Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within

by L. J. Hachmeister

  “That’s insane!” I shouted, stepping forward to block the Peacekeeper from Becca. “This girl didn’t do anything wrong. She was trying to have a little fun in this stupid world.”

  “Yes she did. She is in violation of code 124.329,” the Peacekeeper said. “Please move, or I will be forced to use more aggressive means to force your compliance.”

  In all my previous lives, I would have stepped aside. I valued my own life above anything, especially if its continuation meant I didn’t have to deal with the horrors of death again.

  But today felt different. My gut burned with the fire and rage. I had to make sure the Peacekeeper couldn’t ruin this little girl’s life. Perhaps it also burned with the desire to make least one of my lives to matter, even if this was the last one.

  “There’s nothing you can do to me that will make me abandon this little girl.”

  The Peacekeeper didn’t hesitate before he dug the electric baton into my side, and I fell to the ground in immense pain, as electricity flowed through me. Becca ran toward me as I toppled over.

  “No!” I shouted. “Run!”

  The Peacekeeper slammed his baton into me again as I screamed in pain. “Stop, citizen!”

  As the peacekeeper shouted at Becca to stop, I placed my hands around the baton and yanked it away from him. I slammed it into his leg again, and again, and again.

  “You will not hurt that little girl! You will not hurt--”

  And just like the last time I died, I felt my soul yank out of my body. The Peacekeeper fired a laser beam into my gut, the same gut that burned with rage just a moment ago. Now it burned with laser fire.

  There was no remorse toward my death in his eyes as he reached his gun up to fire on Becca.

  In my last moment of life, I lunged forward and pulled the Peacekeeper’s gun down to the ground as it fired into the plastic soil. Becca ran down an alley and out of sight, just as I faded from existence.

  I waited, in the darkness of limbo, for something to pull me back into a new body, but it never did. Instead, a blue light fell from the sky, shepherding me onward. Perhaps, finally, I found out what being a hero was all about. Or maybe, I was even more screwed.

  I guess I’ll find out soon enough, I thought, as I swam toward the light, and onto the next journey.

  BIO

  Russell Nohelty is a writer, publisher, and speaker. He runs Wannabe Press (www.wannabepress.com), a small press that publishes weird books for weird people. And the popular The Complete Creative (www.thecompletecreative.com) blog, where he talks about mindsets, strategies, and tactics to make it as a creative.

  Russell is the author of Gumshoes: The Case of Madison’s Father, My Father Didn’t Kill Himself, and many other novels, along with the creator of the Ichabod Jones: Monster Hunter, Gherkin Boy, Pixie Dust and Katrina Hates the Dead graphic novels. He makes books that are as entertaining and weird as they are thought provoking and interesting

  LINKS

  Author Website: www.russellnohelty.com

  Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Russell-Nohelty/e/B00ACRFI5S

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/russellnohelty

  The Magpie and the Mosquito

  The Magpie and the Mosquito

  Crouched beneath the torso of a reptilian gargoyle, Magpie tracked her pursuer by the light of the triplet moons. The archpath below spanned one of Falveron’s many ravines. At this late hour, little foot or hoof traffic trickled through the area. In fact, the archpath would’ve looked empty to anyone else, but to Magpie’s perspective the figure below stood out like charcoal against chalk.

  Rather than crossing atop the span, the person clung to the side, traversing the bottomless drop by using ancient engravings as hand and footholds.

  Magpie sniffed. Unlike the amateur below, her form-fitting suit—spun from smoke quartz—blended her in with the weathered architecture, just one more patch of darkness.

  Despite the person’s lack of subtlety, they’d managed to keep up with Magpie for the past hour. She’d picked up the tail on leaving the Felglass district just after sundown. Briefly, she considered making a game of it, seeing how long the other could keep up, until she realized her elderly bones might surrender first. With the sensitivity of her job this night, she couldn’t afford any major distraction or delay.

  She breathed in.

  The weight of herself flowed down and into the city’s living stones, leaving her feather-light and momentarily free of the fierce aches that plagued her knees and hips these days. Held in the breathspace, she launched from the parapet and floated down until she landed on the narrow ledge her stalker had edged past moments before. She exhaled and her body sagged as it returned to its normal weight. Her joints protested, but she held firm, a shoulder propped as if to chat outside a cafe.

  “Trying to follow me is hardly wise,” she said.

  Her pursuer’s head whipped around. The hood flopped back, revealing a young woman at least a third of Magpie’s age. Black hair bristled across her scalp and scars crisscrossed pale cheeks. Had Magpie once looked so young, decades ago, before exchanging golden hair for silver, before age chiseled its lines across her flesh?

  The girl shifted to face Magpie while keeping pressed against the stone. “I wasn’t tryin’. I was doing a crackin’ good job. Jealous, Maggy?”

  “It’s Magpie, you little skunk.”

  “Not skunk. Skeeter.”

  “I don’t care what your name is, and that’s a ridiculous one anyways.”

  Skeeter flashed an infuriating grin. “Better than any flea-bit bird.”

  Magpie leaned in. “You think you’re the first to challenge me? Next time I catch you slinking in my shadow, I’ll leave you as scraw-bait in the nearest sliver pit.”

  Skeeter drew herself up. “Not here to challenge. I wanna be your apprentice.”

  Magpie scowled. “No.”

  “I’ll pay. Got coin. Stole it m’self.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll wash your linens. Cook for you.”

  “No.”

  Skeeter’s eyes went as hard as glass panes. “Then I’m gonna keep followin’ and learn whether you want or not. Can’t stop me.”

  That finally quirked Magpie’s lips into a smile. “Oh, yes, I can.”

  Grasping one of the braided stonecords looped around her waist, Magpie whisked it off and snapped an end around Skeeter’s wrist before the would-be-thief could jerk away. She pressed the other end to the archpath side. Living stone called to living stone, and so the earthspun cord melded seamlessly into the wall.

  Skeeter shouted and yanked against the stonecord. As she pulled, Magpie aimed a kick into the girl’s side and launched her off the ledge. Her cry turned to one of pain as the cord went taut. Grimacing against the pain crackling up her leg, Magpie waved farewell to Skeeter, who stared up as she dangled.

  “You can’t!”

  Magpie shrugged. “If you had any potential as a thief, I shouldn’t have been able to catch you so thoroughly off guard. Let this be your first and only lesson. Don’t worry. Make enough noise and they’ll send a Stoneskin to haul you up.”

  She breathed in. Her flesh lightened and a stamp of a foot launched her into the night.

  For another candleburn, she bounded across the Ojama district. With each inhale, she leaped from balcony ledges to rooftops to temple spires to archways. With each exhale, her weight surged back, forcing her to strain against the sudden crush of muscles that wanted to drag her into a unmoving heap. When this night ended, she knew she’d feel like little more than a sack of brittle leather and bones. Her talent wearied her more with every passing year, exhaustion burning deeper, recovery taking longer—yet she only needed to endure a little longer. If all went according to plan, that is.

  When she spotted the Registrant Spire, she scrutinized the southern-facing windows on the fiftieth level. The triplet moons glinted off the glass of hundreds of stonesealed windows, all gleaming in the misty night...except for one e
mpty slot where the living glass had been retracted.

  Relief rippled through Magpie. Buildings formed of Falveron’s living stone were anathema to thieves like her, who always needed a crack to slip through. It had cost her five years of planning and half a fortune to have that one window left unsealed for this single hour.

  Three more breaths, three more leaps, and she landed within the Spire. She paused until enough strength seeped back into her marrow for her to stand on wobbling legs. She’d memorized the layout—another year, another dozen jobs to acquire the map—and so hobbled on without hesitation. Hesitation killed. Ignorance killed. Worse than death, though, would be capture. The Blooded would surely imprison her soul in a bondstone, turning her into one of their Stoneskin slaves. The thought alone made her clamp down on a flare of panic.

  She eyed the walls for the telltale swirl of a Stoneskin summoning, but they remained quiescent. The Blooded were so sure of the sanctity of the place their soul-shackled guards patrolled the bottom ten levels, leaving mere wardstones to protect the upper sections.

  Magpie could handle wardstones, thanks to the iron-etched charm hanging on a wire around her neck. The potent enchantment was one of the few vestiges she kept from the days when the old group schemed and stole together, living as friends and partners and lovers.

  She brushed away tempting memories of better times, unable to afford more delays. Once the null-seal wore off on the window, she’d be as trapped inside as much as she would’ve been kept out.

  Reaching the proper room, she eyed the gem-studded wardstone slabs on either side of the doorway. They glowed softly, but crossing between elicited nothing more than a prickle on her sternum; so long as she didn’t touch them, they’d ignore her.

  She went to one of the slotted cabinets against the walls and drew out granite trays on oiled wheels. Hundreds of cryshards glittered before her, each cut into infinitesimal facets.

  Counting down the socketed rows, she picked out the violet orb she sought. Plucking this up, she dug out a paste imitation and clicked it into place. Then she held the true cryshard up for inspection.

  Lines flared along the back of her eye, a flash of branching halls nestled in the heart of a flower-like structure. Yes. This one held the vault designs. Exactly what she needed to—

  A low hum tickled her ear. She spun and eyed the wardstones, which dimmed as if a shadow passed over them. The hum rose to a buzz. A blow struck Magpie across her back. Gasping, she went to one knee, vision going dark. The cryshard flew from her hand.

  When she regained her sight, Skeeter stood before her with the cryshard. “This?” She rolled the gem across her knuckles. “You crack a nut this big for such a teeny seed?”

  Magpie reached out, but her old bones swayed and she stumbled, catching herself with one arm planted. “Give...it back.”

  “Naw.” Skeeter tucked the cryshard into her tunic. “Gotta guess you wouldn’t have tempted fate and fury if it weren’t worth nothin’. I’ll see it gets a good home.”

  She whirled and dashed off into the Spire halls. Clutching her side, Magpie lurched up and hobbled after. She breathed in, casting off gravity to speed after the girl—but her ribs spasmed and she gagged. Her weight crashed back as she fell from the breathspace; she staggered and rammed a shoulder into a wardstone. The gems blazed and a piercing whistle drowned out her pained cry.

  The walls squirmed. Faces and hands thrust out of the rock, humanoid figures stepping free, formed of the very living stone from which they’d emerged. Eldritch glyphs and arcane swirls splotched their torsos while emeralds formed eyes on otherwise featureless faces.

  Stoneskins.

  In moments, eight of the guardians stood just a few strides away. In their gemstone eyes, Magpie saw the trapped souls of former city residents. Some had given their lives willingly, believing such duty a thing of honor and glory. Others were formed from the souls of captured criminals, those who once undermined the Blooded’s authority now serving them as enforcers, actions controlled by their bondstones.

  For a horrified heartbeat, she searched those eyes for a glint of recognition or a familiar hue. Then she tore her gaze away and forced herself into a run. The Stoneskins followed and the floor trembled under their impossibly silent tread. She caught up with Skeeter just as the younger thief reached the still-open window. Skeeter held a white pebble between forefinger and thumb as she perched on the edge, poised to jump.

  “No, don’t!”

  Skeeter sneered. “Slink off, scrawshit.” She spat on the pebble and gripped it in a fist. When she opened her fingers, white powder coated her palm. The same buzzing from before filled the air. Arms spread, the girl dove off the ledge and plunged into the dark abyss.

  Magpie stumbled over in time to see Skeeter sprinting down the Spire as if running along a wide-open road. She vanished into the gloom below.

  Magpie gripped the sill so hard a fingernail cracked. “No...”

  She started to turn back. There might be other vault schematics stored as backups.

  The floor shuddered. Magpie cringed as the Stoneskins hove into view around the curving hall. In the same instant, translucent crystal crept in like fingers of frost, starting to seal the open window.

  Magpie gulped a sob and breathed in. The weight of the world dropped away, but her heart hung like a dead stone in her chest, choking as she fled through the shrinking aperture.

  Half a day later, Magpie struggled for balance as she flitted across the cityscape. Sleep—the one cure for spending too much time in the breathspace—had proven impossible with her mind a whirl of despair and desperate plans. So she’d risen, creaking and groaning, practically drizzling dust from her pores, and headed out to see the job done no matter the cost.

  After calling in several beyond-ancient favors, she aimed for the Scourment, where a goodly portion of the city’s castoffs and careaways lived like grist in a millstone trough. She despised using the breathspace during the day and despised Skeeter all the more for forcing her to do so. While most people never bothered to look up as they milled about the city, it’d only take one errant glance to have Stoneskins across the city put on alert. Her smokesuit still helped her blend in, but not nearly as well as when the shadows gathered alongside her, old allies, the only real friends she had left.

  With time a rapidly dwindling resource, she had no choice. By early afternoon, she’d found the proper tenement. Unlike the city-center structures, where the walls and windows flowed together like skin, here buildings were constructed of common granite and other dead stones, even dried and rotting wood, prone to all sorts of flaws through which she could flutter.

  She crouched in the drafty rafters of the enchanter’s hovel, watching him putter over a smelting pot and chisel table. After ensuring he had no wardstones or other lethal defenses in place, she breathed in and dropped from the heights.

  She worked. Briefly. Then she leaped back up into the rafters and waited. Long.

  Skeeter barged into the place as evening clouds drew curtains across the sun. The young woman wore a simple cloak, not going to any great lengths to conceal her diminutive frame or pallid features. Magpie breathed in again and dropped to the floor right behind the girl. She exhaled and staggered a moment before catching herself and speaking to the other thief’s back.

  “I want what you stole from me.”

  Skeeter whirled, one hand snapping out. Magpie’s spine crackled as she twisted to dodge a pebble. The stone struck the wall, shattering in a burst of flame and smoke.

  Magpie turned back to the girl and waggled a finger. “Lesson number two. A thief should be composed at all times. Haphazard actions will cost you a job and possibly your life.”

  One blink to the next, Skeeter went from wide-eyed and tensed to acting as if nothing at all had happened. “How’dja find me?”

  “Not many gutter skunks going around calling themselves Mosquito. Not many chanters who bother with pebble charms, either. Too unstable. But since they drain within
a day or two, I knew you’d have to visit your supplier frequently to get them refreshed or replaced.”

  Skeeter glanced around the room. “Lopos still breathin’?”

  Magpie went over and lifted up the low cot, revealing the enchanter lying gagged, bound, and unconscious.

  Skeeter whistled low. “Snails and scales. I gotta admit, you are one tough old—”

  “Say bird, and I’ll put you with him, you little—”

  Skeeter reached into her cloak. “Say skunk again and I’ll call your bluff.”

  They matched stares until Magpie dropped the cot back into place. Time spent trying to shore up her ego was time wasted. She closed the distance between them, hand outstretched.

  “The cryshard you took last night. I need it back.”

  “Fact is, you stole the shiny first, so me stealin’ it from you don’t count.” Skeeter rolled a shoulder. “I sold it. Should’ve found me faster.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Why you so sure?”

  “A lifetime of experience. You aren’t connected enough to have hocked anything that valuable this quickly and you wouldn’t pawn it so soon after the actual heist. You’re foolish, but not stupid.”

  “Ain’t those the same thing?”

  Magpie contained her sigh, if barely. “The cryshard.”

  “Maybe I do still got it. What’s it worth?”

  “Many more lives than yours.”

  “I only got one and I plan to keep it.”

  “So suggest something else to barter with. Blooded Beast, girl, haven’t you ever haggled?”

  Skeeter sucked through her teeth. “I want you to teach me how you do that jumpin’ trick. I ain’t ever seen no charm or smokesuit let any folk act like they got wings.”

  “That could be...tricky.” Truthfully, Magpie had no clue if she could teach it even if she wanted. She’d never met anyone else who exhibited the same ability, and didn’t know if it was innate or an odd twist of the city’s own magic. Still, the girl didn’t need to know that. “Took me almost a decade to learn, but if that’s your price, we can try. We’ll discuss it once I finish the job.”