Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  The train came to a rest and doors slid open to either side. Abby stepped out onto the platform. His train wasn’t the only one routed to the portal. In the century since its discovery—since the Spectral Wars that followed—the Homeland had adapted to the Bubble, had woven it into their existence. The apparition in the harbor had become bordered on three sides by monorail and tube platforms stacked fifteen high. The rumble and rail screech of the rapid transit monorails, accelerating and decelerating, echoed down to where he stood. Long rows of tall metal poles capped with globe cameras, panoramic flood lights, and long illustrious scarlet-and-gold-trimmed indigo banners—some of them emblazoned with the Gold Key, others with the holographic head of a bald eagle—adorned the plaza. Water jets—hidden throughout the field of blue—shot colored fountain streams high into the air. The mortals, Haunts, and Reds traversing the plaza were MidHis and Uppers, a caste assignment that extended beyond the Homeland to anywhere her citizens were dominant. Their manner of dress and demeanor was orderly, self-controlled, and near sedate as they journeyed to and from the ramps of the monorail and tube platforms, a far contrast from the chaotic ocean of souls flowing through the Low of the huge NorEast Meg. No Arcadians crossed the blue stone lake. The few Arcadians who visited the overpopulated stench of the Homeland boarded private luxury craft on the highest platforms. High above the plaza, LEDs blinked blue and red as the Arcadians either zoomed up, across, and away from the Bubble, or slowed to plant down.

  Few of the planar travelers came near the lower-level Silver Line.

  Toward the front of the train, teams rapidly loaded and unloaded goods going to or coming from the other planes. Synthetic meat from the Farm Plane in exchange for recyclables destined to be converted into synthetic wheat. Beyond the bottom of the great sphere, in the brilliantly lit yard, mammoth regional carriers loaded and unloaded the same type of goods on a grander scale.

  Abby sucked his upper lip back, slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat, and closed the divide to the Bubble.

  The farther he ventured across the foreign open lake of cobblestone, the tighter his chest became. A long time had passed since he’d been in a space as vast as the plaza or below such a big sky, a sky that was shifting from gray to the first hues of morning. Solace came from the surrounding high platforms and the looming Bubble.

  The mass of travelers appeared dense from the platform, but on the plaza, no one passed closer than a meter and most gave each other a much wider berth.

  The blue cobblestones at his feet were glazed dark from the fountain spray and the early morning precipitation, and as he neared the Bubble, the air became sweet. There was no ozone mist or foul odor to be avoided. He allowed himself to breathe unrestrained.

  From the banners above, the stern eagles looked out from their golden portholes, each with an ominous peering eye, scanning, following the bustling mass. From his peripheral, an eagle leaned away from his banner. He disregarded the hallucination.

  At the base of the Bubble, outside the wall of glass doors, he found the rarest of treats. Below a panel of solar lamps, emanating a luscious aroma, were beds of indigo and gold iris blooms, real flowers.

  In the time of the Spectral Wars, the Bubble entrance hall was a cavernous and bare holding area for agents and troops crossing planes. Now, within the glass doors, trees and banners filled the once high, open spaces, and upscale shops took the place of the barred pens previously lining the wall.

  A wave of nausea wrenched his gut when he glimpsed a snapshot memory of black-eyed women and children stuffed in a pen, some by his own hands. All for the greater good.

  In other eras, he would’ve been a criminal, but the Bureau won the war.

  Long queues waited to pass between rows of spectrum-paneled security gates, where special modded Bureau agents carefully scanned the travelers, their porters, and their belongings, always monitoring the Haunts and the Reds more closely than the norms. Other agents, engineers from the Med Corps, administered planar inoculations and doses of DMT to ease the travel of the mortals without shift mods. Above the rows of gates, a soothing variant of colors rippled across large video displays. He didn’t need to shift to know that the words calm and relax were hidden beneath the pools of soft hues.

  After passing through the gates, the travelers waited in the array of shops and cafes that circled the front half of the sphere for a Bureau escort to signal the opening of the elevator bays that would take them into the core.

  Abby strolled past the queues. A gate free of the special spectral panels lit green as he approached, allowing him access to a private waiting area with a priority elevator bay. The large cushioned sofas and couches were a far contrast from the naked bench-laden room he’d traveled through on interplanar missions of the past. A Bureau emblem hanging between two electric paintings and a small contingent of agents—dressed in the new fashion of black skintight leather uniforms—were the only sign of the room’s military significance. The high-back stools near the open bar were filled with Uppers in tailored suits. Abby recognized one of them from his service. Yun wasn’t the only Bureau executive to sport a personal wardrobe. The other plain-clothed travelers were either vets like Abby or family members on their way to a vacation in one of the warmer, cleaner planes, or maybe even for a tube off world.

  An LED above one of the two lift bays glowed, signaling the arrival of the next lift. Like all lifts in the Bubble, the priority lift was on an artificial schedule created by the Bureau to pace interplanar transit. Without the security influence, one could enter and exit any of the known Bubbles, traversing from one plane to another without pause, provided their body and mind could handle the trips.

  A busty blond steward pushed a cart of small cups to the door and as each traveler entered, she offered one with a smile. Some of the agents and all of the vacationing family members were glad to receive the DMT-enhanced punch. Abby returned the smile but declined; his mods could adjust to the neutral planar shift through the core of the Bubble without the assistance of an added boost. The doors closed, and in seconds the glass box departed inward, into the belly of the Bubble.

  7

  Colored swirls of mist and light lapped the outside of the glass elevator. Except for the occasional rippling shimmer through the car, the quantum flops of the Bubble’s onion layers were unnoticeable to Abby and, though a few tightly held their stomachs, the occupants arrived at the terminal floor without any vomiting.

  A slight wave of euphoria swept over him, a tremor followed by a quivering that began at the bottom of his spine, surged up through the base of his skull, and, in a tsunami, flooded his system. He was unsure if the sensation was from the DMT his mods ignited or a psychological effect of the nostalgic familiarity of the massive domed hall of the Bubble’s inner sphere.

  The domed terminal, the top half of an innerplanar neutral Bubble, was near identical to his last visit. The ancient geometric architecture lacked the modernization of the Homeland hall he’d left below. With the exception of the dome above, the room was composed of marbled onyx and jade cubes, pyramids, cones, cylinders, and spheres, all erratically scattered throughout the hall—undisturbed, immobile, and of mysterious purpose. In the center of the room, large columns stretched toward the phosphorescent dome then stopped short, no longer bearing whatever had once rested upon them. They surrounded the entrance to the Tubes, the ancient pneumatic tube transport network that connected with the other Bubbles, discovered and undiscovered, on this plane and others. A five-meter-high band of the same marbled onyx and jade encircled the vast perimeter. Many of the glass lift bay doors spaced at ten-meter intervals led back to the Homeland Plane, most to others—some documented, some sealed, some unexplored. Large embedded reliefs, remnant clues as to the creator of the Bubbles, were interspersed between the portals.

  As a university professor, Abby had been among the first brought in to identify the many dragons and demons, centaurs and minotaurs, and other more hideous and heinous creatures por
trayed among the mortals in the murals. Already, the Bureau was aware that what had been thought of as a multicultural mythology was, in truth, a history. His recognition of the texture and carving led to the immediate discovery of the second Bubble in Knossos, and eventually to the Yucatan Bubble north of Veracruz. He’d also discovered the first of the Mars Bubbles, but had never received credit for that.

  Signs of the Bureau in the dome were few. The Bureau controlled several of the documented planes, but the neutral plane—the Bubble—was a shared zone. The Bureau was tolerated to police the inner core of the known Bubbles in the purest way and nothing more. Gone were the sandbags and swarms of troopers from his prior visits. There were no wide banners or arrays of video displays as there were on the plaza side. Inside the Bubble, the Bureau presence was limited to a few holo-screen kiosks, a handful of patrolling troopers, and a desk on the side of the dome. He was sure there were troopers guarding the entrance to the Tubes and the two sealed Omni gates, but from the edge of the dome, they couldn’t be seen.

  The mass of interplanar denizens moving across the floor of the dome was far denser than in the Planar Plaza, and far more mixed. The crowd he’d left was composed only of those traveling to and from the Homeland: the Maro, the Umbra, and, predominantly, the mortals. On the floor of the dome, there were far more Maro than one would ever see consolidated in the Homeland, and though some wore the clothing of their mortal form, none of them wore the guise. They proudly sauntered, expressionless, across the terminal with their horned heads held high, eyes burning fire, the detailed tattoos in the distinct style of their natural markings scrawled across their vibrant red, muscle-bound bodies, marks of family and conquest, vivid and on display for all other Maro to see.

  Yetis from the scattered tribes, white and brown, long and shorthaired, traveled as families, smiling at others, regardless of race, as they passed.

  On their knees in the corner of the dome, the indigo-shrouded priests of the Monastic Blue Plane prayed to the ancient gods, while the inhabitants of the Viridis and Pratinus Planes, dressed in their full-body hazmat garb, moved in and out of their tented habitat or solemnly waited on the benches near their lift bay.

  Electric trucks, designed to fit snuggly into the glass boxes of the planar gate lift bays, silently sped around the perimeter, hauling goods to and from the Homeland’s designated loading bays across the terminal floor.

  Nostalgia, self-dosed DMT, or mere anxiety—no matter the cause, the euphoria was real enough. Other mortals traversing the hall around him hobbled uncomfortably, unfamiliar with the shift, while the marble floor, fluctuating from hard to soft, didn’t disturb Abby in the least. He had to restrain from fully strutting across the vast hall toward the Bureau desk.

  A white Yeti child, running for a ball another had thrown, lost its balance and fell into Abby. The child, almost as tall as him, nearly brought him to the floor. The Yeti caught himself, saving both from the fall. Then he froze, his eyes and jaw wide. Abby picked up the ball and returned it with a smile, breaking the spell. The child grabbed the ball, laughed, then resumed the game. Abby wasn’t sure when he’d last seen a Yeti. Five years, three months flew into his mind, a long-haired brown at a market in the Low.

  He passed a kiosk selling bags of nuts, many of which glowed, then another with a poster board of magazines and journals and a stack of clear vid sheets, any of which could be loaded with the title of choice.

  Closer to the Bureau desk, he scanned the benches. The agent Yun had assigned to him would be waiting nearby, but the only Bureau uniform he saw was deep blue, the color of a recruit.

  Abby approached the desk, an elevated onyx box—designed to mimic the pervasive marble of the dome—with the Homeland Security key pasted to the front. The clerk, a gorilla of a man with a dumb look in his eyes, was peering into a vid sheet.

  “Excuse me,” Abby said.

  The clerk ignored him. Through the vid sheet, Abby could see the translucent reverse image of an Umbra woman freeing herself from the burden of clothes. “Excuse me,” he said again.

  “Beat it,” the clerk said, his eyes locked on the screen in his hand.

  “Hey buddy,” Abby began. From a bench, someone called his name—a woman.

  “Doctor Squire?”

  He bent a brow toward the unresponsive gorilla behind the desk then twisted back toward the woman calling his name.

  “You’re Doctor Squire? Director Lin said you’d be plain clothes.”

  Abby’s brow went from bent to lifted. The voice belonged to a svelte woman anatomically fitted into black, curve-hugging leather. On one thigh, she wore a holstered blade, and on the other, a sleek multi-phase pistol. As his eyes worked their way up her frame, she gracefully moved toward him.

  When she spoke again, he met her eyes. Softly and sweetly, she said, “Captain Serene, sir. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Abby said nothing. He remained motionless, transfixed by her shoulder-length raven hair, her ivory skin, and the coal black orbs of her eyes. Deep, empty, dark pools: the eyes of a Haunt.

  A second passed before he realized that she, too, had raised her brow high on her face. He blinked himself back.

  “Get a good look, sir?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” Abby said. “I mean, no. I mean, you caught me by surprise.”

  She tilted her head to the side and brushed the hair away from her face. “Not what you expected?”

  “I’m sorry.” Abby’s cheeks were flush. “I’ve been out for a long time.”

  “Yeah, Director Lin told me that too.”

  Abby’s tone deepened, “You said that twice. Director.”

  “Director of the Special Agent corps. My boss.”

  “Captain Serene?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you have a first name, Captain?”

  “Leta, sir, but protocol—”

  “Yeah, protocol. Listen, I like to keep things informal, particularly on an investigation. So how about I call you Leta?”

  Leta cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “And drop that sir, too.”

  Abby looked closer at the insignia on her arm. Embossed in black leather were the words Homeland Security, Special Agent, the corps logo, a blade, and the key.

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said you used to be an academic before the Spectral Wars, a Ph.D. at the university, and that’s why he sent you out here. Because you’ll be an expert on the scene.” Then, without giving Abby a chance to respond, she tilted her head toward the far side of the hall. “The Arcadian gate is this way, s—” She stopped herself. “Please follow me.”

  He curled his lip, adjusted his hat, scanned the hall, then trailed behind her. “That’s all? I expected he would’ve said more.”

  Leta continued across the terminal. She responded without turning back, “You mean something like you being a seasoned vet who’s lived through some traumatic times or that you’re sometimes off the rail? Yeah, he said that.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Or that you’re ‘mostly’ an excellent soldier who hasn’t been a team player in a hundred years.”

  “Mostly,” he echoed under his breath.

  “But will learn,” she said.

  “But will learn,” he repeated, a frown creeping onto his face.

  Leta spun to face him, dropped her head to the side, and added, “He said to look for an old timer with a fedora and a blade who’s up for a glass of scotch and an adventure.”

  “Yun called me an old timer?” He felt a tickle in the front of his skull. “Don’t do that,” he snapped.

  “Sorry, force of habit,” Leta said.

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  “You have no file, and I wasn’t sure if I should address you as Doctor, Special Agent, or Commander.”

  “Abby is fine. I thought I made that clear.”

  “You didn’t, s—” She stopped herself again, scrunching her lips together.

 
; “Just ask next time. I don’t like being probed. Besides, my cortex is locked tight.”

  “I saw that,” Leta said. “I’ve never seen that before, except with Director Lin, I mean. Same with your personal record.”

  “Yeah,” Abby said. “We’re both a lot older than we look. After the war, all Special Agent folders were closed. To protect—”

  “The innocent,” Leta finished. “That seems to be the company line.”

  “If you were there, you’d know.”

  “So they say,” Leta said.

  8

  The obstacle course of objects scattered mysteriously throughout the inner dome appeared to stretch away then pull closer as Abby and Leta wove across the hall. The same tall marbled cone that appeared twenty meters away before disappearing behind a massive onyx sphere, reappeared ten meters closer when they passed. Some areas of the floor were spongier than others and although Leta appeared to be moving with feline grace in front of him, Abby had to repeatedly correct his gait. The natural curve of the dome above pulsed elastically close then away as the aura of plasma particles grew in density and color.

  The overall disorientation is what led Abby to plant his face into the chest of a ram-horned bull Maro. Abby was following Leta around a cylinder when a snapshot of a confrontation flew into his mind. He turned his head as a Maro, the one he thought was in the snapshot, flashed past his left peripheral, then he stepped into the tattooed warrior.

  Precog was never exact.

  “Watch—” the mammoth beast began to roar.

  “No, waaait,” was all Abby was able to slip out. He was already flying high up and back.