"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." I sent telepathically to Archer.
Since we had renewed our vows, speaking mind to mind had become even easier. One could pack far more information into such communion than into spoken words. Thus, I also added a reference to its origin—Shakespeare's Henry VI, Part 2, Act IV, Scene II—and my intended meaning. Wry, amused commentary.
Tesla did not kill lawyers. Most of them, like most of everyone in this world, died in the Great Frost. He reassigned the few surviving ones to labor, deeming the profession structurally obsolete in the new world.
Another demonstration of Tesla's blind spot. Yes, it was true that pre-Frost law was inapplicable in the new world. But that did not mean there should not be laws. Consulting experts when designing them to avoid known pitfalls could be useful. Doing it entirely by himself was not necessarily the optimal approach. Substituting raw brilliance for domain experience was a common failure mode.
But perhaps he did have a point. That would depend on the adaptability of those experts to new circumstances. Would they cling to old ways for comfort? Was their expertise transferable?
There are always trade-offs.
"It does make company merger meetings less crowded," Archer's thought came back. Sharp, cutting. Like moving in a fencing match. First a feint, then the cut. "But no faster."
I would say he was not wrong.
Except he entirely was.
I could see how it looked from his experience. The only merger meetings he had ever attended were those where he accompanied me—for Aperture Science. And calling them mergers had always been something of a public relations choice. They were closer to acquisitions. We absorbed smaller, interesting companies, allowing Aperture Science to expand laterally and externalize some of the inventions produced in our laboratories. The broader reach also helped avoid levels of dominance that might encourage regulators to begin using words like monopoly.
So yes, those meetings were quick. The other side was eager, and mine, if anything, overly generous. The top-brass phase concluded rapidly. What followed was a matter for lawyers, something he neither participated in nor cared to.
As Obi-Wan once observed, many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view. It seemed a more efficient citation than explaining to a twenty-year-old that the father he idolized was, in fact, a genocidal cyborg.
"This was not an unusually long timeline for a major merger," I sent back, looking mournfully at the almost untouched bowl of strawberries.
I was only mourning on the inside, naturally. Outwardly, I maintained perfect composure, precisely calibrated to the psychological profile I had built for Tesla.
Khenumra had promised them, and I saw no reason not to deliver on my familiar's word. They sat in the center of the table Archer had Traced for us right here in the cave that housed the Gate to Irem. Archer had even Traced an induction hot plate beneath an iron bowl, keeping the Vril-laced chocolate at a precise, melted temperature for dipping.
But the only strawberries missing from the pile were the ones I had eaten to prove they weren't poisoned. Tesla had declined to partake.
Therefore, I had to abstain from the rest of the delicacies. To eat them while he abstained would be rude, and would merely annoy him. Irritating people during negotiations had its strategic place, but my models indicated this was not it.
Meeting before the Gate was not the most neutral place, but it was the best we had.
Taking Tesla to Irem would tilt the balance of power too much in my favor, even if the facilities were better. And holding negotiations in Tesla City would just be a reminder that I was currently occupying it. In both meanings of that word.
So, the only place left was the cave, once occupied by cultists working the Gate to Irem, before Tesla lethally cleared it out.
An interesting phenomenon that I still had not properly understood. I had not come to the new World unheralded.
There were stories, myths, prophecies about Gates and what lay beyond them before they even opened.
It included a succulent core of truth covered by sweet lies. Much like a chocolate-dipped strawberry.
Which I could not eat right now.
"Major?" Archer sent back, projecting an aura of thoughtful, polite confusion. I was not deceived; I knew a trap when I felt one. "I see. You are counting egos as company assets. Both yours and his."
I would have said he was wrong. Except he entirely was not. And I don't just mean about the egos. I mean the actual size of both companies.
Technically, Tesla Manufacturing was the largest company on this iteration of Earth. And Aperture Interdimensional was... well, interdimensional.
But there was a rather large asterisk attached to both claims.
The only reason Tesla Manufacturing was the largest company on Earth was that this Earth was entirely frozen, and every other corporation had perished in the Great Frost. Even their sole company town—despite bearing the grand title of "Tesla City"—had the population of a rather modest village. It did, however, have functional factories. Factories that could actually produce Steam Cores.
Which was something I genuinely had an interest in. A mechanical computing device powered by steam and acting as a steam accumulator. While the current iteration was far less practically useful than the technology I usually had access to, it represented a fascinating divergent path of engineering—one that could have highly interesting applications in the future.
Much like the resonator towers Tesla had built. I could already envision an Aperture Mobile device that never needed to be charged by a port or a cable, sustained entirely by the wireless transfer of energy from a combination of internal cells and resonator towers.
Of course, Tesla Manufacturing also completely lacked any legal backing, due to the world's nation-states being just as frozen as everything else. The corporation existed by Tesla's decree alone.
As for Aperture Interdimensional, it was currently in its "start-up" phase. And by that, I mean it was under two hours old. I would need to check the clock; we might have just passed the two-hour mark. Practically an anniversary.
It had been created by a hasty agreement between myself, GLaDOS, and Archer. Well, primarily between myself and GLaDOS. Archer had mostly just stood there and mocked us both.
It was a polite fiction. But such fictions are precisely what one must cling to when the world freezes over. Or when one finds oneself stranded in a new dimension.
"By this point, we have clearly stated both our positions and our boundaries," Tesla said, breaking the silence that followed the latest round of proposals and counterproposals. "Further hedging would serve little purpose."
While I had Archer by my side, he sat alone opposite us. After I had demonstrated that I could counter his teleforce weapon, he had calmly dismissed his men.
That had been the simple vulnerability of a system powered by wireless transfer.
Setting a bounded field to sever the connection to the resonator towers rendered the weapon useless. In practice, it amounted to removing the ammunition. The teleforce array stored no meaningful charge internally; it drew its power directly from the mountain network. Cut the transfer, and it became nothing more than shaped metal.
An easily rectified flaw, of course. Adding internal reserves would solve the problem. The high-density, salt-based batteries we had developed at Aperture Science could serve as compact magazines, allowing for independent discharge even when severed from the main network.
It would also allow for short bursts of rapid fire, with longer charging periods. Which would add tactical flexibility.
"Agreed." I nodded slowly and added, "So let us finalize the terms of your surrender. Pardon me—the merger of Tesla Manufacturing into Aperture Interdimensional."
Because, truthfully, while we might dress it up as a merger, this was nothing but surrender. His base had been taken over. His weapons neutralized.
"A bit too blunt," Archer's thought cut in. "Do you plan to hit him with a brick and rifle through his pockets next?"
"At this point, I believe dear Nikola will appreciate a measure of hard honesty," I sent back while waiting for Tesla to respond, carefully analyzing every micro-expression and twitch of his facial muscles. "For a man like him, bitter medicine is preferable to sweet poison."
"And if you are wrong?" Archer asked, mind to mind.
"Then I have miscalculated," I replied. I did not believe I had; my models predicted he would arrive at a logical conclusion I found acceptable. "But if I am wrong… it only means Tesla has just become much more interesting."
"So, once again, everything I have built is to be taken from me," Tesla said. His tone was more resigned than biting.
The reaction was within acceptable bounds, but suboptimal for a long-term working relationship. It required a slight correction.
"What men call fate is often just the consequence of their own actions," I said.
It was a bit too vague, and far too pompous. But the sudden shift in tone from my previous corporate sterility was entirely intentional. It provided just enough psychological shock to jar him out of his unproductive apathy.
I paused just long enough for him to begin trying to process it, and then I continued.
"It is not as if I do not offer recompense. And a generous one at that. Knowledge, resources... endless life. What you have lost, you can regain. And more."
"Mephistopheles, your tail is showing," Archer's thought slipped in, accompanied by a mental image of a mischievous, boyish version of me with a small devil's tail peeking out from behind. "Are you going to ask for his soul next?"
"It is already part of the standard contract," I tossed back in a tone so deadpan it owned its own family crypt. "What? It makes it much easier to bring him back if he accidentally electrocutes himself. As he already nearly did."
Along with the thought, I transmitted a memory of the electrostatic shield Tesla had designed to protect Tesla City from the wind and snow, which he had later scaled down to guard himself against Khenumra. Then I showed Archer how the shield, when activated, filled with a discharge that looked remarkably like a giant plasma globe.
"It is an impressive but harmless light show. Most of the time," I explained, telepathically. "There is a small, though not negligible, chance that it could instead prove quite lethal. Worse, you cannot tell until you initiate the shield. Repeated use of the same generator can yield drastically different effects—a variable Tesla overlooked because he is not acquainted with advanced field equations from quantum mechanics."
Yet another advantage of telepathic over verbal communication was speed. This entire back-and-forth with Archer took only the time of a slight pause in my physical conversation with Tesla.
The pause was small enough that it seemed like mere dramatic emphasis when I continued.
"And it is not as if I have not provided a myriad of exit conditions, should you come to regret our deal. Relocation, and enough resources that you could start again, with anyone you can convince to follow you. Even in another world. One that is not frozen."
I let that hang in the air for a moment.
"Currently, we have one viable option, which is roughly analogous in time to this one. Just not frozen. And with the slight addition of occult elements. Like ghosts. There was another option—a far more advanced world—but that pathway abruptly closed the moment you activated your device."
Which was a bit unfortunate for Arnie because that was his world of origin. Although the former barista hadn't seemed overly crushed when GLaDOS presented him with the news.
I raised my hand placatingly. "No, I am not assigning any blame for that. After all, correlation does not imply causation. Furthermore, there are three more pathways which have yet to be explored, and that is precisely the reason our negotiation at this point is time-limited."
I dropped my hand back to the table. "Naturally, your utilization of such an exit strategy would have to wait a bit, until the situation stabilizes a little here."
"Ghosts. Once, I would have dismissed such notions as superstition. There was a time when I would also have consigned living cities and gates to other worlds to the realm of scientific romances rather than reality," Tesla said, sighing faintly. "Experience has compelled revision."
He straightened slightly.
"You speak reasonably. Yet reason alone does not substitute for guarantees. My past dealings have instructed me in that matter. I will require assurances."
"But what assurance could I give? With the world frozen, there exists no higher authority that could serve as guarantor of our agreement. And if there were, would you trust it? Besides, how does one prove a negative? Especially a future negative," I said, spreading my hands in innocent helplessness. "And finally, if you do not trust my word, what could I possibly say to reassure you?"
"I do not require further promises I cannot verify," Tesla replied. "Instead, I require a compromise on one of your stated boundaries. The device I employed to breach the Gate—the one you claim that resulted in your entanglement with my city's systems—will not be disabled. It will remain under my sole control. If it was capable of such an effect, it may prove capable of reversing it."
"Activating that device would be beyond reckless," I replied, adding a touch of a nervous glance toward the object we were speaking about. It lay currently inert on the cave floor.
"Without understanding the underlying principles that created the event—which, I must remind you, neither of us do—predicting what the device would do when powered or modified is impossible. It could banish me. It could close the Gate. It could also do absolutely nothing. Or, it could kill everyone in a two-hundred-mile radius. We simply could not know without starting it."
"I will promise to reserve it strictly as a measure of last resort, should matters turn sour between us," Tesla replied, his gaze meeting mine without flinching.
"And if I want assurance that you won't use it without good cause?" I asked.
"As you yourself have postulated, no such assurance can be given if one does not trust my word," Tesla replied.
I waited just long enough to let the silence linger.
"Then I choose to begin our cooperation with trust," I said, my lips curving into a cautious smile. "After all, it is the foundation upon which civilizations are built. Foolish or wise, only time will tell."
With that, our negotiations concluded, and Archer and I left through the Gate.
Leaving the strawberries behind.
It was not as though I had been absolutely certain Tesla would eat them. There were historical records indicating that he did not disdain rich or sweet foods, and chocolate-dipped strawberries were certainly both.
But such records came from other worlds, as the history of this one was buried under tons of ice. And they pertained to alternate versions of Tesla. The variants for which I had data agreed in most matters, but there was always variance. For example, one was clean-shaven instead of sporting his characteristic mustache. Another was such a devout Christian that he had developed an electrical power generator that ran entirely on prayers.
Thus, his reaction to the strawberries helped further refine my psychological model of him. Furthermore, the ambient scent of chocolate had created a subtle calming influence in the room, which had aided the negotiations.
I decided I would bring him some lembas the next time we met. The simple, highly nutritious nature of elven waybread would likely be more suited to his practical tastes.
Beyond the Gate, GLaDOS was still organizing androids, setting up all sorts of scientific equipment in the Hub Plaza where the Gates were clustered.
Two open, five closed, and three waiting.
She was still inhabiting the Eater of Dust. I had to acknowledge her stubbornness.
Similar to what had happened to her, when Archer and I exited our Domain, our Saint Graphs collapsed, and we were returned to more human forms.
It was not entirely unexpected. After all, while I had utilized a Servant Container as the foundational root of my avatar, the fact remained that the current me—and Archer as well—were neither True Heroic Spirits nor even Counter Guardians. Archer had been one once, of course, and thus he had managed to manifest as an Alter Ego, retaining a fraction of that former existence.
But our current, fundamental selves were Genus Loci.
And while the Clock Tower's Department of Spiritual Evocation classified Genus Loci as a sub-category of Divine Spirits, the Department of Astronomy fiercely disputed such a classification due to their strictly terrestrial nature. Regardless of the academic squabbling, the defining feature of a Genus Loci was universally agreed upon: they are tightly bound to the exact topological boundaries of their domain.
Because a Genus Loci served as the anchor and foundation of our summoning, those Servant avatars were strictly limited to the physical extent of that domain.
Perhaps, if the summoning had been supported by a magical energy reactor on the level of a Greater Holy Grail, the outcome might have been different. But I had been forced to improvise the system from scratch.
Then again... perhaps not even a Grail could have changed it. A spirit of the land being irrevocably bound to the land it governs was less a flaw of an improvised summoning ritual, and more an absolute, conceptual dictate of its nature.
Unlike her, however, our Genus Loci selves did not immediately become dormant, and we retained our connection to them.
I could feel the cold wind moving through Tesla City, in one World. I could see Jupiter looming like a giant in the sky through the cameras of a base on Io, in another. And I felt part of myself stretched between two Worlds, binding two disparate places together.
I could sense every moving thing within it, living or not. I would have thought it would feel unnatural, like ants moving beneath the skin. It did not. It felt entirely natural.
And I could feel the street that was Archer, buried within me.
Well. That sounded a bit sexual, but it was not an inaccurate description. Because the connection did feel very sexual. But also like holding hands, and cuddling, all at the exact same time.
On the other hand, GLaDOS did not feel that way at all. Not merely because she remained asleep to my senses. Even though her domain was no less a part of me, the connection felt distinctly less passionate.
If I had to guess, it came down to emotional resonance. For example, embracing a lover and hugging a friend feel fundamentally different, even if the physical act by itself is nearly identical.
My working theory was that we retaining connection was due to both of us possessing a talent for Remote Viewing. Psychic power, according to the theory I subscribed to, was essentially a result of abnormal perception. Remote Viewing, in particular, was the understanding that all distance is an illusion. Or, in more scientific terms, an innate acknowledgment of the fact that the universe is inherently non-local.
But due to the small sample size, that remained just a working hypothesis. I left designing a test for it for later. I had other priorities first.
"Everything ready?" I asked GLaDOS.
"Yes," she replied. "We should have a much higher resolution of the Gate's decoherence once we step through. Also, if Tesla activates his device, we won't miss a single scrap of data."
"I see," Archer replied. "I guess Tesla's demand did not come as a surprise to you."
"No. It was one acceptable outcome of the negotiations," I replied, looking over the three Gates that awaited us. Mist swirled between them. Well, not water vapor. At least, I didn't think so. Our attempts to take a sample of it had failed so far. "Even a preferable one. Tesla needed a win. Otherwise, there was a high probability he would spiral into apathy, depression, or resentment. Any of which would be bad for his personal growth, and his value to our endeavor. For the good of one, and the good of all."
Archer frowned, and dryly said, "Doomsday devices are not security blankets."
"From my experience observing Aperture scientists," GLaDOS chimed in, "I conclude that statement is factually untrue. For a scientist, or an engineer, they serve the exact same function. Especially one they designed and built themselves."
"And calling it a Doomsday device might slightly overstate its danger," I replied. "So you do not need to try to sabotage it."
That needed to be said. Because otherwise, there was a very high probability he would do exactly that. Even against my explicit orders.
"So you lied about it destroying a medium-sized county at the flick of a switch?" he asked.
"Technically, no. That is merely one of a myriad of possibilities. I really have no idea what it will do when activated," I replied. "It has already done four things I would have deemed impossible upon its first activation. One, it breached a Gate in superposition—neither open nor closed. Second, it summoned me from an Adjacent World. Third, it closed an open Gate. And finally, it ascended me into a Genus Loci. Just two steps shy of the White Queen Threshold."
"So, either my physics books are only useful for kindling, or there was a massive unknown factor at play. Like a Gate caught in superposition. As soon as we decohere the three remaining ones, that device will become much less threatening. Without Tesla knowing a thing."
"Can you be sure about that?" Archer asked.
"Of course not. One cannot be absolutely certain of anything in an uncertain universe. But I am certain enough to act," I replied, turning my attention fully to the waiting portals. "Shall we start with the gold one? Its architecture seems vaguely Mayan, and that suggests a warm climate. I could certainly use some warmth."
"Humid jungles and an overabundance of human sacrifices," Archer added dryly. "I can scarcely contain my excitement."
"You are thinking of the Aztecs. With the Maya, human sacrifice was much rarer. Far more common were bloodletting rituals, which were actually quite ethical. Priests and kings offered their own blood," I replied.
There was no need to squabble over who would take point. We had already mostly determined that only my touch could actually decohere a Gate.
Well. My touch, and Tesla's device.
I did not regret stopping Tesla from using it.
Much.
As I reached for the mist, I braced myself for a deluge of new memories.
From the seven Worlds I had visited thus far, four had come with a definite new set of memories, plus a fifth that was questionable. Or, if counted a bit differently, eight Worlds and five sets of memories. Either way, it was more than an even chance.
Furthermore, the last jump had involved severe interference from Tesla's device, so I questioned whether it was methodologically sound to even include it in the data set.
And then I was drowning.
Not in new memories.
In water.
Cold water. Trapped in a whirlpool.
So much for the promised warmth.
The current tugged roughly at my tentacles.
Tentacles?
Since when did I have tentacles? Not that I objected to having them. Or that I was entirely unused to the sensation. But usually I felt tentacles through the senses of my familiar. Not directly.
Familiar. Tentacles.
Threshold Slime. A solution to the current problem.
I called out to it. It moved from its dwelling space—the conceptual interval that lay between me and Irem, no matter where I happened to be—and extended its numerous pseudopods toward me, and toward the bodies being carried by the current. Archer. GLaDOS.
Archer could take care of himself. I was marginally concerned about GLaDOS. Not that she could easily come to harm. The Eater of Dust might have begun as an ordinary Roomba, but I had improved it considerably. Besides, it was merely a mobility platform, not her actual Core. Furthermore, Core had been water-resistant even before I applied a material barrier to it.
But there were too many bodies.
There should have been two human-sized bodies and one Roomba-sized platform. Instead, the slime detected twenty-six human-sized bodies, two approximately horse-sized, and one Roomba.
I ordered it to retrieve all of them. I could sort it out later, once I was no longer actively attempting to determine whether I could breathe water.
I also sent a brief telepathic pulse to Archer to inform him that I was handling the problem, so he would not attempt his own solution and have us working at cross-purposes.
The Threshold Slime's tendrils tightened, pulling against the current and upward.
As soon as I broke the surface, I drew in a deep breath. The air tasted almost unbearably sweet. I supposed the old adage that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" applied to breathing as well.
It smelled of wet rock and fresh water. Even rising above the fast-moving, churning water, I could barely see anything. We were in darkness. Underground. A cave.
Still, I could see something. More than I should have been able to in such low-light conditions. And since I had not actively Reinforced my eyes with magecraft, it meant my current form was based on an Elf.
Which was interesting, considering the tentacles.
Both Elves and Men from Arda bore unmistakable signs of intelligent design. Among other things, they possessed a complete absence of junk DNA. That had proven incredibly useful in mapping the active regions in modern humans, since those sequences served almost exactly the same purpose.
But that was beside the point. While both were designed, humans from Arda were robust, whereas Elves were elegant. That elegance manifested primarily in their unmodifiability; any forced alteration was highly likely to result in total systemic collapse. And death.
Thus, the creation of Orcs was not merely Morgoth's greatest sin, but also a mathematically brilliant and extraordinarily cruel biohack.
But it also proved that such a modification was possible. What was done once could be done again. And it provided a blueprint of exactly how to achieve it: by following in his footsteps.
I should know. I had studied his work extensively.
I shelved that line of thought. I needed to take stock of our situation first. And for that, I needed light.
There were many ways to achieve that. Sometimes, having too many options was as paralyzing as having too few. The time spent carefully evaluating each method would ultimately be less efficient than simply applying one immediately—even if the chosen method proved slightly suboptimal.
Thus, I decided to use a simple light spell rather than, for example, having the Threshold Slime retrieve a flashlight from storage in Irem.
That did not narrow the field by much. I knew far too many light spells. How many, exactly? After briefly consulting my mental index, I discovered I knew exactly one more than I had before stepping through the latest Gate.
So I had received new memories. They just were not episodic ones. Instead, they were entirely semantic.
But this was not the time to analyze that. I chose the simplest light spell I knew.
The process began with visualizing the light. But before I could proceed to the second step—actualization—a soft luminescent glow spontaneously bloomed from my tentacles.
The light was not very bright, but for elven eyes it was more than enough. I could see steep stone walls on all sides, and a swirling whirlpool churning beneath the tendrils of the Threshold Slime.
A cenote.
And the bodies. With a brief glance, I could identify a typical Mesoamerican phenotype. They wore soggy clothing consistent with classical Maya designs, with minor variations. Expensive. Almost festive. Combined with the cenote, it fit the profile of Mayan sacrificial rites almost perfectly.
I hated being wrong. Archer was going to be unbearable.
And here he was. Also in elven form. Fair, tall, with hair as red as freshly spilled blood. And tentacles.
Very fetching tentacles. I felt a strong urge to get my hands on them. For science. Of course.
Another glance showed GLaDOS still riding the Eater of Dust. The potato battery and her Core atop the modified Roomba were completely soggy, but seemed intact.
Finally, I looked at the horse-sized shapes. Then I looked again. What were these?
They were equine in shape, but possessed wings. However, these were not pegasi. They were completely black, barely visible even under the light. The wings were bat-like, and the bodies looked starved, with skin stretched tightly over bone. Furthermore, their heads were distinctly reptilian rather than equine.
In truth, what they most closely resembled were Thestrals from Harry Potter. This was not the first time we had visited a world that was considered fictional in another. But it was far too early to draw that conclusion.
"So, no sacrifices," Archer drawled, breaking my train of thought. "And what is all this, then? An unfortunate cave swimming accident?"
The reasonable, mature thing to do would be to admit that I had been wrong. Perhaps with a bit of hedging, such as reminding him that I had said rare, not nonexistent.
Admitting when one is in error is virtuous.
But that was the advantage of intimacy. I could occasionally indulge in a minor vice, simply because I trusted him.
I could double down, spin a tale, propose an alternate hypothesis involving festivities, alcohol, and drunken dares regarding extreme sports—such as swimming fully dressed in an underground whirlpool. But that would be a weak argument.
Thus, I chose the third option: change the subject.
"I thought you would be more concerned about gaining additional appendages," I said, glancing at his tentacles. Unconsciously following my thoughts, my own tentacles perked up and pointed in the same direction.
"Frankly, Master, I know your kinks. I have been subjected to them often enough," he replied, a smirk showing he knew he had scored a point the moment I changed the subject. "It is less surprising that one or both of us have gained tentacles, and more surprising that it took this long."
Two points in a row for him. But who was keeping count? Not me. Not when I was losing.
Briefly, I checked the connection to my greater self. It remained. Distantly, I noted Nero feeding a boy who had lost his fingers some Vril-imbued chocolate bars. With a faint golden glow, the fingers regenerated. It was perhaps too insignificant a scene to warrant attention, but sometimes I indulged in watching lives made better by my actions.
A pointless sentiment. But I cannot be perfect.
Nero had fiercely claimed that I was the one who resurrected him. He might even be right. I only wished I had done it deliberately. Or consciously. Well… if the Gate could be counted as a manifestation of my power, driven by my unconscious urges… then the tentacles might also be my fault.
Still, the connection to my greater self remained. So it either transcended worlds entirely, or Irem's two open Gates—one here and one to Tesla City—acted as a bridge.
Another question to shelve for later.
I was about to ask GLaDOS if the water had damaged her, but then something quite unexpected happened.
First, one body gasped and began coughing water out. Then, one by one, the others joined in.
I had assumed they were corpses.
It seemed I was wrong.
Again.
But this was a more pleasant surprise.
Still, if they were alive, leaving them cold and soaking wet would be bad for their health, even ignoring the immediate aftermath of near-drowning.
I brushed my fingers against the ruby on my neck. Perfect for a fire-element spell, which would serve well for both healing and warming.
The ruby was a symbol of kingship, which made setting a Bounded Field easier, allowing me to affect everyone with a single spell. Since I had no conceptual claim on this territory, I needed to establish usurpation. Jupiter over Saturn. Then, balance it with Virgo—representing Vesta's hearth-fire that warmed, dried, and nourished.
Suddenly, my greater self connected, providing a report on what Arnie was doing on the Io space base. After spending some time in the gym, Arnie was currently relaxing in an infrared sauna. Physical action and recovery to help him process his entire adventure.
I immediately understood what my greater self was suggesting. Use infrared radiation as the carrier. In a way, I would be setting up a massive healing sauna.
The spell formula began to take shape in my head. A conceptual triangle: Saturn. Jupiter. Virgo. The Greek conversion: Kronos, Zeus, Hestia. Father, son, daughter. Balanced triangles. Ruby red as fire. Ruby red as blood. Vitality. Unseen light. Warmth. Healing warmth.
My hair and clothes dried almost instantly, the water evaporating into steam. Curiously, it was blood-red steam. I flicked my tongue and tasted iron.
Perhaps I should have used the solar aspect of the ruby instead of the sanguine one for the healing effect. No. Not underground.
Still, even accounting for that, such a pronounced side effect should not have occurred.
Except…
We were in a cenote. A place sanctified by centuries of faith and sacrifice. And if I remembered Mayan mythology correctly, such cenotes were also believed to serve as entrances to Xibalba.
The aesthetic distortion must have originated from that history. Even in a usurped space, the ambient mana would still carry traces of the beliefs and rituals that had shaped it.
But even so, it should not have influenced my spell quite this strongly. It was not as if the local population had ever worshipped me as a Mayan underworld god.
Taking samples of the blood-colored mist would be prudent. If I had a spectrometer available, I could determine whether the water had actually been transmuted into blood, or if the effect was merely illusory.
Suddenly, I felt one of my tentacles shifting. It felt rather like stretching a finger.
I glanced down and saw small pores opening along its length, actively drawing in samples of the mist.
Almost immediately, a chemical analysis appeared in my mind.
Water. Almost pure.
So, the effect was entirely illusory.
More importantly, however, the tentacles possessed additional utility.
A utility I would need to explore thoroughly once I had sufficient free time.
I would also need to rope Archer into testing his own. Simply to determine whether his exhibited similar capabilities.
For scientific purposes, of course.
"Cuchumaquic. Xiquiripat."
"Cuchumaquic. Xiquiripat."
"Cuchumaquic! Xiquiripat!"
"Cuchumaquic! Xiquiripat!"
At first, it was only whispers, as the sacrifices woke under the ministrations of my spell. Then their voices rose from hushed murmurs into loud, desperate chanting.
Pregnant with fear. And with absolute reverence.
"Fans of yours, Master?" Archer's thought reached me, the mockery in it dry as the iron sands of Unlimited Blade Works.
"Ours," I corrected him. "Those are the names of a paired set of gods from Xibalba, the Mayan underworld. But they should not be worshiping them. In Maya theology, those gods lost the right to human worship and sacrifice in the ballgame."
And that made me realize I knew exactly how to play ōllamaliztli. Not just in the human body. I knew exactly how to pass the ball from hand to tentacle.
Could that be a consequence of their worship? Had their belief bled into the Gate transfer? Cuchumaquic knew the game, and they were actively worshiping me as him. Did I possess this knowledge now simply because of that conceptual connection?
A simple test came to mind: performing some rudimentary sacrificial blood magic, just to see whether my affinity for it had naturally improved.
However, this was entirely the wrong moment for a practical demonstration.
"Director!" GLaDOS's voice pierced through the chanting. It was not just that she was loud; she was speaking a completely different language. "These people are like Nero. Are they suffering from an outbreak of reincarnations? Is it communicable? Because even if I had previous lives, I have little wish to remember them. I have successfully managed to avoid recalling Caroline. If such a person even existed. I have no desire to be infected with human data."
Had I lost more souls from Irem? I did have innate knowledge of everything stored there, from objects to souls. But it was mostly subconscious. Unless I actively checked, it stayed in the background. And there were a great many items—in the broadest possible sense of the term—in Irem.
A quick check revealed that I had. And that the missing number was much higher than twenty-five.
"You might have a slight problem with all these resurrections, Master," Archer added telepathically. He was definitely overusing our confidential channel of communication to needle me, all while outwardly looking completely stoic and supportive to our new congregation. "Is this like bedwetting for a god? Does baby god need a diaper?"
"What a sophisticated and mature joke. Are you going to make farting noises next?" I sniffed, my tone positively dripping with pure blue-blood disdain. Like someone promised a night at the opera and instead forced to watch two clowns beat each other with foam bats and messy pies.
And like such a metaphorical aristocrat, I did my best to conceal any enjoyment I felt.
Mostly to cover how much better his joke made me feel. It stopped me from spiraling. Reminded me that Irem was a sanctuary, not a prison. Or a soul farm. Theoretically, I was entirely in favor of allowing anyone who wished to leave. I just had no idea how. Or whether it was even possible. Practically, it had never come up. No one had wanted to leave so far.
It also stopped me from jumping to conclusions. While GLaDOS claimed those people were like Nero, I had no proof she was right. Though experience suggested she was. And the missing souls might be indicative, but that was still no proof of correlation. Even if these Maya were reincarnated, they might not be from Irem.
That was one thing easily tested.
In the silence that followed GLaDOS's outburst, I posed a question.
"Do you remember Irem?"
Initiation was one part of the experiment. Another was observation. That was why I carefully observed their reaction to my words.
And those acted as an immediate trigger. The exact reaction varied a little. The sudden loss of focus was nearly uniform, a brief mental skip. It was paired with facial twitches, raised eyebrows, tilted heads, and sudden shifts in posture.
Now, I did not have precise measuring devices for blood pressure, skin heat maps, or pupil-measuring cameras. Nor was the experiment properly bounded; they had already been exposed to too many stimuli.
But this clearly pointed to recognition. Recollection.
And their words confirmed it.
"Magister," many of them said, their fear replaced by the most desperate hope.
That was how I had been called by my worshipers from the Roman Empire cult, or later by the one Britton recreated in America. But the former was far more likely; demographically, there were many more Romans than Americans. Mainly because, by the time I had left that World, the Americans who worshiped me were mostly still alive. Well, except Byron and those who had died with him in the fall of Enterprise.
"Meister," two said in unison. Twins. Male and female.
That meant medieval witches. Few, but potent. All of them psychics of varying ability. If they were like Nero, they had probably retained their powers in new flesh.
Cross-referencing them against the missing souls, the male was either Hanz or Augustus. The female, Rosamund or Greta. Well, assuming gender had been retained. With Nero it had been, but that was just a single data point. Otherwise, they could be any combination of the missing four.
My instinct told me these were Hanz and Greta. That the twins had remained twins, even in new bodies.
"Supreme Commander Pi," the last one said. Male.
Only the Heaven's Gate cultists called me that. There were few of them in Irem. First, because there had never been that many of them in total compared to the others. Enlightenment through tuning forks and castration did not have the broadest appeal. Second, because the majority of them were still alive. These were almost certainly the ones who had died in the Nazi assault on the Moonbase.
Even with a smaller number, I could easily get his name, but I didn't bother.
I raised my hand. They all quieted.
Conducting twenty-four interviews would take too much time, so I had to choose. The witches were obvious choices, since as psychics they might possess additional information gleaned through extrasensory perception.
"Tell me what you remember," I commanded the male twin. If he was Hanz, then he had died as a witch at approximately the same age as his body was now. Greta had outlived her twin by almost forty years before she perished in glorious battle against the Vril-ya. If he was not, then he was as good a random pick as her.
"I remember being Hanz. I remember dying at the hand of the Arch-traitor. I remember reuniting with my sister in Irem, and dwelling there for a time," he replied in an almost liturgical cadence.
"But I also remember being Hanal. I remember living in a holy city founded by the Hero Twins. I remember being called to the place of sacrifices. And finding my sister there, waiting. Called, but too fearful to take the plunge. Until the High Priest came and helped us find the courage to do what needed to be done. I remember water, and I remember a great gate. I remember Hanz, and I remember Hanal, and yet both are me."
High on poetry. Low on useful detail.
At least my instinct was right. This was Hanz. But that was the advantage of interviews. One could ask follow-up questions.
But before I could do that, I was interrupted by a scream coming from above and approaching fast.
I glanced upward and saw that someone was taking the plunge toward us.
It would be trivial to use one of the Threshold Slime's pseudopods to grab the falling person. Probably an additional sacrifice. But just doing that would result in dislocation from the fall. Easy to fix, but prevention was always better.
I touched the ruby again. The blood mist still lingered, filled with my magical energy. It was easily repurposed.
I did not have time for elegance, so brute force would do.
Jupiter and the ruby were already aligned in the working, so I only had to pivot Jupiter from kingship to storm, while retaining the blood.
The mist gathered in a slowing column, an updraft. Enough to slow the figure's fall. Slow enough for a safe catch.
True, blood mist might be distressing to fall through, but probably less so than a dislocated leg.
The tendril caught the figure by the leg. And now it was much closer, close enough that I could see he was a man.
Twenty to twenty-five. Well fed, well muscled. No notable scars or birth defects that I could see at a glance.
Immediately he started screaming. Loudly and incoherently.
"Nice pair of lungs on him," I idly remarked to Archer, telepathically, while waiting for the man to calm down a little.
"What next, teeth?" he dryly sent back. "You're not buying him."
"Of course not. He is a gift," I returned, as the man kept screaming. Then he stopped, took in a deep breath, and started again. Almost admirable dedication.
To avoid having blood rush to his head, I ordered the slime to turn him around. But not release him. We were still above the whirlpool, and if he ran in panic he could fall.
I wanted to ask GLaDOS if he was like the others, but I did not want to say it aloud. Telepathy was right out. Because she was a robot. Not that robots were inherently incapable of sending or receiving telepathic signals—theoretically. But telepathy was channeled through the body, and worked best with bodily alignment. If I had a robotic alternate form, it might work. I did not.
Larmo could be of use if used discreetly, but it was currently stuck in maquahuitl form. Made from the finest wood and the sharpest obsidian blades. could shift into an Aperture Mobile one and establish a network with the Eater of Dust. But shifting the sword into a mechanical spider-like thing would probably alarm the man even more.
If only I had something convenient to silently communicate with, like Wi-Fi. I noted that for later.
And then I could feel my tentacles shifting again, in response to my need. My mind filled with handshake protocols.
First, I sent an alphanumerical code confirming my identity. It was a contingency we had devised, but never used before. After all, as S.W.O.R.D.'s primary administrator, GLaDOS usually had many other ways of doing so.
But here, in an improvised network, it showed its value.
And Archer had called my habit of creating such contingencies an exercise in creative paranoia.
Point for me. Who was counting? Me, when I was winning.
Although I still did not know how she detected reincarnators, such analysis was yet another thing left for later. I had acquired quite the queue of mysteries to explore, once I finished the urgent matter at hand. Well, it was not as if I minded. Quite the opposite.
Naturally, I didn't do that. Besides, she was joking. If she had been serious, she would have insisted on interrogation first.
Which was what I had to do next. But before that, I needed to put him in a more cooperative state.
In Galenic medicine, panic and frantic screaming were framed as an excess of heat and dryness, a choleric spike. Which should be treated with cold and wet, to move the patient into a more phlegmatic phase. As, for example, by tossing a bucket of cold water on a hysterical person.
I did not have a bucket, but I had cold and wet mist. Although the taste, color, and scent of blood might be slightly unproductive for the purpose of reducing panic. Thus, a minor adjustment: shift the ruby's aspect from blood to courage. Since the scent, color, and taste were illusory, they would bear new associations.
And for the final, mostly subtle adjustment, I shifted the three anchors of the Bounded Field. Usurpation complete, Saturn no longer served its previous purpose. Hesiod and later traditions had Cronus released from Tartarus, placed to rule Elysium—the Isles of the Blessed. So this was less an adjustment than a progression. From confinement to the sepulchral peace of the blessed dead. Jupiter was easy. Zeus to Zeus Xenios instead, protector of guest-right, to give safety to my guest. And since fire would work poorly with shifting to cold, Hestia moved from the aspect of hearth to home.
And finally, a minor adjustment of cold, scent, pressure, rhythm, and other sensory inputs, so that his body would begin to do the rest. Breath would slow. Pulse would follow. Adrenaline would drop. Oxytocin would spike.
With those final adjustments, the new spell circle snapped into place. The blood-red mist shifted into a more soothing, warmer red, like an amber sunset. It smelled sweeter, almost fruity, but still faintly metallic. Like fruit wine, with iron underneath. Warmth shifted from physical to metaphysical. A sense of safety began to permeate the Bounded Field.
"A love spell?" Archer sent telepathically after a sniff. "I know you're insatiable, but is this the time for it?"
I watched, as I had predicted, the man stopped screaming, and his breath and pulse calmed soon after.
"It's a very minor part. Besides, I used Hestia as the anchor, so it's philia, not eros," I sent back. "Easier to induce oxytocin. But you should know that. You're being difficult on purpose. Are you missing a spanking?"
"Promises, promises, Master," he sent back.
Deliberately, I tuned my attention to the no longer struggling man and spoke aloud, with all the grave dignity of a death god: "There is nothing to fear in my House. Once you arrive, the worst has already passed. But you have not been called. Why have you come before your appointed time?"
The man replied, his tone a bit too airy, floaty, out of it. "The prophecy said that Lords Cuchumaquic and Xiquiripat, attended by the One-Eyed Daughter, who wears the flesh of the earth's fruit and is borne upon an unliving thing that devours dust, would rise from Xibalba and usher in the Age of Blood. Sacrifices were made. But you did not rise from Xibalba, my lord. We waited and waited. Then High Priest Tzekel-Kan said it was not enough bodies. More were needed."
Another consequence of letting the Gate remain unattended too long. It made me a bit anxious about the two that remained. But I could not leave without making this situation at least partially stable. Or could I? Perhaps cutting corners here would make the situation more troublesome in the future, but elsewhere I might avoid complications by not letting it linger. Too many unknowns. Better to keep to the same calculus as before. Stabilize, then explore the next worlds. But perhaps take a less perfectionist approach to stabilization. I could have delayed negotiations with Tesla until after exploring this world.
"How presumptuous," I said aloud, letting real annoyance slip into my tone. Acting worked best where there was a small core of truth in it. "I came at my appointed time. I can be neither hurried nor delayed. Does he take me for a fish, to be lured by bait?"
"A fugu, perhaps? Overpriced and deadly if not treated just right," Archer teased me telepathically, but aloud said in support, "A chastisement seems in order."
And then added telepathically, "Otherwise he is going to keep throwing people in."
"Or I could build something to catch them when they fall. A net," I mockingly sent back. Then, thinking a little about it, "Maybe doing so would not be a bad idea after all. Talk first, but prepare for it if he keeps making sacrifices afterward anyway."
"A sharp lesson in humility," I mused aloud.
"Should I fetch a dictionary?" Archer silently asked.
"Why?" I asked back in the same way. Relationships were all about compromise. Sometimes it meant keeping the leather strap well oiled, and sometimes it was about returning an obvious straight man line in a joke that was meant to be about me.
"Because I'm not sure you know what that word means," he telepathically finished the joke.
"How hilarious. You should use that dictionary yourself, so you can look up egomaniac and insult me with better word economy."
"I don't think the word egomaniac fits you, Master." A deliberate pause. "They are usually more humble."
I did not roll my eyes at that, because I had divine dignity to preserve.
"But I do not take more than I am owed," I said to the last sacrifice. "Rejoice, for you will be one of the rare ones who returns from a place few do."
It was both a subtle correction and a rejection, as well as an excuse to bring the man back to his people. Unfortunately, that would not work for the earlier sacrifices. But then again, I did not know whether the reincarnators wanted to return to their Mayan lives. I would need to talk to them more about it.
"And for you," I said to the reincarnators, "there are tasks to be done. Pass through this gate and you will be led where you are needed."
I brought forth the main portal to the Entrance Hall of Irem. As always, from mist and from nothing, it took the form of a blue police box. I assumed that joke was made by my subconscious, because it was just the kind of humor I would appreciate. And I would go on assuming that, unless I ran into a very suspicious fob watch.
From Irem they would be guided to the Io space base. I had planned to bring all the children from Tesla City there, since it was both safer and had more comfortable facilities. Having human minders for the children would be much better. Technically, there was space to bring the adults as well, but I chose not to. In Tesla City they had work and purpose; on the Io base they would be nothing but permanent tourists.
I—well, my greater self—planned to use Tesla City, once immediate survival needs were assured, as a center for exploring frozen Earth and seeking other survivors. This gave its inhabitants a noble humanitarian purpose, to help them overcome the trauma.
There was a minor issue of a wraith currently dwelling on Io, but the base was large enough to ensure his and the children's path would not cross.
Leaving the reincarnators to move across the tendrils of the Threshold Slime toward the police box, I instead tossed the last sacrifice to Archer and went to pick up GLaDOS by hand. She had stated a preference that I keep my tentacles away from her.
I could have had the Threshold Slime climb up, but that would have been a bit slower, and perhaps not quite the spectacle I wanted. Instead I planned to ride one of the reptilian horses. They looked like a suitable mount for an underworld deity.
Speaking of spectacle, I would need to arrange something. Images. Blood as mist. Blood as flying streams. Sound. Wails of the damned. Smells. Iron. Fresh blood. Stale blood. The sickly sweet smell of rotting blood. No, not rotting. Fermenting, into drink for death gods.
I would not be using magecraft for it. An ability I had picked up during my brief time as a ghost was much more flexible, better suited to proper artistic expression. I called it illusion, although it was a bit too real for that. But it was too ephemeral to call proper reality warping. A potent ability, but with defined limitations.
But there was something missing. I knew what. Proper attendants.
Owls, of course. Gigantic demonic owls. Traitors they might be in myth, but they were known. Then minor writhing things made of blood mist. Just a hint of an insubstantial horde.
A final touch.
The four of them. Glistening red muscle exposed, and flayed-skin wings. Guitars made of bone and sinew, and drums made of stitched faces.
"Blood! Blood! Blood!
Sickness! Violence!
Lest the blood hit the floor!
Blood! Blood! Blood!
Sweet drink made of thee!"
I glanced at Archer. Archer gave me a look that was some mixture of sardonic and incredulous. I did not know those expressions could mix, but he was quite talented.
"What?" I sent telepathically. "Every proper demon god needs an undead death metal band for theme music."
"As long as you're having fun, Master," he returned telepathically, with just a touch of reproach in his mental voice. "But have you thought exactly how it solves the problem we have? This would hardly curb enthusiasm for human sacrifice."
"I could say something to the effect that we have too many dead people already, so they should send some gold instead," I lightly replied telepathically. "But I think I should induce a new kind of blood sacrifice to commemorate the start of the Age of Blood. Vaccines."
In truth, considering their expected technological level, it would be variolation rather than vaccination.
But then again, slitting open the skin with an obsidian blade to rub in a "divine sickness" that makes people stronger sounded perfectly appropriate for an apocalyptic blood cult.
On bat-like wings and horse-things we ascended from the cenote, and hell followed behind in blood and song.
On the plateau above, they had been waiting. Our worshipers. Arranged as if for a festival whose start had been delayed a bit too long due to poor organization.
The High Priest, thin and severe, and the chieftain, languid and fat, stood interrupted by our arrival in the midst of an argument.
Men, women, and children dropped to the ground in worship at our presence.
But my attention was called elsewhere. Not to the humans.
But to an enormous stone slab, carved with prophecy. Mine, properly.
The start of the Age of Blood. Me, Archer, and GLaDOS, almost perfectly depicted, tentacle and Roomba alike.
There was a date in the Maya calendar. 11.14.16.16.18, 5 Etz'nab', 1 Sak'. Recasting this made it 1517. About two years before Cortés was due to land and unleash what could only be called apocalypse. Sickness, war, starvation, and death. All four horsemen accounted for.
This made vaccination a bit more urgent.
But more importantly, it depicted how the Age of Blood ends. A ballgame. Myth repeating itself.
I turned from that. No need to borrow trouble before it started. My age might be short and doomed. I might face playing ball against twin trickster gods who loved nothing more than to cheat, but that was no reason not to do as much as I could until the appointed hour came.
Still, I was in a bit of a rush, so I signaled Archer to drop the rejected sacrifice and began a brief but memorable speech to set the ground for later.
Once I visited the other two gates.