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zzambrosius_02CHAPTER THREE: Meeting People and Learning to Fly
Kim came banging into the living room at Rose House, cursing and stomping. She slammed the front door hard enough to jar Ambros awake, exhausted though he was.
He shook all over, as he emerged from a dream: ‘Some kind of confrontation with police, with guns in play...don’t remember if I got shot...somebody did, though...’ He pushed those memories aside, for later contemplation.
He sat up in his chair and said: “Hello.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry. Were you napping?” Kim took off her coat and hung it up.
“No. I fell asleep here last night, I guess. Probably a good idea, I’m not sure I was in any shape to navigate the basement stairs.”
“You do look like shit...”
“Thanks, I think.”
She ran over and hugged him: “Oh I didn’t mean it that way!”
“I know.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged: “I told you the last time I saw you...”
“Ten,,,no, fourteen days ago!” she interjected: “You no sooner got back from the Tom Paine Line than Voukli...”
He continued: “...that Voukli had plans to work me half to death. She wanted to push me to my limits, to get me, as she put it: ‘a little better prepared for my next Command opportunity’.”
Kim laughed sympathetically: “And did she?”
“Yeah. First, a half-day of reedsword and steel work, until I was blank-faced and drooling. An hour’s rest and then target practice with every missile weapon used in the Commonwealth. Day two: repeat the first day.”
“Wow.”
“Did I mention,” said Ambros: “That she kept me awake for most of the night in between? Well, she did.”
“Poor thing,” said Kim, amused.
“At least she gave me a day to recover. But by then, she’d worked out a three-day course of her favorite four-strand-memory-RNA-and-hypnotics: the History of all extant United States Imperial Timelines...then an intensive study of the...the ‘mechanics’ of the splits in the original Line, and then, fifth work day overall...”
Kim interrupted: “Day five was a Master-level class in the causes of those Line splits, integrating what little we know about the major split that created the President Tom Paine Line. And what the Techs have figured out about Master Nikodemos and his...affairs in this Line.”
“Um. Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I helped her design the course. How’d it go?”
“Brutal. Fortunately, she gave me another recovery day. Then she bade me shoot in the Athenian Pistol Championship.”
“...and?”
“I was out after one day. I think my score placed me in the high eighties, rank-wise.”
“Well, but...top one hundred in the City then!”
“Yeah, Voukli was happier with my score than I was. I’m getting better, I guess. ‘Good for more than just cover fire’ was how she put it.”
“She’s a smart-ass!”
“Yeah. How are you and she getting on? Still in the ‘hot’ zone with her?’
Kim shrugged: “Yeah. I mean we’re each in it for a good time, and I doubt if we’re destined for a very long run, but...”
“It’ll be fun while it lasts, right?” Ambros knew how concentrated Voukli’s sex drive could be.
“Oh yeah, oh...yeah!” Kim paused, then said: “So...what about you. You and Voukli, I mean.”
“Oh. Well, that’s complicated.”
“Is it really?” Kim snickered.
“Yeah. It’s more than sex, that’s for sure. If it’s love, it’s really different than any love I’ve had before. Part of that...” He laughed a little, somewhat bemused: “Part of that is that I’ve never had a ‘girlfriend’ who was better at everything than I was.”
“Everything?”
“Every. Thing. So, maybe it’s the barbarian in me showing through. I have a hard time admitting how much she means to me because I’m definitely beta in that relationship, right? Very primitive thinking.”
“What does she say about that?”
“We haven’t spoken about it since our first time together,” Ambros admitted: “I don’t think either of us is ready for that discussion.”
“Maybe,” said Kim: “Or maybe she’s waiting for you to be ready.”
Ambros paused, then said: “That’s actually probably correct.”
Kim looked concerned: “Okay. How about you and Magistro Skavo?”
He smiled sadly: “That’s basically over. We’re friends, but...”
“But?”
“Ser hormonal cycle has passed back into ‘neuter’. Se is pretty much uninterested in sex now, for at least a year...and se is a Pacifist. My whole purpose in the Commonwealth, and here, is...anathema to ser. Se is colder than before. I met ser at the beginning of ser ‘trending female’ period. Now I see ser as...icy, logical, but dominated by ser ideology. And...Se is reportedly not happy about the stuff I’m working on...the Code Spartacus plan.”
“I guess that was predictable.”
“Yeah. Se has to admit that the threat is real, though. I expect we’ll have a showdown about it...sometime. “
“Hmm.”
“Yeah, hmm.”
Kim shook herself: “What about day ten?”
“Day ten? Oh, the training...More RNA: Basic Histories of the Allied Lines, all three kinds. Recovered Commonwealth, Syndicalist, and Socialist. And a sort of ‘pseudo Rule Book’, about actions and interventions that led to disastrous Line Splits, and hence ought to be avoided in the future.”
“Ooh, she didn’t tell me about that one.”
“Ha! So I have a lot of stuff to do, but most of it is in this Line for a while.”
“Good!”
“Yeah. I got back here last night, physically, mentally and emotionally drained, and I sat down...and then you woke me up. What were you all upset about when you came crashing in?”
“Oh, Jimmy and I had a...disagreement. I tried to use your technique of ‘not arguing with a loved one’. It worked a little...but Jimmy can be so obtuse!”
“Yeah? Like in jealous and possessive?”
She made a face: “Yeah. All macho, too.”
“I did warn you...”
“I haven’t forgotten. But I don’t want you to intervene yet. I mean, this is definitely backsliding, but he was making progress. Let me yell at him a couple more times...I mean, he’s been okay sending me on dates with Voukli, he only gets bent out of shape afterwards. I asked if he’d like a threesome with us...I think Voukli intimidates him.”
Ambros laughed: “Now that’s funny...understandable, but funny.”
She shrugged, dramatically and ironically: “I dunno. Guys are weird. I’ll get him fixed or I’ll have to dump him. That’s gonna hurt us both. We really do love each other. Luckily I don’t have to keep him for financial reasons. Rose House is doing fine moneywise, even with Maria selling the silk business and Luisa quitting the Museum job.
“I was never involved in this political stuff before I met you. How do activists who don’t have the Sacred Band backing them up ever make ends meet?”
“Mostly they don’t.”
“Oh.”
After a few minutes more of companionable silence Kim said: “Ooh, I almost forgot: you were gonna see what we could do for Alan Hart. About his diabetes, I mean.”
Ambros shook his head, then shrugged: “Pretty much...nothing.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Why?”
Ambros sighed: “There’s a small but noticeable risk of splitting the Timeline when we do stuff like that. Alan is not in any way involved in our mission, and he isn’t recruit-able. I mean, I could go to Pharmacy Deme and get the medicine. But Voukli and the Iatrae made it clear to me how...irresponsible that would be.”
They sat silently, Kim half in his lap, for some time.
At length she asked: “What are you up to today?”
He pulled a small cellophane envelope out of his shirt pocket: “Hypnotic. I’ll be Trancing, trying make all this new data into something sensible.”
“Okay.”
“You wanted some time?”
“...Yeah. I’ll wait till tomorrow.”
He smiled: “Tomorrow would be better. I’ll be less useless then.”
She smiled too, and snuggled.
Ambros Rothakis toiled up a steep hill in the south of Eugene. Perspiration dripped down his face in spite of the early February chill.
He had recovered—mostly—from his dhekamero ekpathena, his ‘training tenday’. His wind was good, but he still felt sore and weak in his joints and muscles.
‘That kind of RNA training is a real shortcut to more knowledge about the Multiverse, but it’s not free.’ He grinned, seeing the balance in terms of energy rather than money: ‘Old Ambassador Harvey would never get it, not that way. It’s taken me half a year to start, and I came into the Commonwealth system with a bias in its favor.’
He recalled his recent experience with his favored hallucinogen, and the sensation of being “one with everything” and realized how minimal his knowledge of how the Multiverse worked was: ‘Or even what it is...” He set that conundrum aside: ‘I have to live with whatever it is.’
He paused and removed his hat, wiping his forehead with a bandana. He wondered what he would find at the Gathering that day, and how things would be run.
He spoke quietly to himself as he climbed: “I know Joanna has been working with Arlen to streamline the meeting part of the ‘Gathering of Homeless’. Well, I’ll soon find out.”
The rain had diminished to a fine mist by the time he reached the park. Mark stood by an opening in the hedge, looking pallid in the weak sunlight; he gestured Ambros through.
He strolled along the paved pathway until he came in sight of the central shelter.
The first arrivals had been busy, lighting a fire in the hearth and rearranging the picnic tables into a broad circle around it. A guy with a wheelbarrow came down off of the forested hilltop nearby, bringing firewood from a cache in the underbrush.
Arlen hailed Ambros: “Hey man, glad you could make it.”
They embraced. Ambros said: “I came ’cause you asked me to, Sarge.”
“Thanks,” said Arlen.
“Hey, Terry!” Joanna called: “Andy and Sharon are here!”
“Send ’em over here!”
“Okay...”
Andy O’Malley and his sometime lover and full-time second-in-command Sharon Kennedy approached. Sharon looked like anybody’s grandma from the 1950s: curly white hair that always seemed to need a comb, and she leaned towards flower print blouses under the usual wool army coat. Andy’s gray-brown hair hung in limp ringlets; he had a lean frame and just a bit of a paunch.
Andy addressed Sarge: “I got that info you wanted.” He rattled some papers in his hand: “Close as I can get to the true story.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
“I did it as a favor, okay? I ain’t your...I ain’t in your Chain of Command. Okay?”
“I agree, I remember we talked about that. I ain’t giving no orders even in this meeting, dude.”
“Well, see that you remember.” O’Malley went to a seat, with no great enthusiasm, it seemed. Sharon seemed happier to be there, gossiping enthusiastically with some old friends among the gathering crowd.
Arlen took Ambros by the arm and led him to a seat. He sat to Ambros’ right and Joanna to his left. Most of the people began to gather around. Some sat, while others gathered behind some of the seated people.
After a while. Joanna arose: “Are we ready to begin?”
Silence slowly descended over the circle.
Arlen stood up, looking at a clipboard: “First Joanna’s gonna go over how this works, so new people can get caught up.”
Joanna smiled: “So, the people seated on the outside of the circle of tables are the ones who speak. The people standing behind are their affinity groups, and the seated person speaks for that group, family, or deme. Seated representatives can indicate the need for someone from their group to come sit and speak. Others can raise their hands to add information to the discussion, but please be brief with that. Thank you all for attending.”
While Joanna spoke, Ambros nonchalantly activated his MPS and linked it to the house desktop. He gave the tech a mental command to record the proceedings, then checked out the crowd: ‘Matthew and Diana are here, they’re standing behind Andy and Sharon...and there’s Daisy and Donna, they’re with Mark. They must have left Andy’s group. Red the cook is here, and his helper Mikey...They are setting up a camp kitchen over there. I know most of these folks only by sight...’
When Joanna finished, Arlen introduced Andy: “Most of you know Andy here, his bunch camped in the Swamp near us. He has a report for us.”
Andy stood up, reluctantly: “So...Sarge asked me to look into that knife fight downtown a couple days ago. Johnny Horton is the bad guy here. As far as I can make out, nobody else drew. Both the others, um, Toby and Dick, they got it before they knew what hit ’em. Cops played the thing like a brawl in the press, but it looks like...to me, anyway, it looks like Horton just murdered ’em. Anyway, I wrote down what the witnesses I could find told me. Here...”
He passed the papers down to Arlen, who put them away in his jacket and said: “Okay, thanks. I’m supposed to see this idiot from the Mayor’s office, this...Grafton guy, tomorrow. ‘Homeless liaison’ they call him. I’ll see what I can do to straighten things out.”
“What’s happening to Horton?” asked a big gruff guy with a mohawk.
Arlen snorted: “He’s in stir. Whaddaya think? He’s charged with murder. And if Andy thinks it was murder it probably was, huh?”
“I guess,” said Mohawk. “Nothin’ we can do anyway...”
“Why would we do anything?” one woman asked: “Just cause he’s homeless don’t mean he’s my brother or nothin’.”
“We are all supposed to be helping each other,” said Mohawk: “That’s what the Gathering is all about! What Arlen says, anyway.”
“I don’t know about you,” said the woman: “I never saw Horton help anybody but himself. Now he’s killed Toby and Dick, and he can rot for all of me.”
A rancorous argument ensued, which went on for about five ugly minutes, until Joanna interrupted. She said, gently: “There’s nothing we can do for Dick and Toby, except send somebody to the funerals. And we can’t do anything for Horton at all.”
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Sarge looked at his clipboard: “Next Tuesday’s meeting is set for Alton Baker Park at noon.”
“I think we should change it up,” said Mohawk: “We’re in a rut, we use the same three parks in the same order, over and over.”
Arlen raised his eyebrows: “Second? No second. Firewood Guild..?”
The rest of the meeting could have been held in a trailer park or homeowner’s association: litter patrol, blackberry chopping, scavenging for food...
‘Well, not the scavenging.’ Ambros thought, amused.
Red took that part on, abandoning the kitchen to Mikey and a couple volunteers: “I got dry goods stored at the Eighteenth Street cache, good for a couple days...Ricky, can you score another bag or two of black-eyed peas? Those went good with the bacon...the cops haven’t twigged to our kitchen in the woods behind the church south of Eighteenth, so meals on alternate days served at six and six...stage in the church parking lot and enter the woods in small groups...anybody has any edible scrounge, tell me or bring it to the cache.”
Eventually Arlen said: “We done? Any new business? No? Okay, let’s eat.”
Kids got in line first, each little one with a parent helping them. Ambros felt no hunger, so he made no move to join the queue.
Arlen said: “Whattaya think of...whattaya call it? Our meeting process?”
Ambros smiled: “I like it. As long as people are free to come and go, and change which group they’re in, it’s fine.”
Actually, it reminded him of a certain kind of meeting in the Commonwealth, where Guilds and Demes and Polisae would send representatives, or choose a person to speak for them. ‘It’s more ceremonial in the Commonwealth, and that kind of meeting is more or less outmoded, thanks to the tech we use to facilitate meetings, but...’
“Not bad at all, actually,” he said aloud. He remembered to stop the recording, and then asked Arlen: “That what you wanted me to do? Check out your process?”
“Yeah,” said Arlen, lightly punching Ambros’ shoulder: “Your opinion means something to me.”
“Okay, I can see that. Thanks.” He rose and stretched: “I gotta go. See ya.”
“Sure, man. Whenever.”
Ambros Rothakis trudged along the highway’s verge in the pouring rain. His cloak and hood kept him dry. He wore the fancy boots that Master Votos made for him, so his feet stayed dry and his footing was good.
Police vehicles watching the road had pushed him out of two closer drop-in points.
‘Well,’ he thought: ‘If it’s a good drop-in, near the road, near the town, out of casual sight, I guess it’s also a good place for the cops to watch for speeders.’ The thought occurred to him that his drop-ins, and the invisible Paths they made, might be sub-consciously influencing the “officers of the law”. That troubled him.
‘I had better explore this town some more, and pick out a few other spots...and today I oughta have used the spot in the photinia, even in this rain.’
The highway curved to the right, then back left. He abandoned the road for a rough path that led up-slope and down, through a wooded area and into the city of Veneta’s main roadside park.
As he passed through the deepest part of the woods his MPS alerted him to life-signs. He frowned, feeling for the folks camping in the brush in such weather.
The mud of the path stuck to his boots and slowed him down, but it was a significant shortcut. The sky in the west looked to be clearing.
‘Experience suggests that is wishful thinking.’ He knew that in early February the next storm was unlikely to be far behind: ‘Locals call that a “sucker-hole”. It’ll sucker you into an ill-advised trip outdoors.’ He stomped his feet repeatedly, shaking off the clinging mud: “C’mon, dammit, get off!”
He looked both ways and then sprinted across the road and up onto the porch of the old church, now a bakery and café. He saw a Sheriff’s patrol car sitting in the parking lot next door.
He flipped his cloak off, and shook the black and red felted wool free of most of the water that had beaded up on it. He entered into the steamy café, the aroma of pastries and coffee filling his head.
Renovations had transformed the former church: the counter sat where the altar had once stood; the vestry behind became the kitchen. Stained glass still filled the windows along the north side of the room, but the saints and apostles were replaced by abstract patterns.
Dan sat at their usual table, a cup of coffee in front of him and a big mug of chai at the seat across the table.
“Thanks, Dan.” He inhaled the aroma of tea and spices, then drank a quarter of the contents of the mug. He hung his cloak next to Dan’s coat and hat and sat down. He set his shoulder bag on the bench beside him.
“What’s up? You wanted to see me?”
“Been a while,” said Dan. “You haven’t been coming out this way as much lately. Thought we should touch base.”
“Okay. I have less time for writing, and more to do elsewhere, at the moment.”
“I’m interested in the elsewhere. I can’t help being curious. What happened with the giant ants, anyway?”
Ambros started to answer, and paused. He tried out, mentally, a couple sets of phrases, but backed off: “See...they are what they are. We’ve been calling them Squids...the Squid part is the motivator...” He shook his head: “Okay, hang on a second.”
After a long pause, he said: “I had an experience on magic mushrooms recently. And I took a couple deep-learning courses that made me see a lot more of the connections between Timelines. You already know about Timelines, and you mostly deduced that for yourself. I can talk about that.
“Right now...I’m feeling nervous about telling you anything you don’t already know about the Multiverse. I feel a—premonition—whenever I get too informative, like a real bad feeing that I’m...” He had been meaning to say “about to split the Line” but held off: “...about to make a huge mistake.”
“You’ve told me stuff before. But you can’t now. Is that it?”
“I’m a native of this Line, so I can tell you more than, say Voukli or Arrenji could. I must have been skirting the edge of the allowable before, without realizing...but I can feel it now. I need to discuss this with my mentors.”
“What if I ask you questions?”
“That would be better. The answers might not make sense yet.”
Dan laughed: “Your answers never do, not at first. Okay, first question: are the Squids friends or foes?”
“We think friends. Why ask that?”
“We’ve had some sightings. Most people are brushing that off. But I suspect...”
Ambros facepalmed: “Tell me more.”
Dan shrugged: “People around Veneta have seen strange things in the woods out here forever. It seems to be something that always happens when there are city people or farmers walking around in tall trees and heavy brush. Usually they’ll ID a Sasquatch, but lately,” he shrugged again: “Big bugs. Could be a coincidence.”
“It could be Sardonic Synchronicity,” said Ambros: “Or it could be Squids exploring the area for reasons of their own. I had an encounter recently, on Benham Avenue.”
“Do tell,” said Dan.
“No,” said Ambros: “No, I don’t think I can. Next question.”
“What is ‘Sardonic Synchronicity’?”
Ambros made a face: “The Multiverse...Voukli usually says: ‘The Multiverse has a sarcastic sense of humor.’ She means that things that happen in a related Line can bleed over. Not cause-and-effect. Synchronicity. Look up Carl Jung.“
Dan grunted: “Huh. So...Sasquatch becomes a giant ant because of Giant Ants manifesting in the Meadow? Even if no one saw them there last Halloween except me?”
“You said it, so I don’t have to.”
They paused, sipping their drinks.
“Have you talked to Chief Black recently?”
Ambros felt relief: “That’s an easy one. No.”
“Okay. He’ll be showing up soon.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
“No problem. What about those three prisoners you took away from the meadow?”
“What? Oh, them. They are not prisoners anymore.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose: “I can’t tell you any more than that.” Which
reminded him: ‘I’m supposed to see Vree today.’ He began to think about the rest of his day.
Dan startled him back into the present with his next question: “What about Posse Comitatus?”
Ambros frowned: “What about them?”
Dan made a face: “There’s no sign of any member of the local group. Like they vanished into thin air. Benjy Dillon and his mom are accounted for. But the rest? Poof.”
“I would think you’d be glad to have them gone. They are not fond of cops in general, even though some of them have infiltrated law enforcement.”
“I’m not sorry to see them gone,” said Dan: “But these days when people go ‘poof’ around here, I immediately think of you.”
Ambros laughed: “That’s fair. There’s one guy left, a young fellow named Otto Bauer. He was a ‘prospect’. Seems to have left town.”
“Okay.”
They sipped in silence a while longer.
“How’s the family? Or collective, or whatever?”
Ambros smiled: “Busy, individually and collectively. How’s yours?”
“My son graduates from community college in April. Three simultaneous Associate Degrees.”
“He’s been busy, then.”
“Yeah,” said Dan. He looked at his watch: “Well, I have to go. Break time is over.”
“Right. See ya.”
Ambros sipped the chai contemplatively until his MPS pinged and he sighed and rose: ‘Break time is over,’ he repeated to himself.
He stepped up to the counter and ordered large cups of coffee and other beverages, and one of each of the pastries and sandwiches in the case. He paid the tab and cloaked himself and stepped into the windy morning air.
He crossed the highway and the park and retraced his steps to the homeless camp. He coughed, standing outside the bounds of the circle of tents and huts.
He spoke, loudly: “Hey, I got some coffee and tea and chai and some snacks for y’all. I’ll just leave it here by your stove...”
He walked on, through the camp and into the deeper woods, where he could disappear without anyone seeing him go.
He dropped in to the War Room in Athino Prima and waited for the dizziness to pass. Then he strolled over to the Information and Data Guild screen by the garage door-sized entryway. He muttered as he used handsigns to instruct the screen: “I had a message from Vree asking me to come see her...”
To his surprise, I&DG placed her in the hospital at the Temple of Asklepios. He frowned a bit, but then shrugged and headed for the elevators.
He passed through the Main Hall of the War Guilds’ Command Complex, noting the sun streaming through windows high up near the roof. He pulled his Shifter out as he approached the smaller door to the left of the entryway.
“Kalameró, Magistri,” he said as he handed the Shifter over. The box it went into lit up briefly.
“Ki esos,” she replied, saluting: right fist over left, above her heart.
He saluted in return and set back his hood, reveling in the winter sunlight in Athino.
It took a while to get to the Temple; the streets had filled with people enjoying the sunshine.
The Akropolis shone in multiple palettes. The pastel flowers and darker winter fruits contrasted with the leaves and needles of various evergreen shrubs, on the sides of the limestone butte. The explosive white of scrubbed marble columns stood out against the eye-wateringly orange and lime green and cyan of the temple backgrounds. On the friezes and pediments there stood sculptures of the gods and heroes of Old Hellas. Their clothing glowed in primary colors and the gold and silver of their armor and crowns glittered, refracted by the last few drops of a rain shower that had lately passed over the City.
He slowed his pace, not being in a hurry, and enjoyed the views down each street and avenue he passed. Whole blocks of closely spaced houses indicated the borders of residential neighborhoods.
‘If you know your way, or have a map on your MPS, you can cross the City from end to end in any direction without more than an occasional crossing of a major avenue.’
The huge paving stones beneath his feet stretched across the entire width of the broad boulevards he traversed. Made of limestone or marble, or occasionally of granite, they glowed or sparkled in the sun. Steam rose from the pavement and roofs. Children and young adults ran along the rooftops, on paths that wound among gardens and across tilted expanses of solar shingles. The only roofs not connected to their neighbors were those so steep as to be dangerous to cross.
A group of young adults, ages twelve to perhaps fifteen, gathered on the steps of a stoa near the Plaza of the Exile. They carried musical instruments resembling zithers and hang drums and dulcimers, though Ambros had seen no others of quite the sort they carried.
He listened as they tuned up and the tuning slowly morphed into a tune. More young adults streamed into the plaza; laughing, they began to dance.
He recognized the tune, after a bit: ‘It’s called Goat Song, one of the oldest tunes ever written down...carved into a rock slab not a league from where we are now, I believe.’
The lyrics seemed to be improvisational stanzas with a series of rhyming couplet choruses; the Kopelae found the words alternately hilarious and sublime, at least by their reactions.
Ambros enjoyed the performance, though he understood little of it: it consisted of in-jokes presented in a combination of Old Hellenic and ‘teenage slang’. He tapped his foot to the rhythms, adjusting as the tambourine player went from 5/4 to 7/8 and then to 4/4 rather unpredictably.
Most of the people danced in groups of three or four, not any more sexualized than was inevitable in that age group. Two older ones danced closer together, occasionally spinning away from each other and around the crowd. The young woman had an expression of ecstasy upon her face, and occasionally placed her palms on her cheeks, as though amazed at what was happening. The young man had eyes only for her, even though others, male and female, occasionally tried to cut in.
He contemplated continuing his errand. He heard something behind him, a sound like a shoe scraping the ground, barely to be heard over the music. He moved to one side, as well as he could in the crowded Plaza, and his hand reached for the patch pocket of his trousers. He turned as he found the grip on his pistol; no one stood behind him.
He took a long step and glanced around the stone base of the statue he stood beside. Still no one he knew in sight.
He remained where he stood, watching all directions, while he listened to the music.
The band played for some time, then picked up their instruments and took off.
The crowd applauded enthusiastically, Ambros joining in.
He strolled along, taking in more of the sights: “I can’t detect a tail, if there is one on me. The MPS didn’t ping, either.’
At length he arrived at his destination, the enormous Temple of Asklepios, behind which stood the Hospital and behind that, Skolo Asklepia, the medical school.
He passed in silence through the sanctuary, and then through an airlock-style door that kept the bustle of the Hospital lobby from disturbing the worshippers. He inquired at the first counter he passed, and got directions to Vree’s room.
He went where the directions took him, up ramps and stairs to the place he sought.
‘This is the same room that Voukli and I visited, way back...when was that?”
The door stood open this time, the curtain drawn aside. Chilly air streamed in through a window formerly closed.
Vree sat in a chair near the bed. She looked up and saw him.
“Spathos,” she said, smiling warmly. She still looked pale and thin, but no longer had wires and tubes and such attached to every orifice: only a single wire, which slipped beneath her robe near her heart.
He frowned: “Ambassador Vree. Are you here still, or again?”
“Still,” she said tipping her head back: “I’m starting to feel like I’ll never be well again.”
“Do the Iatrae think that?” Ambros allowed his concern to show in his voice.
“Nah, they’re all like: ‘It’s good, you were badly injured, caught a bit of the Zombie virus, you’ll make a full recovery...someday’.”
“Hmmm.” Ambros said: “I’ve been reading reports from your command. I thought you all were doing well, being a pain to the Authoritarians. But I thought you were the one running the sabotage and et cetera.”
“Lately, I have been planning the more delicate operations. But I can barely walk to the commissary as yet, so I am not leading the attacks.”
She sighed: “But yes, René and Virgil are doing well. Heroically, even. Virgil saved the day a couple times, you know? He actually made decisions that kept people on our side from likely death.”
Ambros nodded, grimacing: “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”
“Why shouldn’t you be surprised? I was, at first.”
Ambros grinned: “Well, y’know...just because I don’t like Virgil, and I think he’s more than a bit of a jerk, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a competent Commander. That’s called non sequitur. It doesn’t at all follow.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why did you want to see me?”
“Well...partly just to see your face, and to reassure myself that you’re still alive. I&DG shows you bouncing in and out of a bunch of Timelines, but the Med Guild people can’t tell me what any of it means.”
“You are not meant to know what any of it means. You’re here at the Temple Hospital because the consensus at Sacred Band was that you were not safe to be at Combat Medical.”
“So what, you don’t trust me?”
“Not entirely.” He gestured at the I&DG screen: “Your limited access to the Kyklo Poliso Athina shows you exactly how much Sacred Band trusts you. That far, and no further. We are somewhat paranoid. Endaxi? Even when you are recovered you are not going to be going for long unescorted walks around the City. Oxhi?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess I’d be the same way, in your shoes.”
“I guess you would.”
They discussed the next few operations that the trio of Ambassadors had planned. Ambros was able to give Vree a couple of tips
about security at some of the sites she had on her target list.
Eventually he heard the familiar ping of his MPS: “Got another meeting. Gotta go.”
“See me here again? Soon? It’s really boring around here...”
“I’ll see what I can do. Look for me in...” He consulted the MPS: “...five days.” He ‘inked it in’ to his calendar: “I’ll send you a link to my blog, and my novels. That might entertain you for a while.”
She seemed resigned.
“Best I can do,” he said, and took his leave.
He entered the War Room, looked around and saw Aristogatos at the controls. The Master saluted him, and he returned it.
“What’s up, Spathos?”
“Can you drop me at my Salon? If it’s not too busy in here, I mean.”
“No problem, it’s a slow day.”
Ambros stepped onto the launch/landing pad and indicated his readiness.
Then he fell to his knees with an unusually heavy bout of dizziness. He checked the clock: ‘I’m missing at least twenty minutes. My MPS...’ he checked it: “It’s synced. What the hell?”
Aristogatos voice whispered in his ear: “You there, Spathos Ambros?”
“I am. What the Hades happened?”
“I don’t know. You just...dropped off the board. No sign of you at your destination, or anywhere else in the Multiverse. Not that I could see, anyway.”
“I don’t like that. It reeks of the Squid’s style. I have no memory of where I was, and there’s twenty-one point five minutes missing, by my Line’s measures.”
“We got that number, as well. Okay, I’ll send a report to Sacred Band, and our Tech Guild liaisons. And Alcatraz, they’ll want to query the Squids. You okay?”
“I’m good...” Ambros reeled, still dizzy.
“Tell me for sure, Spathos. This foul-up happened on my watch.”
“Just unusually dizzy. It’s passing. I got a meeting...keep me...”
“I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Thanks.”
He stripped and showered, rushing a bit: ‘That BS put me behind schedule.’
He dressed in a normal outfit, for him: a red tunic-like shirt, cargo pants in a red-black-and-grey ‘camo’ pattern, his Free Walker boots and his cloak. ‘Since it looks like it could rain again at any minute.”
By the time he dropped in downtown, in an alley full of dumpsters and recycle bins behind the Courthouse, it had indeed begun to rain. He moved silently among the refuse bins, alert behind and ahead. Once he reached the street, he looked around seeking Sergeant Terry Arlen, retired.
He moved west toward City Hall. Arlen appeared, stepping off a bus by the door to the cop shop in the basement.
They slapped hands and Arlen said: “Thanks, man. I don’t want to see this guy without backup.”
“I’m gonna try to remain silent,” Ambros cautioned him: “This is your show, I’m here as a witness. Okay?”
“That’s fine. That’s just what I need.”
They climbed the stairs to the front entrance. Ambros’ weapons passed through the metal detectors without incident.
‘There’s not really any metal in them,’ he thought.
The guard sent them along a hall to the office of the Homeless Liaison, a new post in City Government. The outer office had the look of a room half-organized, but the secretary expected them and sent them in.
Sarge looked around the inner office, as yet sparsely furnished: “You Grafton?” he asked, more terse than usual.
“Alisha Grafton-Monahan,” the woman said: “I have two last names. And you must be Sergeant Arlen.”
“That’s right. This here is my friend Ambros Rothakis.”
The woman looked sharply at Ambros; she grinned wickedly at him, more chipper than he’d have expected her to be.
He assumed she had gotten the city’s version of who he was and what he’d been up to, as a briefing or in writing.
She gestured: Sarge sat down in a comfy chair across the desk from her. Ambros chose a far harder seat in one corner. He listened with half his mind to the conversation, while meditating for calm with the other half.
“Your message said you have information about that brawl downtown a week ago...” Ms Grafton-Monahan said.
“Yeah, I got a buddy of mine to investigate. Here’s a copy of the report he wrote up.” Arlen handed it to her.
She stared at him quizzically: “Why bring this to me? Surely the police are the proper recipients of such information.”
Arlen shrugged: “Cops got a copy. They don’t care. They cherry-picked the witnesses and got the narrative they wanted.”
“Surely, Sergeant, the police...” She trailed off, seeing the sarcastic expression on Arlen’s face. Sarge looked over his shoulder and met Ambros’ equally sarcastic smile.
Sarge shrugged again: “I don’t guess it matters, to them. They got the right guy. They don’t care that their story makes the victims out to be partly at fault. But...Andy is pretty sure they weren’t. Toby and Dick both got relatives, it ain’t fair to make them out as aggressors.”
Grafton-Monahan frowned, then said: “I can see there’s more here than meets the eye. What do think I should do?”
Sarge shrugged. Grafton-Monahan glanced at Ambros and held his eye.
Ambros made a face, expressing his reluctance to advise her.
Arlen frowned at him.
“Fine,” he said: “If I were you, as silly as that sounds, I’d attend the next Gathering of the Homeless. Poke around and find a detective who’s a good cop, and bring that person along.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe I will. When and where?”
Arlen gave her the time and place. She made some notes in her calendar, and then dismissed them: “I’ll see what I can do.”
As they strolled along the hallway towards the front of the building, Arlen said: “You think she’ll come?”
“Not sure. If she shows, we know one thing about her. If there’s a big police presence, and the Gathering gets busted up, we know something else. And if both things happen, we know a third thing, and maybe she gets a heads-up about the EPD.”
‘Ah. I see what you’re up to. I’ll make some preparations, in case she sets the cops on us.”
“Yeah, you do that Sarge. Listen, I have another meeting to go to, and it’s a bit of a walk.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I never realized that being a full-time anarchist-syndicalist agitator was gonna involve so many damn meetings. I might have passed up the gig if I’d known.”
Arlen glanced at him, side-eye, clearly wondering if Ambros was serious.
Ambros clapped his friend on the shoulder and walked off smiling.
Ambros entered the bar cautiously: ‘Not one of my usual hangouts,’ he mused, then laughed at himself:
‘Barely seven months in town and I’ve already drawn lines around my territory...’ Nevertheless he visually scouted the room, seeing two exits other than the door he’d entered through. One door led to restrooms, an exit beyond; the other opened on a parking lot behind the joint.
The bar had large windows along one side and skylights illuminating the central tables, brightly lit even in the weak sunlight of February. The corners of the room got far less light, and only dim tabletop lamps lit them. The decor was thrift-store chic.
‘It kinda figures, this close to the University.’
He knew only one of the people he intended to meet that night; fortunately, she stood out in any crowd, thanks to her bright red curly hair. Her hair was visible even in the dim light of a far corner table.
He bought himself a Jameson’s and worked his way over to her: “Evening, Ms Heather.”
“Same to you, Mr Ambros.”
“Nice hat,” he said.
She took the fedora off and waved it gracefully about, shaking her head and releasing her short fiery afro. She adjusted the city government’s Press Pass that stuck out of the hatband so that the Industrial Worker logo showed clearly.
“Branding!” she exclaimed, with mock enthusiasm.
Her companions laughed sarcastically.
She gestured: “Have a seat.”
He sat down and examined the others at the table, while they examined him.
One man, an enormous fellow with a wild brown beard and wire rimmed spectacles, broke the silence: “Rothakis, huh? You the guy at the center of that big ‘false arrests’ scandal last fall, right? And you’re publishing that new e-rag, Commonwealth Times?”
Ambros said: “I’m on the editing team.” He smiled self-deprecatingly, hoping to ease past any critiques of the magazine.
“Huh,” said the big guy: “I like the way you mix history lessons, fiction, and news. I’m Anthony, by the way, sometimes called Anthrax.”
Ambros shook his hand. “Anthrax” he knew as the by-line on a number of editorials in the local IWW tabloid.
“You write good stuff,” Ambros said.
Anthony grinned with a quirk of the eyebrow. Ambros decided that the two of them were going to be—mostly—friends.
He looked at the other person present.
This man stood about five feet tall, perhaps a trifle less. He leaned across the table to shake Ambros’ hand, saying: “Dave.”
Ambros nodded: “Pleased to meet you.”
“The same.”
“So, Ambros,” Heather sallied: “What can the Eugene IWW steering committee do for you?”
“I was actually wondering if there is anything I can do for you,” Ambros replied.
“Huh,” said Anthony: “You thinkin’ of joining the union?”
“I don’t think I’m allowed in. I don’t have a wage labor job...”
“I know,” said Heather. She grimaced: “I heard from a member who works for a landscaper that your garden and nursery business is...idiosyncratic.”
Ambros laughed: “Yeah, but weird or not, it makes me an entrepreneur, not a worker. And similarly with my Salon. Plus, I...” he paused.
After a moment he continued: “I hired a caretaker for my building. One of my sword students. Now, Rose House Collective—that’s the name of the family I’m in—we are thinking about inviting him to join. Then he’d be more like a son or a nephew to me than an employee, and his salary would become a stipend...”
“Yeah,” said Dave. “Still.”
“Still,” Ambros admitted: “I’m not Wobbly material. Not anymore.”
Anthony grinned: “You were in though, weren’t you?”
Ambros grinned back: “Long ago, far away, and under another name. But yes, I was a Wobbly.”
“How long ago?” Heather’s eyes bored into his, sharp and inquiring.
He shook his head: “I’ll reserve that. Put it this way: decades ago. And when I was in, the IWW was mostly a talking shop for anarchists. I think there were two or three Wobbly union shops in the whole country, and a half a dozen overseas. I hear you’ve been organizing locally again, though.”
Heather said: “You have been out of touch, haven’t you?”
“That’s a fair characterization.”
She opened a laptop and typed for a while: “I’m sending you a copy of the latest Global Progress Report.”
Dave looked a bit disgruntled, but said nothing. Anthony nodded. Dave shrugged.
“Should I be reading that? I’m not in the union, and Dave looks doubtful.”
Heather glanced at Dave: “Yeah. But I think you’re going to be an ally, maybe a useful one. And this isn’t secret stuff, except what’s marked in there as ‘eyes only’. I’m redacting those parts.”
Dave shrugged again: “Sure.” He got to his feet, which seemed to be rather painful for him. He used a heavy walking stick as a prop as he shuffled sideways, with a pronounced limp, over to the bar. He acquired another drink.
Ambros’ MPS pinged in his ear. He touched the back of his left wrist and glanced down. The IWW report showed up as a faux-document, floating in the air above his arm.
Even a quick skim showed him a multitude of organizing efforts in Oregon and beyond...far beyond. The things Heather had intended to redact showed in a different font and color. Those things gave him pause, being mostly about preparations for any possible really bad outcomes resulting from current trends. ‘Arms and armor for the right sort of working class people...or I suppose the leftsort,’ he mused: ‘Not necessarily a bad idea. I can see why she erased those segments, though, or tried to.’
He played for time, opening the Newest Pismo and accessing the “document” version of Heather’s email.
At length he said: “I’m impressed.” He took a sip of his drink and froze for a second.
“Somethin’ wrong with that liquor?” Anthony looked concerned.
“No, it’s fine,” said Ambros: “The taste reminded me of something. A dream I had recently. That’s all.”
Dave grunted: “Piss.” He pulled himself erect again and began a laborious progress towards the restroom.
Ambros recognized the type: ‘Laconic in the extreme. Physically unprepossessing, even what most people would call “crippled”, so...presumably his value to the organization is in his brains.’
“Dave is...he’s smarter than folks realize...tougher, too.” Heather began.
Ambros nodded: “I figured.”
They sat in silence, Ambros scrolling through the report, beyond impressed with the international IWW’s widespread organizing.
Dave sat down again. He was breathing hard; the trip had been a lot of work for him, it seemed. He said: “What do you want from us?”
Ambros said: “Promote the Commonwealth Times in your local tabloid.”
Heather shook her head: “We can’t endorse another paper, especially one with a political position...”
Dave cut her off with a gesture: “Non-ideological.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Dave,” Heather snapped. After a moment she said: “Good point though. Everyone in the world knows that the core of the IWW is composed of mostly anarchists of various stripes, with some left commies and Socialists and the like mixed in. But we are officially a labor union, and the members have all kinds of ideological orientations. In The Industrial Worker and our local tabloids, we never use the word ‘anarchist’ at all.”
Ambros considered his response.
Dave said: “Him. His e-mag. It’s non-ideological.”
“Hmm,” said Heather, considering.
Ambros said: “Anyway, you don’t have to endorse it. Treat it like a general announcement, the way you do with actions by the SWP or CCULC. Our group will do the same for you. We’ll promote your local tabloid and all.”
Heather nodded: “That could work.”
Anthony spoke: “Gonna be a couple of weeks. It’s gotta go through the Editing Committee and the monthly Assembly.”
“I get that,” said Ambros: “I have something else for you to think about.”
“Yeah?” Dave looked at him with eyes narrowed.
“My group will soon have an operative in St Valentine’s of Lane County. She’ll go in pretty high up, too.”
‘They all know who I’m talking about,’ he thought, amused.
Anthony and Dave glanced at one another and nodded, then both of them looked at Heather.
She chuckled: “Technically, she’ll be in management, I expect.”
“Pretty much,” he confirmed: “She’ll be a volunteer. But she will probably have some influence on hiring.”
“We’ll need an inside and an outside organizer,” Heather said.
Ambros sat quietly while they discussed who among their core group was suitable for each role. He yawned, involuntarily.
Dave tipped his head to one side: “Boring him.”
“Reasonably enough,” said Anthony. He reached into a pocket: “Here’s a card for my personal Webz-site. Anthrax.com/POV. We can shift from there to a secure chat.”
“Got it. Thanks. Let me know what goes down at your Assembly.”
“We will,” said Dave.
“We definitely will,” said Heather.
She began to wrap up her papers and tech. Ambros used his Newest Pismo to take a series of pictures of her, then sent those off to Arrenji with the tag: ‘recruit-able’.
He watched as the Wobblies departed, pleased by the outcome of the meeting.
His MPS pinged him, and he pulled his Shifter out of his pocket and put a finger on it for maximum connection.
Kim’s voice vibrated clearly in his ears: “Ambros! Aristigatos sent a report...are you still all right? Did anything strange happen since?”
He replied in Rational Hellenic: “Dhen borou na milou. Eemay tavernáne. Alla endaxi eemay.” Can’t talk, at a tavern, but I’m okay, he’d said.
“Okay, just listen,” she said: “Averos, Iyelisi, and I have been digging into the recordings from Aristogatos’ control panel around the time of your missing twenty-one minutes and 32 seconds. There are clear signs of a deep hack, something well beyond anything the ATLs can muster.”
Averos’ voice broke in: “It’s beyond anything we can do, as well. You may be right about the Squids being the perpetrators. You don’t remember what happened?”
“Dhen na thimou.” I don’t remember, he said.
Silence filled the ‘airwaves’ for a good thirty seconds. Then Averos said: “This has the look of a squid-type hack, but they’ve never used anything like an ‘erase’ function...that we know of. Next time you are in Athino I want to put you under a Halo.”
“Endaxi,” he agreed, and checked his MPS for a calendar: “After the Valentine’s day party?”
“Good enough, as long as nothing similar happens before that.” That from Kim, who sounded worried.
He was worried himself. They exchanged endearments and signed off.
‘What the actual hell?’ he asked himself. ‘Given the Squids are nothuman, their emotions and motivations might be expected to be outré...and they’ve miscalculated before and I’ve suffered from their mistakes. But they ought to have learned from that...maybe they learned a different lesson than I would have.’
He laid his hands in his lap and sat still, eyes mostly closed. He breathed deeply, pausing at the top of each inward breath, seeking calm and relaxation. He ‘examined’ his memory of the Saltation in question, and sought for any anomaly or pseudo-memory that might give him a clue to the nature of this latest invasion of his agency.
‘I can’t see or feel anything weird. Unless that’s...a spot...a blank space...’
He couldn’t put it into words: ‘Like when the Squids filled my mind with too much information, except this time it’s as if they gave me too little to grab onto...’
Suddenly he was sure of that: ‘That’s it, I bet. It’s gotta be set to trigger in some future circumstance...when I need this info, I guess.’
He felt certain that the Halo would show the anomaly, and equally, that it wouldn’t help him access the hidden information...or program: ‘I don’t think Squids would hesitate for a minute to program one of their own with orders...’
And he wasn’t entirely certain that they wouldn’t do that to him.
He allowed the fear and indignation caused by that thought to wash over him and pass by. He recalled one his favoite novels from his teen years: ‘I must not fear...’
He laughed a little.
He sipped the whiskey again and paused, recalling his other worry. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Then he set to work with the Newest Pismo, eyes narrowed and with a grim set to his features: ‘...get to the Nashville newspaper’s Webz-site...search Justin’s name...oh shit.’
He read the article quickly, then a second time slowly. He tapped the keyboard and the site vanished.
He spoke aloud but softly: “Old Justin was meant to die a hero, and he sure as hell did.”
He started another search, hunting for an online trace of a woman named “Mistress Celia Chanter, OL,” in the SCA. He found her, on the SCA’s chat site, and queried her: “You hear about Grim?”
“Haven’t heard anything for a while. What about him?”
He drew a deep breath and typed back: “He died, fighting a fire in south Nashville.”
“Oh no!”
“ Afraid so.”
After a brief wait, she replied again: “It’s not on the SCA In Memoriam page.”
“Do me a favor? Double-check the Nashville papers and put up an obit. Then...”
“Yes?”
“Write his saga, Old Norse style. Don’t forget his stand on the bridge at the Treeholt War.”
“Who could forget that? I’ll do it, of course I will. Oh, Sir Ambrose I’m so sorry! I know what good friends you two were...”
“Thanks. I’ve done my weeping about it. Now I want to hear his saga. Ken the kennings, Mistress Celia.”
After a longer pause she sent back: “At Pennsic this summer, I promise. I’ll have Ron the Archer video the performance, and we can push it viral all over the Knowne Worlde.”
“Good enough,” he typed: “Gotta go. See ya.”
“...bye...”
He picked up his glass and began to sip; he shook his head violently, then hammered the remainder of the shot, Grim-style.
‘He’d be drnking cheap gin, of course, but I’d best not do another, not yet.’
He gathered his stuff and shouldered his bag and left the bar, musing on the unlikeliness of the experience he’d just had: ‘How is it even possible for a mushroom sporoid to give me a piece of information like Grim’s death?’ He thought of CG Jung and the Commonwealth theory of ‘sardonic synchronicity’.
‘It still makes no sense. I’ll ask Averos and Voukli about it. Later. There’s getting to be a damn long list of “What the Hell is going on” items for my mentors to consider...’
In spite of his busy schedule, Voukli insisted on an afternoon of training in a Quiet Line. He concurred: “I know that learning to fly one of those crazy fighter-jet/spacecraft that Gray Warrior Guild uses is something of a rite of passage in Sacred Band...”
“It’s saved multiple lives on many occasions,” said Voukli: “The fact that any SB operative or trained Skolare can fly one of those things, in a pinch, at least minimally, means there are extra pilots available in most mass actions.”
“I get it. But the damn things have some inertia-cancelling drive. They go just sub-sonic in seconds. The G forces...”
“You won’t have to put up with that. The trainer has a governor on it. You’re supposed to learn to fly it, not crash it.”
“That’s good.”
They approached a row of the machines, which looked something like large, extremely fat cigars, with nearly invisible hatches and stubby wings. They were mostly grey and black camo.
A tech worked at the landing gear of an extraordinarily beat-up version at the end of the row. She glanced up as they approached: “You the training run?”
Voukli tipped her head at Ambros: “He’s the trainee. I’ll take him up.”
The tech shrugged: “Your skin, not mine.” She looked a little askance at Ambros, something he had become accustomed to.
“Yes,” he said: “I’m kind of old for this.”
She shrugged again: “Not my affair. Anyway, it’s ready. All the power mods are fully charged, the governor is set for ‘4’ level acceleration.” She ran her hand over the ‘wing’ and finished: “Try not to dent her up anymore than she is, okay?”
Voukli laughed: “Come on, Spathos, let’s fly!”
She jumped up on the wing, which sat all of two feet off the ground, and climbed to the hatch. She opened it and climbed up into the cockpit.
He followed. Immediately he noticed diferences: “I can see out in any direction. Couldn’t do that on my other ride in one of these.”
“You’re the pilot now,” she said. She sat in the rear seat and began a complex series of actions that resulted in her near-immobilization in seat belts. The seat itself adjusted to her, wrapping a brace halfway around her neck from behind and gripping her shoulders with pincer-like foam pads.
“I don’t recall all of those restraints on my seat when I rode as a passenger.”
Voukli confirmed his suspicions: “Well, on your last ride you had an expert pilot.”
He nodded, more nervous than ever. He sat.
He immediately felt the machine, all around him, as if he’d become part of something alive but not conscious...Hewas the consciousness. He buckled belts and relaxed into the seat, feeling the restraints grip on his neck and shoulders.
Then his whole body: he felt a light but firm and steady pressure from all directions, like being in ten feet of water. A holographic control panel popped into existence, straddling his lap, with lights down low and small images and icons across the top.
“Don’t make any sudden movements,” Voukli cautioned.
“Yeah, I get that.” The machine quivered, not a vibration or any sort of rattling, but more like...
“It’s like riding a very excited horse, from the inside,” he said, suddenly amused.
“That’s a good analogy. Using your eyes only, look to the lower left. You’ll see a red icon of a machine that looks like this one.”
“Including the dents and streaks of dirt,” said Ambros
“Yes,” she agreed: “In a sense, that isthis machine. Close your right eye, stare with your left, and blink.”
Ambros obeyed. The icon turned green, he started a little, and the entire machine hopped up and down a couple times.
“Cool!” he said, in American.
“Calm yourself. This thing has seven-league boots, and wings to match. Very slowly, willthe plane to rise straight up...set it down again. Notice your physical reactions. The plane feels your desires as tensions and relaxations of your muscles. Lift it again...and down...and up...now move it forward...now back...now down...”
That went on for quite some time, until Voukli was satisfied that he was ‘getting it’.
She said: “Now visualize being about a hundred ells up in the air, and take us up...”
“Whoa!” he said, as the machine pushed him into the seat.
“...Carefully!”
“Yeah, got that.”
“Now carefully set it down again.”
When they were on the ground again Ambros asked: “How does this thing do that stuff without any thrusters or jets or anything?”
“It grabs a seven-dimensional field that manifests as an inertia-less parallel universe, and manipulates that through low and high energy pulses at various wavelengths.”
Ambros carefully did not shake his head: “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know. That’s how the Techs explained it to me. You figure it out.”
He snorted. “Okey-dokey. How about we fly somewhere?”
“You are not ready for that yet. Take us up to a thousand ells, and hover. There’s a telltale on your board that shows you altitude. Go slow.”
“Akuo sas, Magistri.”
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Date: 2020-07-01 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-08-09 09:11 pm (UTC)typo 'even with Maria selling' Marie