by Garon Whited
“There, you see? The other settlements won’t even notice.”
Mary didn’t answer. She looked rather pointedly at the dimming mushroom cloud in the holodisplay.
“I didn’t intend to blow it up,” I added.
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“We were only trying to use a gate to supply the plasma in a fusion reactor.”
“It is much easier to build only a containment unit,” Diogenes added. “Igniting a fusion reaction and maintaining it involves considerably more equipment.”
“Maybe I’m going about this wrong,” Mary mused. “Let me start over. What happened?”
“Diogenes built a miniature fusion containment rig and I goofed, we think.”
“You goofed with nuclear fusion,” she said, and sighed. “All right. At least you did it far away. How, exactly, did you goof?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s in the gate, somehow. I enchanted radio telescopes for Diogenes so he can target the end point of the gate. We already allowed for the lag due to speed of light and for the electronics, as well as perturbations in Earth’s orbit due to the Moon and other gravitational elements, plus a whole horde of other factors. His targeting should be spot-on. The technology all checks out, so the gate itself is probably what failed, and I think I have a suspicion as to why.”
“I’m not following, but go on. I’ll figure it out.”
“See, rather than use a bunch of lasers or a magnetic pinch to start a fusion reaction, we figured it would be more economical to open a pinprick gate into an already-ignited source of fusion plasma—the Sun. The plasma could vent through the gate, controlled by the usual magnetic containment methods. The power the reactor produced could energize the electromagical transformers to supply the gate with magical energy, maintain the magnetic bottle, and power everything in Cybertron.”
“Cybertron?”
“The manufacturing center near where Denver used to be. The place with all the major fabrication facilities.”
“You are not calling it Cybertron!”
“Aww.”
“Don’t you make puppy-dog eyes at me. You made a mushroom cloud today, so you’re in the doghouse, not the puppy basket. This has something to do with the Sun, but you’re not done explaining. Explain.”
“I think my error was in the nature of the gate. Diogenes fabricated a gate with a pinprick-sized opening using our standard orichalcum-iridium laminate. Problem is, this has to be a brute-force gate; there’s no convenient opening anywhere on or in the Sun itself. So, when the spell locked on to a specific direction and range—inside the Sun, yes—the local gate effectively existed in two places at once. The part of it here, in the magnetic containment unit, was shielded and cooled to endure the heat from the micro-stream of plasma. What I didn’t count on was the fact it exists in both places. I’m now fairly certain the effects of being inside the Sun were also translated locally, causing the gate itself to vaporize violently and, quite likely, let through a significant amount of solar material before the wormhole lost cohesion.”
Mary sat down in the other chair and rubbed her temples.
“Eric?”
I recognized the tone and decided to tread lightly.
“Yes, dear one?”
“You are a vampire.”
“Uh… yes.”
“You do not need to be opening gates inside the Sun!”
“In point of fact,” Diogenes offered, “I am the one who targeted and activated the gateway.”
“You keep out of this!”
Diogenes did not reply. He has a higher wisdom score than most humans.
“What did you want me for, anyway?” I asked, trying to divert her.
“I have a party to go to in Arcadia and I want you with me, please.”
“Arcadia?”
“One of the more divergent Earth analogues. Hellenistic Greece is pushing hard to qualify for the Steam Age, and there’s a moderate magical flux. I’ve mentioned it before. The party, I mean.”
“I seem to have a memory of agreeing to it. Is this world the one where the Pharaoh claims Heaven decrees the import/export taxes?”
“The Fields of Osiris, not Heaven, and yes, there’s an Egyptian Empire there. He’s reduced the tariff—or the gods have—so people are now buying his cotton again. It was a choice between no cash flow and low cash flow, and the gods, in their wisdom, told him the obvious.”
“Literally?”
“No. Or, I don’t think so. I haven’t encountered anyone pretending to be a god, and their local priests and wizards are ritualized magic-workers. Magic does work, but it’s involved and complicated. They need all the accessories to get anything to work. Mandala, mantra, mudra, and often some sort of animal innards, since they don’t have the magical theory we do.”
“Sometimes the animal innards and other messy bits are useful,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but we at least know why. They don’t—or can’t—experiment like you do to learn the principles.”
“Speaking of ‘why,’ why do I have to go?”
“Because you’re tall, exotic, lean toward handsome, and speak Greek with a pronounced accent. I’m claiming you’re my lover from the Western Shores. It’ll get me some good social points and help me get close to Themyricles.”
“Who’s Thermy-whatever?”
“Themyricles,” she corrected. “He’s up for the Pericles Award for his outstanding statesmanship.”
“Is the Pericles Award in cash?” I guessed.
“Of course not! It’s a medallion, hand-made, and one of the highest honors the Hellene Nation can bestow.”
“So, it’s a Congressional Medal of Honor or a Presidential Medal of Freedom or something?”
“Kind of, yes.”
“Is it, you know, valuable?”
“Well… each one is unique, solid gold, and hand-made by the greatest Moorish goldsmiths,” she admitted, examining the dimming mushroom cloud with sudden interest.
“Ah. I thought it might be something like that. All right. Afterward, can I go back to The Manor?”
“I suppose so. I like it better than the crummy Detroit apartment building you bought on… which world was it?”
“Capone,” Diogenes supplied.
“There was nothing wrong with the apartment building,” I huffed.
“Oh, come on! It had drug addicts, two gangs, and at least one floor run by a pimp.”
“I liked the light. My apartment windows faced an alley. And the second bedroom made a good laboratory.”
“Small-time robbers kept kicking in your door!”
“Only because I turned off the ‘go away’ spell at night.”
Mary blinked at me for several seconds.
“Well,” I added, “I wasn’t exactly going to send out for pizza in the evenings, was I?”
Her mouth worked as she resisted the smile. She gave it up and laughed.
“I take it back,” she chuckled. “You had everything sorted out, didn’t you?”
“Yep. My needs are simple.”
She cast her gaze around the room, implying the whole vampire bat-cave setup. She arched an eyebrow at me.
“This isn’t for me,” I protested. “Not really. This is a courtesy from Diogenes to his guest.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I still think of Karvalen as home, to the extent I have a home. But this is nice, too.”
“I was more interested in all this belonging to Diogenes.”
“Oh, that. Yes, well, my original intention was to provide him with the tools and materials to make himself secure. He’s my friend, and I want him to have a home of his own. These are the guest rooms for us protein types.”
“I don’t understand you,” Mary decided. “I really don’t. You have robot legions at your command and you say they belong to the computer that belongs to you?”
“He belongs to himself,” I corrected. “At least, I think he does.”
“I love you, but I don’
t think I’m ever going to comprehend how you think.”
“It’s mutual,” I agreed. “I’ve studied some Zen techniques that are supposed to help with the whole accept-without-understanding thing.”
“Is that part of your classes on Wang-Whack or whatever kung fu?”
“They go together. You told me I needed more hand-to-hand stuff.”
“So I did. I guess I should follow up more often. How is your training going? What have you learned?”
“Well, I started with Krav Maga and the Marine LINE system.” I shrugged. “I don’t know that I’m much of a martial artist, but I know a lot of moves, now. I probably need more drill.”
“Don’t you already have a belt in Judo?”
“I barely passed the test for a green belt, a long, long time ago in a universe far, far away. I took a few weeks and studied it again, since my weight changed so drastically. I forgot most of it, but it came back. Mostly, I’ve been studying Zen with my judo teacher. The other hand-to-hand stuff is all about finishing fistfights quickly.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“Unless you insist, I think I’m done for a while. I can’t study with Master Ishigu anymore.”
“Oh?”
“We had some temporal whiplash in his universe,” I told her. Mary winced. “His Earth ran fast while I wasn’t in it and Diogenes wasn’t holding a constant gate on it.”
“How bad was it?”
“About sixty years.”
“Ouch. I’m surprised he remembered you.”
“So was I. It’s unsettling to see someone leap from forty years old to a hundred over a weekend.”
“No doubt. Add it to the list of reasons not to have mortal pets.” She addressed one of the drones Diogenes uses to follow us around in Apocalyptica. “So, will he have time to go with me to Arcadia?”
“It will take some time to prepare another plasma containment facility,” he agreed.
“One with more heat exchanger potential,” I suggested. “It’s like cow bell; you can’t have too much of it. I’ll be thinking about other ways to mitigate the solar fusion problem.”
“And I won’t need help on the caper, itself,” Mary agreed. “Not unless something goes horribly wrong.”
“Good. Wait. Weren’t you planning something back on Flintridge, too?”
“Yes, but it’s only in the preliminary planning stages.”
“If you say so. Uh… what am I supposed to wear?”
“High fashion formal,” Mary answered, grinning. I felt a wave of caution roll over my soul.
My soul was right. High fashion formal for Arcadia consisted, for me, of a billowing, ankle-length tunic, belted at the waist, with the upper half draped to fall over and conceal the belt. The xiphos was a ceremonial, almost ornamental short sword, but I insisted Diogenes make sure it was also functional—he was neither surprised nor unprepared. I’m predictable, I guess. It was summer in Arcadia, so sandals were in fashion, complete with straps all the way up the calves. Cloaks and capes were optional. Mary said I was allowed to have my outfit done in black but I had to have some gold accessories to go with it—a torc-type necklace and my usual rings. I wore my armored underwear over my Amulet of Many Enchantments, a pair of steel-and-gold bracers, and my magic cloak.
Mary’s outfit was mostly a high-waisted, sky-blue gown. Subtle dye-work gave the impression of the skirt moving much more than it was. It bore a jeweled clasp on each shoulder and an intricate, braided-wire girdle in silver. Women were wearing their skirts short this year in Arcadia; the hem stopped halfway down her thighs. Classic sandals were back in style for women, too, with golden leather straps reaching almost to her knees. She had a shoulder bag like a quiver slung across her back and a small, ornamental dagger at her belt. I felt certain it wasn’t the only knife on her person, just as I felt it more than a decoration.
“You look wonderful,” Mary told me.
“I look like a sinister blanket.”
“Accept the compliment,” she advised, handing me a scroll. I unrolled it partway and saw it was a briefing on my supposed background in the Arcadia world, which might be important if people were going to make small talk at me.
“Thank you, dear.”
“That’s better. Let’s go.”
Mary and I walked down the hall of doors to the Arcadia shift-booth. I pushed open the door for her, which activated the dedicated micro-gate between this closet in Apocalyptica and the exact replica of it in Arcadia. The ceiling changed from a neutral grey to a bright yellow, indicating it was daytime in Arcadia. It’s one of the major safety features. Fortunately, we had time to wait for sunrise in Apocalyptica before going through to daytime in Arcadia. Never go from dark to light in a hurry. Suddenly dying isn’t pleasant, but suddenly springing back to life is rough.
I closed the door and it vanished, the doorknob disappearing right out from under my hand. The door reappeared on the opposite side of the closet, much like an inter-universal airlock, which was basically its function. I pulled the door open and ushered Mary out into the villa.
Our villa in Arcadia reminded me strongly of Tort’s house in Kamshasa. It was built around a garden, for one thing, and faced inward. It was more a water garden than a dirt garden, though, with lots of rocks and fountains and trickling and burbling and suchlike. Very peaceful.
“How long until the party?” I asked.
“I’ll have to check the day and time. You know how universes get when you don’t keep an eye on them.”
“I’ll wait in the garden and study my briefing packet.”
“Suits me.” She disappeared while I unrolled the scroll and read. I blinked at my supposed name, but passed it over, reading the rest. Mary came back in a few minutes.
“Sweetheart?” I asked.
“Yes?” she replied, smiling and batting her eyes at me. Instantly, I knew it was her idea.
“Why is my alias ‘Testicles’?”
“It isn’t.”
“It isn’t?”
“It’s test-e-clees,” she said, sounding it out with a Greek accent. “Like Pericleees or Themyricleees—Testicleees.”
“There’s a joke in there, but I suspect it’s on me.”
“It’s a name sometimes given to slave gladiators who display exceptional bravery,” she added.
“You are aware I hate slavery and prefer to be a coward?”
“Of course. That’s one reason it’s funny! And you have about an hour and a half to brush up on your history before the party—Testicleees.”
I sighed and went back to reading.
Parties aren’t my thing. It was a good chance to practice the local dialect of Greek, though. Apparently, my accent is “exotic,” bordering dangerously on “cute.” Mary was vastly amused at the number of ladies trying to make small talk. I think she invites me to these things not only to distract people, but to embarrass me. I still haven’t gotten used to being the decoy for her in social situations. I would much rather be the frontal assault on the place she wants to break into.
It says something when I’d rather be shot at than talked to. I’m not sure what it says. I’m not listening.
The locals seem to think a party isn’t a party unless it’s held during the day. I think it’s a lighting thing. They have some basic steam power, but electricity is either static electricity—Hauksbee generators and sulphur balls—or the property of Zeus. I suspect this is another example of religion using social pressure to stifle science. The Temple of Zeus doesn’t forbid the study of lightning and electricity, but, socially, investigating electricity is frowned upon. It’s kind of like asking a Catholic priest to swipe some of the Eucharist so a biologist can gene-sequence Jesus. The suggestion is not taken well.
So, no electric lights. They use some candles, but mostly oil lamps, often with some quite impressive and elaborate reflectors. Someday, they’ll develop gas lighting and gas mantles, but unless the Church of Zeus gets involved in the research and development, I dou
bt they’ll ever have light bulbs. A neighboring nation might have better luck. They worship different gods, so maybe.
Most of the parties wind down around sunset. A few types of party, however, simply become more intimate after dark. Lucky for me, this was a state affair, not a personal one. As Helios went for a dip in the baths of western stars, ceremonial gestures were traded around, thanks and compliments were delivered, and my butt was subtly and firmly grabbed a number of times.
Around here, it’s not considered rude, as such, but it is considered a bit presumptuous between strangers. On the other hand, it’s a method of expressing sexual interest about as subtle as a shotgun blast. I don’t mind. It’s not like it hurts me in any way, and I’ve had a lot of practice with odd and widely-varying cultures over the past few decades of personal time. I was surprised at how many ladies were willing to be so direct. I was also pleased there was such a high ratio of women to men in the butt-grabbing department. It’s still a compliment, to be sure, but my interest runs toward women. It’s how I was raised.
Mary reclaimed me and bid farewell to our host. I did what other men did when saying goodbye. I crossed my arms so my fingertips touched opposite collarbones before spreading my hands down, across, and to the sides, palms forward. It’s good to be a foreigner in a tolerant country; you don’t have to be perfect. If you make the effort, they’re pleased. Our host returned the gesture and we departed.
“Explain to me again how this helped you?” I asked, handing Mary into the horse-drawn cab—a chariot with a driver up front and a padded bench in the back. It squeaked as I climbed in, startling the driver and the horses.
“Simple,” she answered, using English. “You attracted attention and most of ladies, as well as a lot of the muttering and grumbling of their men. I had little competition for the ear of Themyricles. Getting a politician to talk isn’t the problem; steering him is. Fortunately, he’s one of his favorite topics. I know much more about the ceremony and have even been promised an invitation. With so much going for me, if I can’t make off with the award, I’ll have to turn in my Rocket Ranger badge.”
