Or its agents will. And that will give me something to work with for tracking it down.”
“So, the plan is to… sit back, put your feet up, and wait for it to attack?”
“Only initially. I need to rest.” I rubbed my temples. “Physically, I don’t get tired. Emotionally, I’m exhausted. You’ve been helping with that, but I have a long way to go.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. We probably have a bit of a breathing space while your Orb finds itself a new niche and sets itself up.”
“And I want that chance to breathe. I need some time off. When I feel up to it, I’ll probably set up spells to let Diogenes scan for the orb while he’s doing basic checks on universes. It probably won’t help, but we could get lucky.”
“Are you sure it isn’t in this world? Could all this,” she gestured at the double-spiral distortion, “be a decoy? Or even a failed attempt at escape?”
“You know, I hadn’t thought of that.” I sighed. “All right, we’ll go look. Let me crank up my passive scanner again. Call a cab and we’ll go investigate the other point-sources.”
The remaining sources turned out to be people. A few of them had a family resemblance to the Fries. The rest seemed to be employees—guards, servants, whatever. A brief look at their spirits with my vampire eyes confirmed there were alterations. The Orb did something to them, changed them in some way, and it left its black little fingerprints all over their insides.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. I didn’t see anything like that when I opened them up and looked.
We didn’t burn down the houses. Having had it done to me, I’m actively trying to avoid doing it to others.
Apocalyptica, Friday, July 8th, Year 1
I think…
I think things are going well. I’m almost scared to say that, as though saying it will cause something large, unpleasant, and hungry to pop into existence next to me.
It’s not an unreasonable worry. Not for me. But I try not to think about it.
Diogenes is slowly renovating a planet. Mary has worlds to explore and, potentially, rob. Even Firebrand has something to do. It’s spending time with Bob, rather than Lissette. Apparently, Lissette is boring, while Bob rules the Eastrange with a velvet-lined, gauntleted fist.
Everyone has something to do. Everyone is doing something. Everyone is busy with whatever.
I’m not.
I’m sitting in a comfortable room, finishing up another chapter of my existence.
I’m not sure if my soul is still bleeding from the loss of Bronze. I don’t think it is. I think it’s finally scabbed over and relatively numb. I don’t want to poke it, though.
Instead, I’m working—if you can call it that—on understanding more about how the universes are put together, how magic relates to science, and vice-versa. I’m not hurrying. I’m trying to keep things calmer than my usual headlong pace. I want to be leisurely, relaxed, and peaceful for a while, even if I have to kill someone to do it.
For so much of my existence as a vampire, I’ve been an immortal in a hurry. A creature with an infinite lifespan, but with no time. Rush, rush, rush, busy, busy, busy.
Well, now I’m taking time. Nobody is screaming at me, for me, or about me—at least, not where I can hear it. For now, that’s enough. We’ll see how long it goes on. That’s all anyone can really do, I suppose. Take time when you can take it, live each day as it comes, hope you have more time tomorrow, and be ready when the inevitable storm of events rains on your parade.
As for me, I’m willing to let the whole of the multi-timeline-alternate-reality-universe go to hell in its own way.
Maybe it’ll even return the favor… for a while.
Reflection
As I sit here, regarding myself as once I was, I wonder how I could ever have been… him. We are all different people, depending on when we are. The child demanding a cookie is very different from the youth applying for his first job. Both are strangers to the career man negotiating for a raise, and none of them recognize the old person on the porch, rocking and wondering if it will rain.
How many people have I been? A new person, from second to second, moment to moment, each forming a link, subtly different from the one before, making up the chain of my existence? Or are there distinct events to mark the transition of who I was into who I am, and into who I will become?
Regardless, I look now at the self who would retire from the world and live the life mundane. He wants nothing more than to rest—and he will. But there are things awaiting him, the me that was, and I pity him.
Can I change any of them? Can I reach out to him across the gulfs of space and time to give him as much as one word of warning, or of advice? No, of course not. If I were to change anything about him then, I would not be the me I am now.
He’s just going to have to suffer through it all, and I will have to watch.
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Garon Whited
Other books:
LUNA
Nightlord, Book One: Sunset
Nightlord, Book Two: Shadows
Nightlord, Book Three: Orb
Short Stories:
An Arabian Night: Nazin’s Dream
Clockwork
Dragonhunt
The Ways of Cats
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