by Garon Whited
Still, after checking it against the local magical laws, and I’m wondering about some peculiarities of its effects and functions. I think of it as a wormhole connecting two distant points. For places in the same universe, with the same laws, that may be true. But when connecting different universes, with the potential for wildly-differing laws of nature, it doesn’t hold up so well. For that, I need a new theory.
Maybe it’s not so much a doorway as a transformation.
I’m not sure I can explain that. At least, not yet. It’s the beginning of an idea.
At any rate, now I have to build a bench model of a gate inside the field of an iridium warp magnet and see if it’s any easier. I would also like to spend time experimenting with alloys of ruthenium to see if one of them can create a more efficient electromagical transformer, but I have enough on my plate already. I’ll stick with the pure metal in my bench model. Besides, I already have power-gathering spells. They should do for now.
On the upside, Sir Sebastian called and says he has a commission for me. A family out in California would like a one-shot nexus—that’s how he describes an Ascension Sphere—set up in their garden. I’ll catch an early flight on Monday.
On the downside, it’s almost noon on Saturday, and I have a lunch to go to.
Susan met me at her front door, all smiles and warm welcome. Edgar accompanied her, delighted to have me over.
“Vlad!” Susan exclaimed. “May I call you ‘Vlad’? Come in, come in! Don’t mind the mess. The little one has been tearing through the house all morning.”
I stepped inside and back a hundred years. The inside of the house reminded me of the things I saw on TV as a kid for the “house of the future” from the 1950’s. “Space Age” furniture, streamlined and smooth, bright colors, all that. The décor was right, but there were functional changes. The TV was a flat-screen built into the wall, for example, instead of a console unit. The style was what I thought of as old; the technology was all modern.
“Vlad, this is Olivia.” Susan introduced me to the toddler. Olivia was probably about two, pushing three, and came right up to me. She grabbed my knee and looked straight up the cliff of Mount Vladimir, giggling at me. I handed Edgar the bottles of soda I brought and sat down on the floor to say hello to Olivia. Olivia found this hilarious, so I tickled her carefully.
I file down my fingernail talons as part of my morning routine. They grow somewhat faster than I like, but the real problem is they grow sharp. They spontaneously develop an edge. They try to grow out to points, too, which is, I think, disturbing. Maybe I’m biased. But I paid special attention to my manicure this morning in anticipation of close contact with people. I have an electric die grinder just for my nails. After all, doesn’t everyone pay close attention to hygiene before going to a party?
By the time we made it into the back yard, Olivia had managed to squirm her way onto my shoulders. I didn’t mind; she didn’t weigh anything to me. While we went out on the slab that served as a patio, Edgar eagerly told me about how his Dad made a huge fireball on the grill. I lifted Olivia down and she ran/toddled around the back yard, grabbing toys to bring back and show me.
Larry grinned at me and touched his paper chef’s hat with his spatula in salute. He had good reason to be friendly; he’d made a monthly quota off my furniture needs alone.
“Pull up a piece of picnic table,” he encouraged. “Do you like it freshly killed or dead a few days?”
“Any of the above. I’ll take a bite out of it before it stops moving,” I told him, honestly. He served up a faux-meat soyburger thing almost instantly. I took it and added some cheese and salad. A bowl of chips was already in the center of the table. I sat down, carefully, directly over one of the supports in the built-in bench seating—explaining about my weight problem was not on the menu.
Little Olivia somehow wound up eating most of my French fries and wearing an impressive amount of ketchup on her face. I have no idea how that happened. It’s like they leaped at her mouth whenever I wasn’t watching. That must be it.
Altogether, it was a pretty pleasant afternoon. Susan played a little footsie with me under the table, which surprised me enormously. She was discrete about it, but… Was Larry okay with it? I had no idea. Modern customs and mores might be much more… liberal?... but how would I find out? I can’t go up to people and ask them what they think about extramarital affairs. Or can I? Should I Google “What’s acceptable for having an affair?”
That’s the trouble with a whole new world. Things that look similar may not be similar at all.
I was into my third burger—I could tell it definitely wasn’t meat, but it was moderately bland and required no special effort to eat it—when Myrna arrived, drawing Fred along in her wake. Larry had a momentary expression of annoyance, but it vanished quickly, replaced by his Professional Smile. His is much better than mine.
Susan welcomed the pair with all evidence of warmth and pleasure, but I wished it was after dark. I suspected a peek into her true feelings might show something else. Edgar tried to keep it off his face, but I was pretty sure he doesn’t like Myrna. That’s okay. I don’t, either.
There was the usual invitation to join us, the token resistance, the reluctant acceptance. I noticed Fred’s “reluctance to intrude” didn’t give him any problems with wolfing down two burgers in nothing flat. Edgar got permission to go inside and practice his piano. I wished I could, too, and I don’t play the piano. At least, I don’t think I do. There was an instrument a little like a harpsichord in Zirafel…
“Oh, Mister Smith,” Myrna called, turning the spotlight of her attention to me. She and Susan had nattered on at each other with only occasional sorties to the husbands for affirmations or confirmations. “You simply must come by tomorrow! Fred will be giving his pre-Halloween sermon in the morning.”
I chewed slowly; having a mouthful of food buys time to think. Sermon? Pre-Halloween? Fred was a preacher? I didn’t know that. My own fault for not spying on my neighbors, I suppose. Perhaps I should be more nosy.
“I’m sorry I’ll miss it,” I offered, after swallowing. “I’ve got to be elsewhere.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I hope you don’t miss church too often. Where do you attend, Mister Smith?”
Nosy bitch, I thought. Distantly, I heard Firebrand’s psychic agreement.
Okay, maybe that was uncharitable of me, but I was the one being pinned down by a paper plate and interrogated. From the look on Susan’s face, she wasn’t best pleased about the situation, either. I’m sure she hadn’t intended to have Myrna over at all.
“In the city, Ma’am. I’ll be overnighting there, tonight. And, Fred,” I added, turning to him, “where do you give your sermons?”
Fred and I chatted about his congregation and his duties as a minister, but Myrna wasn’t about to be left out of the conversation.
“Oh, Fred is wonderful, especially around this time of year when so many people are glorifying the supernatural. You really should make time to hear him exhort the faithful to vigilance against the corruption of children!”
“I’m certain Fred does a marvelous job of it,” I told her, straight-faced, as someone corrupted Olivia with another ketchup-smeared French fry. It’s like some supernatural force was feeding them to her. She was sitting on my lap; surely I would have noticed anything like that. “The terrors of the ungodly should not be visited upon the innocent.”
“Say, that’s a nice phrase,” Fred piped up. “Mind if I use that?’
“Feel free.”
“And,” Myrna added, “perhaps you might remind those little scamps who hang around your place they should be thinking more about the Lord and less about their pagan-holiday loot.”
“You mean Patricia, Luke, Edgar, and Gary?”
“Yes, those four. What do they do all afternoon in your barn, Mister Smith? Or were you aware they seem to regard it as their hideout?”
“I’m aware they’re trespassing, if that’s what you mean. I
can hear them playing, sometimes.” I shrugged. “I don’t mind, as long as they’re careful and don’t break anything—themselves included. Besides, sometimes they’re helpful. We hung a new screen door not long ago. Having a couple of spare hands about the place can be a good thing.”
“Oh, yes; you live all alone in that big house, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I stated, and stopped talking. Myrna smiled at me with an attitude of expectation, as though I should continue. I simply kept my lips closed and smiled back. Fred rescued the conversation.
“Are you at all religious, Mister Smith? I mean, are you a lay minister or some such?”
“Please, Fred. Call me ‘Vladimir.’ Or ‘Vlad.’ I’ve been calling you ‘Fred’ all through lunch.”
“Surely, Vlad.”
“And no, I don’t have any formal qualifications as a minister,” I told him, thinking, Only as a couple of sorts of angel and a de facto deity, all against my better judgment. “I’ve had some difficulties with various brands of religion. You could say I haven’t really found my spiritual home, yet. But I keep looking.”
Sometimes the art of conversation is knowing what not to say.
“Oh, of course you will!” Myrna interjected, yanking the conversation back to her. “Do come to our church, Vlad. I’m sure you’ll find it a warm and friendly place.”
I refrained from any comments about how warm temples could be.
“Probably so,” I replied, instead. “I’ll do my best to visit at some point, I’m sure, but I can’t promise. Business keeps dragging me away unpredictably.”
“That’s so sad,” Myrna sympathized. “What, exactly, do you do?”
“Well, after the inheritance, I’m modestly wealthy. I’ve started a little artistic thing. Mostly geometric patterns—that sort of style. Fortunately, I know an agent who knows people willing to pay for that sort of thing.”
“Really!” Susan chirped, perking up. “May I see some of your work, sometime?”
“Of course. I’ll get something ready for viewing and I’ll let you know.”
“That’s wonderful. I always thought I’d like to be an artist.”
“That’s true,” Larry added. “You should see her watercolors.”
There ensued a small family argument about whether or not they were good enough to show visitors. I didn’t mind; it let me eat a fourth burger. I also got to watch my fries disappear in a ketchup-gore massacre. I eventually found myself promising if Susan would bring some of her watercolors with her when she came to see my own work, I wouldn’t laugh.
Of course, now I have to do something artistic and geometric. I wonder… when I ate every soul in Zirafel, were any of them artists? Surely some of them were. If I can play instruments I’ve never seen before, surely I can draw!
Since the noon was turning into afternoon, I made an attempt to escape gracefully. I was hampered in this by Olivia, who seemed to think I was much more fun than plastic dinosaurs and other inanimate toys. Eventually, I shook hands with Fred and Larry, assured Larry that his grilling was top-notch, thanked Susan for the invitation, lied to Myrna about it being a pleasure to see her again, and got dried ketchup on my face from Olivia. I once had an easier time escaping a dungeon, although the dungeon was considerably less pleasant.
The rest of the day was a trip into the city, some more hunting for the SCA—which shouldn’t be so much of a problem; they’re not a secret society!—and a hotel stay for the privacy of a bathroom and shower.
It saves me so much time and effort to die in the shower. I don’t think I can overstate how much more convenient and easy it is than doing it with magic. Here, I mean. The worth of a civilization can be gauged at least partly by its plumbing.
I spent the evening walking through hospitals and under bridges. It’s not that I was especially hungry, but there are always so many people who don’t want to live any more. I don’t mean the ones wailing and bemoaning their fate. I mean the ones whose souls are weary.
True, I could take some ancient derelict from his cardboard box, get him a hot meal, a bath, and a fresh change of clothes. The ones I’m looking for won’t be helped thereby. They’re the ones who, even when raised up and made comfortable, have a weariness inside them that transcends the flesh. Their race is run; their time is up. They want to rest.
If you’re not a fan of euthanasia, that’s okay. I can respect that. I won’t help you along; you can die after as long a wait as possible. Since I respect your right to live in agony, respect my right to fill my ecological niche. Until I’ve turned you into a vampire and you’ve seen into the souls of men, don’t presume to judge me.
Better yet, don’t judge me at all. I might return the favor.
Sunday, October 25th
I spent most of the day in fistfights and swordfights. Well, not really, but the practice is the thing. Apparently, they don’t have an SCA here; they have the MA—Medieval Anachronisms. The kingdoms are different, the borders are different, the fighting is pretty much the same. At least this finally confirms my suspicion I’m in another universe. It’s not a new name for an old organization; it’s always been called that! Ha!
Unless this is a timeline altered by previous interventions in the past…
Shut up, me.
Anyway, I was graciously loaned some wood and aluminum—sword and armor—and allowed to play. Quite a few of them are good; it was fun. Since I wasn’t in danger of getting eviscerated, I took it as an opportunity to experiment with… how to put this? Not simple parries and counters, but maneuvers more… unusual? More flamboyant? Non-standard replies, I suppose. Rather than a simple parry-and-attack routine, I experimented with more fanciful things, like rolling around the thrust of an enemy, advancing along the outside of his blade as I turned, and catching his arm. Simply getting to that point was sufficient.
Some of the fighters didn’t appreciate my lack of seriousness. There are always Those People, the ones who take every fun thing far too seriously. Specifically, Ed, Lewis, and Gardner—excuse me “Sir Aragon,” “Sir Æthelwight,” and “Sir Cormorant.” They hated it when people used their “mundane names,” and they weren’t too fond of my style of combat.
I did try to explain. It’s not all about standing toe-to-toe with someone and being faster, or stronger, or more skilled. It’s also about doing unexpected things, or doing mundane things in unexpected ways. The goal is to make the other guy have to think about what he’s doing, rather than rely on his reflexes.
Trust me, I know how that works. If I didn’t have superconductors for nerves, I’d have been dead—permanently dead—a long time ago.
After Ed, Lewis, and Gardner were suitably disgusted, I found Don and Richard. Technically, “Sir Byron,” and “Sir Percy,” but after the initial introductions it was, “Call me Don.” “I’m Richard—please don’t call me ‘Dick.’”
“Don and Richard,” I repeated. “I’m Vlad. No titles.”
Firebrand was at my hip as part of my costume. It snorted, psychically—a trick I don’t have. I got the point and mentally whispered to it to keep quiet.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Don told me. “I get the impression you’ve been fighting for a while.”
“Yep. Sadly, I move around a lot. I’ve never been in one place long enough for a belt, or a brassard, or whatever it is.”
“I like how you keep dancing around,” Richard observed. “You’re a hard target. I don’t recall the last time Lewis had to work that hard to hit someone. And you without a shield, too.”
“I never got the hang of sword-and-shield,” I lied. “When I have a shield, it’s kind of a wall I wave around.”
“Would you like to work with a shield?” Don asked. “Richard and I are pretty good, but two-on-one is way different from duels.”
“I would be delighted to be beaten up by such distinguished company. If you don’t mind me being not-serious and a bunch of other nasty phrases.”
Don smiled. Richard laughed aloud.
&nbs
p; “Don’t worry about it,” Don advised. “Those three think they’re on a fencing strip. I haven’t seen them at a war, ever.”
“If they ever do get out on the field,” Richard grumbled, “they’ll square off against an opponent and be blindsided instantly.”
“High technical skill, low competence?” I guessed.
“Pretty much.”
“No wonder they get all offended when I don’t do what they expect.”
“Don and I,” Richard pointed out, “would love to find a third with imagination.”
“Let’s see how imaginative I am.”
Some things stay the same, no matter what universe I’m in. Don, Richard, and I had a lovely time, dancing around, working on footwork, drilling me with a shield, tumbling in armor, and trying to use mixed martial arts in the middle of a swordfight.
I think we broke some rules—a lot of rules—but no bones. You’re not supposed to use judo on your opponent, for example. Don took the fall gracefully, though, even in aluminum-plate armor, and later proved he knew more about throws than I did. I acknowledged this by wheezing my verbal yield and considering what a lovely sky it was today.
Against someone skilled at throws, the heavier you are, the worse it is. I left a lovely dirt-angel and had to lie there a minute while my breath wandered around without me. When it came back, Don helped me to my feet—I did my best not to let him know how much I weigh—and I had him show me that throw again. Slower, this time, and without the pain. He didn’t say anything about how much I weigh, so maybe he didn’t notice. If he did notice, he didn’t say anything, and I appreciated his discretion.
Come to that, I appreciated those two. They were good guys. I was tempted to find out if they wanted to move to a magical world. Good guys are often in short supply. They might enjoy being knights as a full-time thing. Or Heroes.