Birthright-The Technomage Archive

by B. J. Keeton

  Doctor Howser smiled. “Get out of here, Harlo.”

  ***

  “Not with Chuckie. No,” Swinton said. “I won’t. I can’t. He hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Swinton,” said Professor Barts.

  “I bet he does. He’s out to get me. Every time we’re on the range or sparring, I have to go to the infirmary for something. Most of the time, it’s his fault.”

  “You’ve never been able to prove that, Swinton.”

  “Either way, I’m not going.”

  “Yes, Swinton, you are. You’re a soldier, and you’re going. That’s your job.”

  Swinton turned his back on the professor and peered into the closet. He pulled out the red shirt he always wore under his fatigues when he went through the Instance. It had been his brother James’s, and Swinton always considered it lucky. He tossed the shirt on the bed beside his fatigues.

  “What’s so important about this one, professor? Why us?”

  “Each member of this team was chosen for a reason, Swinton. Not the least of which was that you’re all ready for your Rites.”

  “My Rites? To be a full agent?”

  Barts said, “Yes.”

  “Would I get a Flameblade then?” Swinton asked.

  “You really are single-minded, aren’t you, Swinton?”

  “I changed from scholar to soldier just for the chance at a Flameblade, so yeah. I guess I am. Is there a chance?”

  “The mission consists of you and your team finding a route from this Instance back to Erlon. We believe that Saryn Bloom is more than adequately equipped for the task. Ceril Bain is the leader—”

  “What? Leader? I thought you said Chuckie was going?”

  “Chuckie is going,” Professor Barts said, “but he’s not in charge. Ceril Bain is.”

  “So I have to take orders from the killer librarian now, too?”

  “Yes, you do. Do you have a problem with that?” The professor’s voice was hard. He wasn’t joking around, and Swinton knew it.

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “Good. Now, Ceril Bain is the leader of the team, and his primary directive is to locate any connection this Instance may have to the Untouchable. Any connection he finds will be intelligence we can use to locate the terrorists on Erlon, and Saryn Bloom may be able to use it to complete her objectives. Your job is simple: protect them all and make sure you stay alive to do it.”

  “But what does that have to do with the Flameblades?”

  “Swinton, there might be one there. We don’t know. It’s an unmapped Instance that may be light-years from where we thought we want to be. We just don’t know. If there is a connection with the Untouchable, then there’s a good chance a Flameblade is around. His followers on Erlon seem to have a ready supply of them.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear, sir. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  Professor Barts sighed and shook his head. If Swinton noticed the disappointment, he made no indication. Barts said, “Swinton Marelotov, on this mission and this mission alone, you will be authorized to act in the capacity of a fully Rited agent of the Charonic Archive. You will find a bag packed for you that contains supplies in the Instance chamber, and I ask that you stop by the weapons locker and arm yourself with a standard set. You should add to that a nanite sleeve.”

  “Oh, wow,” Swinton said. “I’ve hit the big time.”

  “This is serious, Swinton.”

  “I’m being dead serious. I get a nanite sleeve and there might be a Flameblade somewhere in this Instance? I feel like things are finally coming together for me.”

  “Just remember the mission directives, son. I’ve downloaded them into your tablet, and the other members of your team have been informed of them as well. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir. I think I’m good.”

  “Be at the Instance portal in half an hour for final checks. Then you’re off.”

  Swinton saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  The professor left the room, and Swinton smiled to himself, his mind overtaken by the possibility of finding a Flameblade of his own. He got dressed, beginning with his brother’s red shirt. Before he left his quarters, he balled his fists together and pantomimed a brief sword fight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ceril stood with his team in front of the Instance portal. He had seen it every day for six years, but he had never really understood how it worked. Never in all his time had he dreamt that the Charons had somehow actually created other universes and controlled their expansion. The sheer power—not to mention hubris—that took almost overwhelmed him.

  What kind of person invented technology like that?

  The portal at Ennd's Academy had been a simple doorway. Well, simple only in that it looked like a door. Ceril had seen Nephil and other professors entering some kind of combinations when he was younger, but he assumed they were just pass codes that allowed access to certain areas of the school. He had since learned the codes were more akin to addresses for the Instance to which they were connecting. But not all portals looked like the carved doors found at Ennd's. The one aboard the Inkwell Sigil, for instance, was much more minimalist and did not try to hide what it was in the slightest: two long pieces of metal stood parallel about eight feet apart, and the Instance portal stood as a dark shimmer between them. Until that morning, that dark shimmer had always connected the Sigil to Ennd's. Now, there was just empty air.

  Now, the whole thing looked fake.

  Roman interrupted Ceril’s admiration of the Instance device by saying, “Your team is just arriving now, Ceril. I think we're about ready for send-off.” The muscled scholar clapped his sausage-fingered hand on Ceril's shoulder. It was probably supposed to be comforting, or maybe congratulatory, but it just made Ceril’s stomach sink. My team, he thought. I’m going to screw this up so bad.

  As though he could read Ceril’s thoughts, Roman said, “You’re going to be fine, Ceril. Really. We’re not in the habit of sending people out, especially on their Rites, unless we’re reasonably sure they’re capable of what we’re asking.”

  “Reasonably sure?”

  “It has to be a challenge somehow. It is a test, after all.”

  “Right.” Ceril wasn’t convinced. Behind him, the four members of his squad were strapping their packs on and making sure they had enough supplies for a decent chance at survival.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot,” Roman said, “to give you this. That would have been…well, it wouldn’t have been good, yeah?” He extended his hand, palm up, to Ceril. In it, a black sphere appeared. He offered it to Ceril. “You’re going to need a sleeve for this one.”

  “So when you say we’re acting as fully Rited agents—”

  “I mean just that.”

  Ceril took the sphere from Roman’s hand, and it came to life. While it had felt solid—was solid—moments before, black vines began to extend from it and spiral around Ceril’s arm and make their way toward his neck and face. They continued to travel beneath his clothes. For a few seconds, Ceril’s skin was covered in shimmering blackness, and then it disappeared as if it never existed.

  “I love watching that,” Roman said. “It never gets old.” He turned to the other four members of the team. “If you haven’t already, activate your nanite skins at this time. You need to be able to initiate any kind of Conjuring you might need as soon as you’re through the portal. You’ll want to be ready. We think the portal opens into a safe location, but we can’t be absolutely sure.”

  Saryn activated her sphere, as did Swinton. The same black tendrils coated them and then went invisible. Chuckie and Harlo just stood there, having already covered themselves in the microscopic layer of machines.

  The space between the metal pillars began to ripple, and a hazy purple rectangle appeared. The very center swirled like a toilet that just wouldn’t finish flushing.

  “That's it?” Ceril asked.

  “That's it,” Roman confirmed. “I don't have to tell y
ou how important this is, Ceril. But I do have to tell you thanks. I truly appreciate you being so open and eager to do this.”

  “It's not like I had much choice, Roman,” Ceril said.

  “There's always a choice, Ceril. Even when it does not look as though there is.”

  That’s not what Nephil made it sound like. Ceril just nodded and leaned in for a hug with his teacher.

  “Be safe,” Roman said.

  “Always am.” Ceril spun on his heel to face his squad. He said, “All right, guys and gals, let's move out!” He assumed that there would be time for the obligatory leadership pep talk on the other side. He tightened his pack’s straps and walked through the reappeared purple haze. The other four members of his team followed.

  ***

  Roman, Nephil, and Bryt shared a glance and a smile as they watched their students disappear into the rift between worlds.

  As the last student passed through, the lights flashed aboard the ship and regulated themselves at a much dimmer, almost brown level.

  “Shut it down,” Bryt said.

  Roman’s hand hovered over the kill-switch for the portal. “We’re in agreement, then?”

  Bryt and Nephil nodded. When the purple window was closed, the lights on the ship brightened a little more.

  “Godspeed,” Roman muttered under his breath.

  ***

  Saryn was the first to vomit. Then Chuckie did. Ceril, Harlo, and Swinton followed closely behind, tying for third place. The team had walked maybe five or six steps from the portal and immediately fell to their knees. They retched as they quickly emptied their stomachs.

  The place stunk. And not just a little stink, either. The air smelled like sulfur, tasted like sulfur. The smell was almost thick enough to chew. Ceril thought, as his dry heaving finally began to subside, that if he had ever smelled something more rank, he couldn't think of what it was.

  Harlo was the first to regain her composure. She rose to her feet and walked a meter or two from the rest of her team. Ceril stumbled after her, barely able to speak.

  “Wait, don't…go…far,” he said to her.

  “I'm fine, Ceril,” she responded.

  Ceril thought that she obviously was not fine, because she was bracing herself against the rock wall of the canyon they were in. But for some reason, she seemed to be breathing better than any of them, and when she turned back around, Ceril knew why.

  Her mouth was completely blacked out. Two black tubes ran from each nostril into her mouth. Ceril was impressed—she had Conjured herself a breather. Ceril wished that he had thought of it.

  “Everyone,” he coughed, “C-conjure yourself a…” He dry heaved. “A breather. That's…an order.” Ceril followed it, too, and he felt the nanites from his skin coalesce across his mouth and into his nostrils. He did his best to focus on the design Harlo used. He took a few breaths to test it out. The smell of sulfur was still there, but it was bearable. It was just a slight annoyance through the breather, rather than an overwhelming force.

  Every single Charon Apprentice was trained in basic Conjuration. They would all learn to mentally manipulate a sleeve of nanites which could be worn under their clothes like a second skin. To outsiders, that manipulation seemed like magic, and the term technomage entered people’s vocabularies.

  As Ceril took a couple of cleaner breaths, he was thankful for the failsafes programmed into the nanite sleeves. He had no idea how to actually make a breather, and he was fairly sure that no one else knew the ins-and-outs, either—well, Harlo and Saryn might, but they were exceptions. For the other three (at least), Conjuring their breathers seemed like magic, and it gave Ceril his first real experience with why the Charons became known as technomages in the first place.

  Conjuring seemed downright magical. However, the task itself had to be realistic, had to be possible. Nanite Conjuring was bound by the laws of physics, but if a Charon could imagine an outcome, the nanites were programmed with enough intelligence to find a way to make it happen. The Conjuring Charon didn’t need to know the details.

  Which was lucky for Ceril and his team—the only thing they had to do was concentrate on the air not making them sick. The four of them directed that desire to their sleeves, and each felt the slow tingle that meant the tiny machines were forming a filter for the acrid air.

  After a few breaths that did not induce vomiting, Saryn said, “Better. Good idea, Ternia.”

  “Wasn't my idea. We can all thank Harlo for this one. I think she saved us more than a bit of sickness here. But we should be careful; we probably don't want to use these constantly.”

  “Thanks,” Harlo said. “The air is breathable, or we'd be dead right now. There may be something in it that makes us sick, but I'd be willing to wager that we can acclimate to it pretty quickly if we have to.”

  “But what if we don't want to?” Chuckie asked. He stood up and braced against the rock wall.

  “Doesn't matter,” Ceril said. “I don't want to breathe it, either, but if there are inhabitants here, the last thing we want is for them to know we’re Charons, that we can Conjure, right? At least immediately. We don't know anything about this place. The natives might know about Charons already, and that means they could love us or hate us. The less we let on about who we are, the better off we are. For the time being.” Ceril inhaled deeply. He pushed the residual sickness down. “So as soon—and I mean as soon—as we meet someone, these breathers dissipate, you got that? Just be prepared for the shock.”

  Chuckie was silent.

  “Got it,” Swinton said. Saryn and Harlo chimed in, too. Chuckie never did.

  “Are we going to have a problem already, Chuckie?” Ceril asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Chuckie as he breathed deeply. “No breathers around natives. Got it.”

  “Thank you,” Ceril said. He turned his attention to his surroundings. The portal had dropped them at the lowest point in a roofless, stone canyon. The ground sloped down to them, but the entrance was a few hundred meters up the ramp. The walls were sheer and fifteen to twenty feet high, with about that much space between them. There would be no climbing out even if they had wanted to. They were at one end of the canyon, and the other end opened onto what looked like open fields, maybe a plain of some kind.

  “Okay, folks,” Ceril said, “let's move out of this trench and see what this place has for us.” He figured they all needed to walk the sickness off and find out where they were. Without looking back, Ceril pushed himself away from the wall and stalked toward the entrance to the canyon. He knew that if he did not set the precedent of being in charge now, he would not be able to expect them to respect his leadership in the future. He never looked back at his team as he reached the mouth of the tunnel.

  When he got there, he stood amazed.

  If he hadn't known better, he would have assumed he was wearing tinted glasses. In Ternia, most things were green, but the soil was brown, so were trees, and the sky was a marvelous shade of blue that swirled with the yellow-red from the planet's twin suns. Even in Yagh, the drab gray was broken by occasional blue skies.

  Here, though, everything—everything—from the rocks and dirt to the sky, clouds, and trees, all of it…was purple. He assumed the sun was purple, too, but he couldn’t be sure. It was hidden behind a purple, overcast sky. It was like whichever Charons created this Instance had purposefully deleted every other color from their palettes.

  As he watched, lightning struck in the distance, and his reverie was shattered. The bolt had been a sickly green color, stark against the muted background. It made his stomach roil.

  The rest of the team had followed him up, and they sat their bags down at their feet and looked around.

  “This…is odd,” Saryn said. “I don’t like it.”

  “Me, neither,” Swinton agreed. “It’s just too much.”

  “Yeah,” Ceril said. “Too much purple. You ever seen anything like this?” He was talking to Saryn.

  “No. Yagh’s no
t lush, not like Ternia,” she elbowed Ceril, “but it’s not…this.”

  “Neither’s Bester,” Swinton said. “The Sigil was just fine, you know? When you grow up in a place like Bester, you get used to being indoors, and you don’t really think about the color anymore. You decorate what you can, splash some color here and there, maybe, to open things up. Even on the Sigil, we had the blur.” He paused. “This is almost too much outside.”

  “Ferran’s a desert,” Harlo offered, “so I’m used to stretches of the same, boring brown where everything looks the same. But this is different. I don’t like this. It’s unnatural. Makes me kind of sick.”

  “It’s probably just the air,” Chuckie said. “Ain’t no color gonna make us sick.”

  “It might,” Saryn said. “We don’t know anything about this place.”

  “We know this is the place where color comes to die,” Swinton joked. “Is that not enough?”

  They all laughed uneasily.

  Plains stretched in front of them, knee to waist-high grasses grew as far as they could see. There was a tree-line in the distance that probably bordered a whole forest. There was one tree to their right a short distance away, and it was stunted and gnarled. Ceril noticed that a purple liquid dripped regularly from the ends of its leafless branches, like a thousand spigots that were just barely left open. There were small pools of the liquid circling the tree trunk.

  “Harlo,” he said as he pointed, “can you take a sample of whatever that tree is dripping and test it?”

  “Sure thing,” she said as she rooted through her pack for a testing kit. The Charons did not use ranks the way the various militaries on Erlon did. Ceril was no more her boss than he was her father, but if giving him some kind of title helped her, then so be it, he thought.

  “Thanks.”

  “Saryn?” he said. She didn’t answer. He looked around and scanned the immediate area. He couldn’t see her. “Where’s Saryn?”

  “She was right behind me a second ago, Ceril,” Swinton said.