Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

Yun’s brow minutely dropped.

  The advanced mod buried in Yun’s eyes had detected something from Abby, a drop in breath, a slight change in heart rate. Abby was sure of it. “You need to do a better job with your recruits,” he said, attempting to control the focus of the moment.

  “We’re not at war anymore, Abby. Devon will do quite well once he is trained up.”

  “I just need a few mods,” Devon said.

  Abby scowled at the naïve cadet.

  “Now, now, Devon. I told you. Doctor Squire was a natural even before his mods. That’s why he was a Warlock. He could sniff the Umbra right from the shadows.” Yun flashed a thin smile toward Abby. “I’ll bet he filled a camp or two single-handed.”

  “I did my job. Just like you and every other special agent.”

  “Yes. You did.” Yun paused again. “You know, I thought you and Jazz were going to draw on those Maro gentlemen back at the bar. These are new times. Umbra have full status and the charter allows citizens of the Maro Plane access. Now, if an Omni dare to shift to the Homeland...”

  “You should’ve come in and said hello. I’m sure Jazz would love to catch up. Could’ve been just like old times, catching Haunts and killing Reds. Or killing them all. That was your thing, right?”

  Yun slid his tongue out to his upper lip. He glanced at Devon to gauge the cadet’s reaction, then he inhaled a small breath through his nose and smiled. “Listen,” he said. “I apologize for the tail. I really don’t like to travel Low anymore. But since you haven’t responded to the messages the Bureau sent you, I was asked to come along as a… courtesy.”

  “So, what do you want?” Abby asked.

  “What else? A consult. You’re needed on a case.”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m retired, have been for years.”

  “We understand you are now in the business of answering particular questions of”—Yun paused with an I know better sneer—“shall we say, antiquity?”

  “Heh. A guy keeping busy isn’t necessarily a business. You know, before the war, I could barely fill the seats of a classroom, much less a lecture hall. Then mythology swaps out for the real deal and everyone starts knocking on the old professor’s door for a history lesson. But you didn’t come all the way down here in your fine-tailored suit to ask me a question anyone else still at the university could’ve answered.” Abby bit his lower lip and let his gaze size his old friend up. “Spit it out, Yun. What do you want?”

  “I told you.” Yun shrugged innocently. “Your expertise is needed on a case, that simple.”

  “And I told you. I’m retired.”

  “Not according to the Bureau.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Yun’s voice shifted to a bargaining tone. “A condition of your pension is that you may be called upon for consultation.”

  “Yeah, I know what the Bureau means when they say consultation. Keep the measly pension. I may not have the same taste in wardrobe as you, but let me tell ya, I have been managing my credits quite well over the years, and there’ve been a lot of years.”

  “Hmm,” Yun said. “If only it were that easy. The fine print reads that your prosthetic spine is part of your pension.”

  Heat filled Abby. He raised a finger up toward Yun’s face and closed in. “You son of—”

  “Hey,” Yun interrupted, his hands up again. “I’m the friendly messenger, remember? Aren’t you even interested in why they want you?”

  “I can only imagine,” Abby said. A tight-lipped snarl slid across his face as he lowered his hand.

  “They need your expertise. That’s why they recruited you in the first place.”

  “Tell ‘em to go to the university where they found me. I’m sure they’ll find a dozen recruits happy to help the Bureau.”

  “True. Then again, they already have you.”

  4

  Adrenalin coursed through Abby and his chest expanded. Yun glanced at Devon. “I told you he would need some stroking.” He turned back to Abby. “Okay, Abby. I don’t mind. You were a great agent, critical to the war effort, and apart from your magnificent skill in the field, there has never been an agent or civilian with your expertise in ancient occult artifacts. You’re the best. There. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Enough,” Abby said.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Abby. You’ll want to do this. Once a Bureau Boy, always a Bureau Boy.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Abby knew he was right, though. The Bureau Boys were special, or at least had been once.

  “The Bureau needs your help to recover the Jasper Stone.”

  “The Jasper Stone? That’s what all this is about? A magical dream stone? The Jasper Stone doesn’t exist and you know it. It’s a wet dream whipped up by some Maro blood cult a few millennia back.”

  “Apparently, not so much.” Yun pulled a clear vid card from the inside pocket of his silk jacket and handed the small screen to Abby. “This stone was recovered in the Maro Plane.”

  When Abby held up the transparent card, the image of a small red jade stump appeared. The scarlet statue was that of a squat Maro warrior, hunched tightly in the form of a stubbed column. The carved details were polished to a high gloss: deep burrowed eyes, a tentacle beard, and fangs protruding from the sides of the angry mouth that stretched long and narrow down to the monster’s toes.

  “I’ll be,” Abby said. “Looks right: red jade, squat shape.” He ran a finger across the screen to spin the statue. “The Māori style, easily confused with a dragon or gargoyle Tiki. That doesn’t mean anything, though.” He shrugged and handed the card back to Yun. “What the Jasper Stone is supposed to look like is no secret. There are plenty of pictures in the University archives.”

  “The Bureau has been searching for the Jasper since the first Bubble was discovered,” Yun said. “This stone is special.”

  “Don’t tell me you buy into that old wives’ tale.”

  “Excuse me,” Devon said. “I don’t understand.”

  “You see, kid,” Abby said. “Jade has been valued for its metaphysical properties throughout history. Jade signifies wisdom gathered in tranquility, dispelling of the negative, and it encourages one to see oneself as they really are. The women of the Māori wore green jade pendants they called hei-tiki. But those were green jade. The red jade of the Jasper Stone supposedly makes it a far more powerful healing stone, the ultimate dream stone. The myth says the Jasper could be used to gain insight into ritualistic knowledge, encourage creativity, assure long life, a peaceful death, the usual.” He turned back to Yun. “All bunk.”

  “Not all bunk,” Yun said. “Jadeite crystals are used in the external phonon reaction process of some ultra-enhancements.” He veered his eyes toward Abby’s waist. “Legend says the Stone can shift planes.”

  “Yeah,” Abby said. His voice was softer. He asked himself if that was how Yun had shifted, a jadeite resonator of some type. “So the stories go,” he agreed. “The Jasper was supposedly able to access what we used to call the spiritual world, the astral planes. Also bunk.”

  “A jade device is not out of the question,” Yun said.

  “This one is,” Abby said. “This is a synthetic. Who tried to pass it off?”

  “The source was reliable. An old student of yours from the University, Conrad Labreque. He found the Jasper Stone on a low spectrum of the Maro Plane on a commissioned dig for an Arcadian. Shortly after he found the Jade, someone stole it.”

  “Conrad’s a good guy. Why don’t you ask him to help you find the thing again?”

  Abby wasn’t about to tell Yun that Conrad had reached out to him. Then again, maybe Yun already knew.

  “We would,” Yun said. “Unfortunately, he’s missing, too; off the grid.”

  “Who was the Arcadian? Who commissioned him?”

  “Malcolm Winslow.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know Winslow. Well, knew him. He was collec
ting relics when I was still teaching. You don’t mess with an Arcadian like Winslow. He probably had Conrad taken out when he found out the rock was a fake.”

  “Rumor is the Arcadian had the real deal. Take a look at this.” Yun fiddled with the screen then handed the card back to Abby.

  Abby watched the video of a hooded infiltrator approaching the statue. The screen went white.

  He rapidly ran his fingernails across his chin a couple times to scratch away an itch that wasn’t there. “Was that an explosion?”

  “Maybe,” Yun said. “That’s the surveillance record of what was Winslow’s private gallery. The Bureau believes that was a Bubble. The feed was cut off. All that remained afterward was a concave imprint in the side of the wall.”

  “So, there was a shift.” Abby ran his finger across the card to manually go back in the record. “The burglar must have had a remote quant.”

  “His hands are empty,” Yun said. “Take a look at the intruder’s face. There is a reflection on the glass case at mark 27235.”

  Abby tapped the card to bring the screen counter into view then scrolled to the spot Yun mentioned. The reflection revealed what the intruder’s hood hid from the optical feed. On the surface of the glass was a grotesque Maro face. Abby pulled his head back to study the video.

  “Go ahead,” Yun said.

  Abby placed his index finger and thumb over the hooded figure then spread them apart to enlarge the image so the face filled the screen. “I’ll be,” he said. “You’re supposed to be in the Prison Plane.” He glanced up at Yun. “No one can escape the Prison Plane.”

  “Not without help,” Yun said. “The Bureau believes that is Acore, the Maro you put away years ago.”

  “It looks like him.”

  “He has a past affiliation with Arden Mortuus.”

  “The Maro war clan?” Abby asked. Careful not to clue in Yun to his ability to access and process large blocks of data from the grid, Abby burst whatever recent information he could find on the clan. “They were supposed to be disbanded,” he said.

  “They were, officially, but like every other war clan, they still survive in some criminal form. The Bureau has information that Acore was assisted by the Mortuus under direct order of the Maro who took your spine.”

  “Valon?” Abby nodded slowly. “After all these years.” He raised his shoulders and pushed them back, the blades clenching toward his prosthetic spine. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Give the Bureau some credit,” Yun said. “They knew you wouldn’t believe them unless you saw for yourself.” After a small pause, Yun added under his breath, “I know your spine isn’t all he took.”

  Yun was right. That wasn’t all Valon had taken by far, but Abby sensed the added comment was more coaxing than compassion.

  “Yeah, well, they were right,” Abby said. “I’m in.”

  “I thought so. You may want to find a change of clothes. You’re expected in the Arcadian Plane. Oh, and your partner will be waiting for you at the Bubble.”

  Abby snarled again. “No partner”—his voice rose—“and what I’m wearing is just fine.”

  “Think of her as an assistant. Some protocols have changed since the war.”

  “All right, assistant,” Abby said. He held up the card. “Can I keep this?”

  “The card is yours, set to default to your credentials.”

  Abby peered at the image again and nodded. Under his breath, he muttered the Maro’s name, “Acore, you ugly Red.”

  “Abby,” Yun said.

  Abby raised his head to Yun.

  “Whether or not the Jasper is fake, find the stone and you’ll find Valon.”

  5

  Abby didn’t bother to go back up top. There was no point. Delaying the rendezvous at the Bubble wasn’t an option. The special agent assigned to assist him—babysit, as far as he was concerned—was waiting. The Bureau had calculated his response quite accurately. Then again, they had Haunts who could fill them in on what would happen next.

  Yun and Devon escorted him to the platform one level up. Abby approached one of the platform-side supporting beams and softly spoke into the security console mounted there.

  “Silver Line,” he said.

  “Unable to read,” the console answered. “Subject Blocked. Please Authorize.”

  “523 Bureau Boy,” he said, then winked at Yun. A small LCD, buried behind the grime of the old call box, lit brilliant green.

  There wasn’t much more to be said as the three waited for the Bubble-bound sub-rail. Yun was fidgety. The signs were subtle: thumb and forefinger rubbing together, the corner of his mouth tight. Abby figured his old comrade was anxious to finish his directive and return to the Upper levels he found so much more civilized.

  The Silver Line was an inter-sector sub-rail secured for transit to the Bubble, and the three didn’t have to wait long for one to arrive.

  Abby waved his hand and the metal doors slid open to the near empty car.

  Before Abby entered the car, Yun spoke. “Abby,” he said.

  Abby twisted his head back toward the man he’d served alongside so many decades before.

  “You should know…” Yun paused. He tilted his head slightly to the side, contemplating what was to follow, then, in an almost apologetic manner, added, “It was good to see you. Good luck.”

  Abby nodded then stepped into the car, exchanging the drumming of the platform for the hum of the sub-rail’s filtered ceiling. As the doors closed behind him, he clutched the steel pole in the center of the car and spun to look back toward Yun and Devon.

  Outside of the fogged, worn window, Yun said something to Devon and smiled at Abby. Abby cordially returned the gesture. There’d always be a nostalgic camaraderie with the Bureau Boys, but with the exception of Jazz and few others, there was little amity. There were too many things they shouldn’t have done.

  Then—as though he was sharing the same sentiment—Yun’s smile left his perfect face, and he began to fade, returning to the edge of the spectrum, out of sight of the norms and into the company of eels.

  * * *

  The interior of the car was wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor stainless steel, down to the rivets, every square centimeter scrubbed to a dull sheen. The chugging filters inlayed above couldn’t eliminate the reek of the ammonia that had been hosed in to flush out the filth, urine, and defecation that inevitably built up before the sub-rail traversed far out to the end of the line. No matter. Abby shifted lightly up spectrum to lessen the pungent odor. His special agent status allowed him access to all of the MidHi and Upper trains, but he preferred the crowded underground network to the sleeker monorails that soared above the city. The upper trains in themselves weren’t what he chose to avoid. As a child, he found the views from the highest lines breathtaking. He chose the sub-rails because he lacked the taste for the deceptive, entitled demeanor of the bland, privileged masses that traveled MidHi and Upper. There was no necessity for that flavor of deception in the Low. Down in the bowels of the city, that kind of pretention was rare, replaced by a sincerity shared by the impoverished, merchants, workers, and criminals alike. Down below, he could trust what he saw.

  Fewer than a dozen people sat along the steel benches that lined either side of the car, but Abby preferred to stand.

  Below the harbor, the tunnel wall flashed frames that, at the high rate of speed, became the animated dance of a ballerina. He shifted a bit further up the spectrum to see what was hidden behind the image. Rather than fade to reveal the usual subliminal blast, the animation glowed brighter. A rare exhibition of unaltered art, in the tunnel no less. The petite, long-limbed dancer performed a complex choreography of pirouettes and grand allegro leaps. There’d been a time when he enjoyed dance. There’d been a ballerina. Buried in the archives of his mind, deep within the collection of so many stored years, he indexed the sweet face of a girl from the university, when he was a professor, before his eventual recruitment into the Bureau. Images of the young girl and
their intimate tryst drifted into the forefront of his thoughts, clouding out all else around him so that the sudden scarlet flash from the wall startled him. He blinked his mind to clarity. The animated ballerina continued to leap about on the tunnel wall, and Abby questioned whether the flash was another of his many hallucinations, another echo.

  Then the animation abruptly flashed again. This time, his mods locked on. One frame of the dancing ballerina overlaid with a separate brilliant marking, a vivid scarlet stencil, a symbol similar to the graffiti on the landing where he met Yun. The symbol was an asterisk in a circle. The X extended to the edge of the circle and was the same width, the vertical line a thick rectangle that stopped short of the edge. A data burst of any historical, typographical, or linguistic information associated with the symbol flooded his mind.

  ---

  Asterisk, late Latin: asteriscus, from Greek: asteriskos, little star, Arabic star, pinwheel star.

  First print punctuation mark from feudal era, a common glyph, deduction: an archaic tag repurposed by Anarchs and their forbearers.

  Further deduction: inconsequential.

  ---

  The symbol appeared for a third time through the ballerina’s performance. Then the animated dancer blinked to blackness.

  A digital voice announced the train’s impending arrival to the Bubble station. His head twitched with spasms, reeling him back. As the train surfaced, a memory flashed of the last time he’d traveled through the Bubble. Abby squeezed the pole and sucked in a deep breath.

  6

  The car’s reflective stainless-steel interior softened with the dull gray of morning’s first early light. Out the window, across the expanse of indigo cobblestone, fountains, and travelers, the lattice of the ever-shimmering massive orb lit its surroundings. He couldn’t help but lean forward and let his eyes climb the towering geodesic sphere, the interplanar harmonic portal—what the denizens of the Homeland called the Bubble. It appeared somehow stronger than the last time he had visited, if that was even possible. The five-hundred-meter sphere and the ten hectare indigo blue plaza below had appeared one day from nothing, an unexpected result of an experiment that had been performed a number of times before without varied success. The Bubble had changed his life; it had changed everything.