If any of the others had expressed the same reluctance, I may have obliged. But, truth be told, I needed Merovech. He saw things I and the others missed, though the moment he pointed them out, we wondered how they eluded us. I needed him by my side when we encountered the star for the first time.
So the four of us set out just as the sun appeared on the horizon. The morning light mingled with the violet glow, lending more credence to Merovech’s theory that it was sunlight filtering through some unique obstacle.
To his credit, Merovech ceased grumbling the moment our trip began. He made comments here and there about his project at the arcanum, about the strides he hoped to make and the discoveries he hoped to unearth, but his mood remained as good as could be expected. And, since he wished the journey to end quickly, he maintained a brisk pace I may not have kept myself had I gone on my own.
I thought of how young my companions were when I took them as apprentices. They were the youngest I’d taken, and their youth showed in their drive to succeed and achieve. Each one experienced the twin peaks of limitless energy and burning passion. Even after they graduated from apprentices to colleagues, their passion never dulled through our decades together. I remember wondering if they would eventually find themselves in the same valley I found myself in that day. My bones ached more than they ever had. My heart burned less than it ever did.
An image crossed my mind: Merovech himself, forty years older and clucking his tongue at his own students and their youthful pursuit of greatness.
And hope rose beneath the image: That my companions’ energy would breathe life into my aching bones and heat into my weary heart.
It was a foolish dream then; doubly so now.
When we stopped for lunch, Merovech spent the entire meal with his eyes on the strange, purple glow. Something shifted in him, even as he continued to spout theories of the glow’s mundaneness. Conjecture unspooled from his mouth like thread from a spindle, but now with far less emotion. He forgot his project in the arcanum. Like the rest of us, the notion of what we might find fascinated him.
We reached the glow just before sundown. The sun had completed its journey across the sky, but the purple glow remained in place. Merovech’s hypotheses had been exposed as nonsense, but by then, he did not care.
He continued walking and jabbering without a shred of interest in his own words, when suddenly he came to a stop, waving his arms in crazy arcs to keep his balance. Frightened by the sudden outburst, the rest of us stopped a few paces behind. I opened my mouth to ask what was the matter, but then I saw it myself.
Like so many of Merovech’s other discoveries, I could not understand how I missed it.
Merovech had discovered a crater, and not a small one. It was the width of the entire arcanum, and so deep I could not see its bottom from where I stood. The purple glow emanated from some unseen source within, waving and flickering like light reflected off a pond. Hesitantly, Merovech reached out. His finger caught one of the brighter beams, and it bent around the outstretched digit before flowing off into eternity.
I followed the glow with my eyes, wondering if the light had a natural end. The beams traced intricate paths into the sky before disappearing behind the clouds. Who knows how far they traveled beyond that?
Merovech stopped dispensing theories. He stopped speaking altogether, mesmerized by the dance of the glow. He extended both hands into the streams of violet, directing them, plucking them as if playing an ethereal harp.
I have forgotten so many things, but not his expression when he faced me, or his voice when he said, “There’s something at the bottom.”
I have never seen Merovech so peaceful. The burning passion that nearly drove me away when he begged me to make him my apprentice vanished. Deep interest smoldered behind his eyes, to be sure, but he was so unhurried now. So at rest. What he found had soothed the yearning within him. A moment in the glow’s presence accomplished what years under my instruction failed to produce.
I approached the place where the earth gave way to the crater. Vaguely, I sensed the others following, but that was peripheral to the sight before me.
The glow was not simply a light, seated and unmoving. It flowed like a river without a bed, traveling into the sky and beyond the clouds like something solid. As I came closer, I perceived movement among the purple threads, and I grew dizzy, convinced it was not the glow which moved, but me. For the briefest of moments, I truly believed I was falling.
Mercifully, the vertigo passed, and I peered over the edge. I felt something as I did. It was neither heat nor cold, neither pressure nor relief. I had never experienced this sensation before and have never experienced it since. It raced along my forehead and across my crown, and presently I realized this sensation was the glow itself, bending around my head the same way it bent around Merovech’s finger. I was not plummeting into the earth, but placing my head in a river’s raging current. Threads of purple whipped past, contained by nothing but their own sense of purpose.
Something waited at the bottom of the crater—something small, dark, and powerful beyond anything I had encountered in my life. Its form shifted as I stared. I could not tear my eyes away, no matter how hard I tried.
This was the source of the glow. This was the star.
The star grew until it was as massive as it was powerful. Though the crater never changed in size, it still contained the star which was not a star, impossible though it may sound. A similar sense of growth buzzed inside my own head. My mind expanded like the star, larger and larger until I thought my head would burst.
I must have spoken, for the others met my eyes and nodded in response. Perhaps I suggested we climb into the crater. In unison, we stepped onto the sloping dirt.
The earth slipped beneath me, but if I walked carefully I could descend without stumbling. The others turned, backing down the slope on all fours, but I feared what might happen if I turned my back on the star.
The sense of growth moved from my head into my throat and chest until everything inside me seemed to expand. An ancient and powerful force filled my body, igniting my empty spaces with purple fire. I wondered if I was nearing the meaning of the universe. I wondered how many of the answers we had sought for decades hid within the dancing glow.
Merovech knelt before the star, his face bathed in purple. He hesitated, then reached out and touched it.
The moment his finger made contact, the light grew so intense its physical nature became undeniable. For the first and only time in the expedition, real pain flooded my body. It happened so suddenly and with so much intensity I almost mistook it for pleasure. I had a sensation of falling, of being thrown back and tumbling end over end for an eternity, though I still felt dirt beneath my feet. My ears rang with a sound both discordant and melodious. A sweet taste covered my tongue, saturating it like the thickest honey, and all I saw was purple—raging, flowing, and shifting around me.
I realized I was screaming.
I realized we were all screaming.
The light which was more than light consumed us all: myself, Merovech, Ansel, and Samson.
THE ROAD
1
Brendan had never even seen a gas-powered car, much less ridden in one. Samson’s had a coughing, rumbling motor, much louder than the soft hum common in bio-powered models. There was no headpiece for the passengers to lend the vehicle their own biological energy. The power came from ignited gasoline, and it remained a mystery where Samson found the stuff.
The stained seats smelled of cigarette smoke. Something brown sloshed in a bottle on the floor, and a streak of dried blood obscured the top of the windshield. Brendan sat in the back with Krystal. The passenger seat next to Samson was reserved for his short-barreled shotgun, a box of dried food, and a thin, leather-bound book.
They hadn’t been in the car long, but they’d already cleared Newhaven. They raced down a stretch of highway with no people but plenty of debris.
Dilapidated cars, bits of salvage, and even temporary housing measures littered the road.
“So,” Krystal said. She lay across the seat with her feet in Brendan’s lap, picking through the trash and knickknacks on the floorboards. Samson swerved to avoid a rusted car, and she held a hand against the back of his seat to steady herself. “This guy, Ansel. Any idea where he is?”
Samson glanced in the mirror. “No.”
Brendan snorted. “Of course not.”
“I know of someone who can find him.”
Now Krystal sat up. She leaned forward, her hands on Samson’s seat. “So what’s your story, anyway?” she asked. “You can’t blow into Newhaven, tell Brendan that with his help you can destroy all the tar everywhere, and drive off without a story. What makes you think any of this will work?”
Samson took his eyes off the road long enough to turn and give Krystal the full weight of his gaze.
“Ansel and I rid this world of the blight once before.”
Brendan found himself suddenly interested in the conversation, if only out of suspicion. “Really.” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. “You and one other guy got rid of the tar. When did you manage that?”
Samson didn’t respond. He gripped the wheel, clenching his teeth as he drove.
“You’re not a chatty guy, are you?” Krystal asked.
“First we eat. Then we talk.”
Silence settled over the car. Samson drove quickly and with confidence. He swerved in and out of lanes, deftly avoiding the highway’s scattered obstacles.
Newhaven shrank behind them. All Brendan had achieved faded from view along with the city. His reputation, painstakingly built over the last three decades, wouldn’t follow him down these empty highways. As hard as it was to leave it behind, something Samson told him back in Newhaven kept replaying in his mind.
You have a great power. I can help you develop it.
Develop it.
Unless Brendan was wrong, what he’d done in the basement wasn’t the full extent of his power. If Samson knew what he was talking about, Brendan was capable of more than he realized. And if Samson could help Brendan develop his power over the tar, then maybe, just maybe, the decision to join the gray-haired man would be a good one.
Besides, Brendan reminded himself, when was more power ever a bad thing?
2
They’d been driving for hours when they arrived at a dingy tavern. The only clue it wasn’t abandoned was the handful of rusted bio-powered cars outside. The windows had long since shattered, now replaced with large pieces of cardboard held in place with grimy tape. Scrawling messages covered the new windows. Some appeared to be written by the tavern’s owners: the standard promises of cold drinks, hot food, and a tar-free evening. Other messages were clearly from passersby and disgruntled customers—profanities, accusations, and a single, bleak message in dripping red paint:
THE TAR WILL SWALLOW US ALL
They rolled to a stop between two bio-powered cars with nearly as many dings and rust spots as Samson’s. When the engine shut off, Samson heaved a deep breath. He reached for the passenger seat, taking the leather-bound book from underneath his gun. The musty scent of old paper filled the car when he flipped the cover open. Something like hunger came over the graying man, and he flipped through the pages, first slowly, then faster and faster, until he’d gone through the entire volume. When he came to the end, he closed the book and shut his eyes.
Brendan watched Samson closely as he returned the book to the seat.
“What was that?” he asked.
“The Book of Memory.” Samson’s voice sounded strained, worn out.
“The what?”
But Samson had already taken his gun and opened his door. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s eat.”
3
The tavern was no nicer inside than outside. Music, old and discordant, scratched out of ancient speakers, weaving itself into the tavern’s tapestry of noise. Raucous laughter, rattling plates, and a smattering of minor scuffles turned the tavern into a scene of pure chaos, and that was good. None of the patrons cared about three more people joining the mayhem.
Samson led them between drunken groups. As they passed, Brendan overheard snippets of conversation:
“...so I shoved him! Right off the...”
“If you knew what was good for you, you’d...”
“...won’t hold much longer if the tar keeps spreading like...”
“Waitress! Another!”
Walking behind Krystal, Brendan noticed she kept her head down the whole way, as if willing herself to become invisible. This tavern was just as bad as much of Newhaven, but Krystal had spent little time outside her house. When possible, she didn’t even leave for food. If enough customers paid her in ingredients, she could throw together a concoction that might pass for soup to someone in a generous mood.
They settled in a small booth, tight enough that Brendan and Krystal had to sit shoulder-to-shoulder. Samson took the bench opposite them.
“What are we doing in here? I saw that dried fruit in your car.” Brendan said.
Samson only shook his head. “Emergencies only.” He lifted a hand to flag down a waitress.
“Listen, we want to help,” Krystal said. Then, casting a knowing glance at Brendan, “...at least, I want to help. But we can’t just follow you blindly to some mystery city. We need answers.”
Now Samson looked at them, first holding Brendan in that cold, blue stare before shifting his gaze to Krystal.
“Food first,” he said.
As if on command, a waitress materialized beside the table. She had long hair with alternating bands of silver and black. In one quick glance, Brendan picked out glowing eyes, ears on swivels, legs with wheels, and an extra set of arms. There wasn’t much flesh left on her, and all the mods were in bad shape. The glow behind her eyes flickered, and even over the roar of conversation and music, Brendan heard every gear twist and every piston pump. These mods didn’t gleam like Tiger Stripe’s had. They were old, perhaps even manufactured before the poor girl was born.
“What’ll it be?”
Her voice carried a twinge of irritation. At least she sounded human.
Krystal reached for a menu, but Samson pushed her hand away. He said, “Three hamburgers. Three beers. And a whiskey.”
The waitress nodded, reaching into a pouch around her waist for a notepad. She scribbled with one of her arms while using two mods to place glasses and fill them with water. As she wrote, the modded arms with the pitchers shook. Water sloshed over the table, outright missing the glasses. She didn’t notice at first, distracted by her notepad, but Samson cleared his throat.
She looked up, and her face fell. Immediately, she shoved the notepad and pen in her pocket and reached out with her flesh arms to steady the mods. She cursed and apologized.
Samson only leaned back and folded his arms, but Krystal stepped out of the booth and put an arm around the woman’s shoulder.
“Hey, hey,” she said. “It’s okay. Can I see? I’m a mechanic.”
The waitress stiffened, but when Krystal wouldn’t relent, she turned to face her. The mods shook violently and grew louder by the second.
“They do this every so often,” the waitress said, half-apologetically.
Krystal smiled and took one of the shaking arms in her hand. She ran her fingers along the forearm and up the bicep, feeling for irregularities and other issues.
“How much would you take to fix it? I don’t have much, but...”
Krystal didn’t reply. Brendan recognized the expression on his old friend’s face—the waitress could’ve shouted, and it would’ve done no good. When she was working, Krystal’s entire reality consisted of the machinery before her.
Krystal’s probing fingers stopped. The fingers on her mod flipped back, and there was a high whir as a beam of white ligh
t appeared. Deep thought creased Krystal’s brow. After a pause, she nodded.
“I think I’ve found the problem. Would you mind if I fixed it?”
The waitress seemed to be trying to maintain a strong front, trying to keep from looking vulnerable, but the hope and relief mingling on her face couldn’t be mistaken.
Then she forced her face to be impassive, and she said, “Sure, but don’t expect a free meal or anything.”
Krystal only smiled. “I don’t want anything. Only to help.”
Tools sprang her modded fingers, and she went to work. A few minutes later, Krystal moved on to the other arm, and soon that was done, too. When she finished, she looked into the waitress’s eyes with a look of joy and satisfaction.
“I think that should do it,” Krystal said. “That’s actually a common problem with that generation of mods.”
The waitress held her mods up to her face, flexing fingers and twisting wrists. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, then snapped it shut and left the table.
She’d barely cleared earshot when Samson said, “Should’ve gotten a free meal out of that.”
Krystal huffed. “Ever hear of doing a good thing just because it’s good?”
Samson folded his arms and didn’t respond.
“Okay,” Brendan said, changing the subject. “You’re not driving anymore. We’re about to get some food. Tell us what’s going on.”
Samson sighed. Brendan couldn’t tell if he was collecting his thoughts, or was simply annoyed.
But, eventually, he began to speak.
4
“The blight—or as you call it, the tar—is not from this world,” Samson began.
Krystal cocked an eyebrow. “What?”
Samson shot her a look, and her mouth snapped shut.
“Ansel protects a portal that connects our worlds,” Samson said. “Somewhere on the other side lies the source of all the blight.”
Tar Page 7