INDEX:
Link here to a general overview of the novel
Prologue, Chpt 1, Chpt 2, Chpt 3, Chpt 4, Chpt 5, Chpt 6, Chpt 7, Chpt 8
Join the story as Daav is about to practice his magic in the Verse.
Chapter Nine
Daav
The building’s lab is much the same as I remember. It’s large and filled with combinations of industrial materials, electrical equipment and wiring, and energy storage devices. The walls hold framed diagrams of molecular, atomic and chemical processes, and detailed, technicolor images of Bistral’s landscapes, streets and architecture. I assume those last are for both inspiration for the mages, a reminder of the goal of their work, and to allow them visual cues of locations to apply the Verse work.
Many quarter centuries reserve space here in this large lab for their magic drills. I only visit it for yearly Conclave testing and have kept my regular practice to the rooms set aside in Victor’s manse, clearly no longer an option. I won’t miss that space despite its familiarity, filled as it was with so much uncomfortable history. But forcing myself to continue to work there has served a purpose, the pain of that history providing its own push for growing my magic. And my source of perpetual penance.
Johan walks over to a series of large diagrams taking central position on one of the nearest walls. These had been missing last year when I’d tested.
“The schematics of the electrical rewiring for a new power system in a dozen buildings along this block,” he says, tracing fingers over the diagrams. “Includes capacitors, solar cell systems, batteries, wind turbines mounted on a quarter of the roofs, and some limited thermal steam energy venting systems we installed underneath this structure about six months ago. Also includes all the power lines in the neighborhood, and the pipe system running underneath the roads and into each of the buildings. They all need maintenance as the materials are beginning to show signs of corrosion.” He pauses. “And of course the hydrogen in the magnetic bottle beneath us.”
Johan appears almost embarrassed reminding me, as if the dream of fusion power since modern science understood the potential is something new. The dream isn’t new, but no mage has ever convinced a tangle to lend the needed force, even on a small scale. The possibility of fusion power, at least to the Conclave and mage community, has been linked to the mythical emergence of the mage destined to rekindle magic.
“You’re diverting a lot of resources into creating testing conditions,” I say instead, ignoring the desperate desire the Conclave head lets simmer unspoken.
Johan’s lips twist with his displeasure at my comment. “Let me worry about budgetary choices. You understand the concept of short term sacrifice for long term gain.”
“You did this for me?”
“As much as we hope you are the force for rekindling the magic, all of our mages benefit from the opportunity for practice.”Johan carefully leaves unmentioned the new crisis we face, a deadline for Orreance to find a way to dig itself out of its looming grave. And the fact of the clear message both Victor and the Conclave has been sending me since I arrived at age five. We are counting on you to save us. That is why we bothered saving you.
I bend my head at him in acknowledgement. “Of course.”
“Show me what you can do, Daav. This is the playground, touch everything possible with your tangles. Turn on the grid, give us power.”
“Leave. Go sit behind the monitoring equipment in your control room.” They use cameras to observe me in this room, but really all they can measure is the outcomes of the energy systems.
I never appreciate live observation, my magic is my own business. Johan needs to track my power, but my relationship with the Verse is a personal one. It’s easier to be stripped physically naked in front of an audience than to have them watch me enter and manipulate the Verse in person. Most mages get used to the observation and Sebastian often teased me about my strong preference to work alone. But he’s always defended my choice. His is the only presence I tolerate, although Victor had kept us carefully distanced from one another when we worked in the same rooms due to the danger involved. Most typically, we would take turns accessing the Verse in our home lab, standing far away from one another as we did.
Memories from earlier today, our lovemaking, and the strange intrusion of magic during it prickle over my skin. Later, waste. Work to do.
“I’ll leave you to it. Back in twenty minutes. There are the recliners if you need to rest.” He tilts his head to several reclining chairs in the far corner. Verse work drains mages even if they are responsible about not overtaxing themselves. It’s why the Conclave insists on judicious use of us. A smart mage finds a safe place to sit while working and avoids pushing himself further than advisable. My ridiculous Angel often forgets that, clearly.
“A lot on the agenda, so let’s get this done,” Johan adds, rubbing hands together with his nerves.
“I hear anti-anxiety medications help,” I reply. “Just in case my results disappoint, it’s better to be prepared.”
He frowns at me. “Sebastian is a bad influence. You sound like him more and more.”
I suppress a smile at that, at the inexorable pull and effect my Angel has always had upon me, and gesture toward the door. “Until later.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but exits.
The tension in his shoulders is evident, and of course he’s stressed. Anyone sane would be. The force of one hundred and seventy five years of history presses down on him as it leads to this perfect storm.
I roll my shoulders, pushing away the same weight of it written into my very DNA.
It had been 1850 when an asteroid had hit the globe inside the borders of Orreance, traveled right on through the planet, and woken magic within a select number of its residents, along with a few of those in countries who were its nearest neighbors. A gift from god the Orreancean people had labeled it, and believed the event to be proof of god’s favor. Even without any biblical convergence between the experience and results from the Verse, religion has a way of subverting everything into its storyline.
The scientific age had been well established by 1850, but the ease and seduction of relying on magic had led Orreance down a different path, to the neglect of much development and application of new technologies. Staltz, much farther away from the location of the impact, had gained few mages, and less powerful ones at that. They could never afford to depend so strongly on the Verse, even from the beginning.
Still, the few mages born in Staltz from the impact had taken political power, namely my great-great-grandfather Drustin Harkness, creating the Harkness dynasty which continues its stranglehold on the nation. My great-grandfather Bastion Harkness had been a moderately powerful mage, although my grandfather, Clive, and father, Carl, had both been born without access to the Verse, sowing the seeds of resentment and eventually my father’s vicious rejection of all magic.
When Bastion had died in 1956 with the sudden weakening of magic, known as the Diminishment, my grandfather, inheriting leadership, had gleefully moved the country away from anything magic dependent. Grandfather had invested more heavily in scientific and technological research as part of his reaction to his own lack of power, along with the new unreliability of the Verse. My father has continued that tradition.
By age five I had been taught this family and national history, moralistic lessons about the evil of dependence on magic, and the disaster for countries like Orreance who have chosen its evil. Only my nanny had dared teach me of my great grandfather’s deathbed dreams and prophecies that paralleled Tristan Crane’s. I don’t know why she did it. I think the mystique of magic remains an underground fascination in Staltz despite its vilification and the cruel laws created to outlaw its practice. Since my own family tree is entwined with the Verse, maybe she thought I’d be entertained by the stories.
But the noose of this history threatens to wrap my neck, even after escaping the literal noose when my magic had come alive at age five.
My hand rubs at my nape and, catching myself, I lower it to my side. Walking over to the recliners, I position myself on the nearest.
The unease I always experience choosing to enter the Verse raises the hairs across my skin along with the guilt over my anticipation.
Focus, Daav.
My eyes scan the room and pick out details of shape and color. The contrast of a steel brushed frame with the burnt pumpkin orange graphic of a power grid. The exposed wooden beams, a rich chestnut that crisscross the ceiling. The sand colored leather of the chair, the high end quality of the furniture both sleek and comfortable, with my back and buttocks cradled with the right amount of give. I settle into those details. Breathe, in, out. Inhale the cool air into nostrils. Exhale the warmed version. And begin to hum. The low rumble of the tune soothes frayed nerves.
My vision takes on a soft golden sheen, staining the details, and I open to the Verse.
Beautiful. As always.
Magic swims between the chemical and atomic reality of our physical world.
The Verse manifestation of my body, left sitting in the mundane room of the laboratory, leans into the wonder. An addiction. I battle it for seconds, then give in.
Around me float tangles, crystals of glowing color, song, light, hypnotizing movement. All joy. They call me with their lapping vibration like they are companions, friends, and around them a peace, loveliness and perfect existence. Wonder! A power source to activate the reactions of the potential energy of everything. But outside of that, being near them means the only times I feel whole. Well, almost the only.
I could stay here forever, the thought a familiar temptation when I visit the Verse. But no, not acceptable. Not for me. Instead, I let my eyes shift to the space around me, the walls of the lab, the diagrams covering the walls. Let my vision move through them, over them, beneath them.
The wiring behind the drywall, the pipes underneath the floor. The molecules of their material, the electrons and protons circling the atoms of the elements. Mapping, memorizing. My gaze shoots back up to examine the two dimensional images of the energy systems Johan has described and I let the Verse’s vibrations worm into my mind and expand my view, like some ghostly hawk soaring through walls and down to foundation, up through ceilings and out into the air.
The pathways of the power systems, those cells, batteries, vents and turbines; the snaking wiring ready to hold current. Waiting for electrons to be pushed along, for combustion and the frenetic speeding movement of collisions to release energy. And even the magnetic bottle Johan dared to mention. The hydrogen molecules stir sluggishly inside, their heat and movement not close to what is necessary for fusion.
Here is all of the potential embedded in the materials and the very atoms of these systems. Waiting. Waiting for me to spark the reactions. I soar over the neighborhood, cataloging the possibilities, the promise of energy. Seeing even more, beyond the block, out into the city. Reaching farther than any other mage within the recent Cohorts, but my vision still fading with distance. Too far.
The hawk, now reminding me of my Angel, flies in circles, wings brushing tangles and soaring next to them. Shivering with the pleasure. Then back through the walls with the map of my plan as I remember my body. To connect it with intention as something larger than the bird living inside me dances from my resting bones and out again to the vibrating color and song. Dances between the tangles, reaching to them, wrapping my arms around them like a lover and swaying them to our joint music. Alive, alive, alive. Joy. Pleasure. Do the work, sweet crystals, help me dearest.
Again, I call to the tangles. Follow me. Their light is everything, all color, all magnificent rainbow of hue and deep saturated loveliness. The song of it becomes everything. Lost. Who am I? Dissolving with perfection. The pull is stronger than ever. The surge of the beauty larger, more encompassing. Growing?
No, I am separate. I need to lead this dance.
Follow, follow, repeating the call as I spin around tangles, trying my best to entrance them while they chip away at me with siren song. Then, they come, move toward me. And I sweep them up again, trailing dozens as they finally listen.
And weave them in and out, through the potential. Contact, and they swarm over the potential, jumping between the materials and sparking them alive. Faster. Particles exploding and reacting, charges moving. Jumping between devices and breaking bonds faster, combustion reactions, turbines moving, flow of charge over power lines, batteries pushing and pulling around electrons.
Yes, sweet tangles, make them alive, fill the cells and batteries.
And then dancing down to the bottle and its hydrogen. But like all times before, the tangles shy away there, retreating back from our dance. Please, lovelies, I sing. They refuse, pulling away, turning away.
Still no access to the biggest payoff of energy. No fusion.
Not surprising, but if I could just make it happen.…
Not today. Johan wants to know what I can do? This is his answer.
So we soar elsewhere, back into the block, through the streets, until… Reaching further, the crystals falter in the dance. Their edges contract, expand out again, and contract. It’s as if there’s a catch, a turning point just out of reach. But not. Instead they begin to wither and fold into themselves. We hit a barrier and the tangles are turning away again, losing interest. I dance faster, but they refuse.
On the edge of my vision, I see the rest of the city around me, the possibilities. It’s crisp in my sight, the potential is there, but I can’t go further. I hit my limit, a wall separating me from a greater reach of my magic.
Crystals fold into themselves, fray, but keep brushing past me, murmuring their softer song, their lazy entrancing colors still hypnotizing.
I’m tired and the Verse wavers around me. The tangles sing their lullaby. Join us, they say. Touch, be one with us. Companions. Perfect. Join us. I waver along with the Verse. Who am I? A tangle? Maybe if I let myself dissolve, dissolve and rest. So beautiful, their color. I can be that color.
Instead, I see gold striations over a piercing gray color. Sebastian’s eyes. The picture of his laughing face.
Around me, the tangles pulse, shiver, as if disturbed. Their lullaby falters and I remember my separateness. No! I’m Daav.
I double down on my own low humming song, listen for the cracks in my voice, imperfect pitch, force my eyes to find the leather of the recliner, the smoothed hide of the covering underneath my hands.
And the gold sheen of the Verse fades away.
I am back.
Tired, I slump into the chair. I am me. This is the world I’m supposed to inhabit. I have responsibilities and have made promises. I force myself to refuse the beauty again, to remember Victor’s harsh words after I first admitted the allure of theVerse, a kid just learning to open it.
“Don’t be weak, Daav. You’re not meant for that pleasure. You owe me, you owe Orreance. We saved your worthless hide, despite the blood that flows inside you. You owe me. If you let yourself dissolve in the Verse, then everything I did will be wasted. Don’t be a waste, boy. Only addicts refuse the real world and their responsibilities.”
Bones exhausted, I slump further into the chair. Just five minutes of sleep. Johan will wake me.