THE MECHANISM OF FATE

We rode astride just two days east of Morbannon’s Keep, amid the ancient rocky slopes of the Great Ridge. We were rationed with ample supplies for the journey to the Scalla Kaphrs.

Also provided were the Resh’pov that served as our transportation. Helis was a massive beast; easily four hands larger than his daughter Tuvia. Both were magnificent. Resh’pov resembled slightly the equestrian mammals of Earth. Larger and more heavily muscled, cloven of hoof, they shared a descendency similar to that of a reptile as told by the coarse flesh beneath their shimmering coats and the features of their head. Their eyes were split by a ‘snake-eye’ pupil, inobvious within the black iris. Their snouts were long and sharply defined around a long, narrow mouth. Within were rows of flat, herbivorous teeth that seemed to be revealed at the most peculiar moments.

I rode Tuvia since one day before, when I discovered Helis apparently preferred a more experienced rider. Without hesitation he broke into a run, testing my inferior abilities. The test lasted for mere moments before I faltered. Cohiri caught up just as I was thrown off.

Another discovery resulted when I hit the ground. The insect life of Peradra proved to be quite aggressive when their hive was suddenly invaded. The mound broke my fall completely and the hive was partially unearthed by my elbows. It was so soft that it began to suck me in. It then produced a seething swarm of tiny white and blue ‘spiders’ that spun an amazingly resilient silk. Cohiri called them foemti’i. Loosely translated as ‘little hunters.’

Without the influence of Cohiri’s Arcane fire the foemti’i would have woven a deadly cocoon from which I would have not been able to escape. Therein I would have been left to decompose, not only as food but also into what would have become a fresh new hive. The foemti’i had four legs and a set of spinner pincers next to an intricately structured mandible that doubled as a silk reservoir, making it impossible for them to bite when capturing their prey. Cohiri told me that I was lucky it was a small hive for her control of the flames was not yet a developed skill and that the terrain was still predominately rocky, attractive to animals like those adapted so and that most of them were too fast for the little hunters. The bigger hives could take down Tuvia, possibly even Helis.

The air had begun to grow thick with dew and the image of a Resh’pov succumbing to the foemti’i was fading in the chill. The sky above the distant horizon was a somber crimson-red – like the serrated plateaus that were our destination were gouging the wayward sky open to release the aging yellow-orange sun.

Looking down the rocky decline of the Great Ridge the lands beyond continued their impressive transformations from ancient glacial mountain ranges to river streaked highlands to flowing grasslands and again to the rolling hills preceding the Votal’li Plateaus. Beyond still lay the grasslands and the massive Scalla forest that occupied hundreds of hectares; some ten days distant. The view was a spectacular glimpse of the future.

Sea level lay some fifty-five hundred feet below us within the distant plains and again beyond the Scalla forest where Cohiri’s hometown of Koroot stood. All of it seemed visible in the distinct glow of the lonely sky that was dotted with a mere handful of stars. Some partially obscured by monstrous billowing clouds that carried the pre-dawn light into the mountain peaks towering behind us.

As the day grew brighter the vague image of the massive Scalla Forest tempted my imagination and before the light of day emerged completely, a thin layer of dew evaporate muted the expanding landscape and brought the daylight closer. The golden reflection of the sun’s corona was carried upon the mist like tarnished gold. We drew rein and the Resh’pov obeyed. We watched as the night withdrew from the event in silence, sharing our revelry empathically.

The involuntary correlation of our most personal feelings had seemed to become more pronounced outside Morbannon’s Keep which was thoroughly interlaced with unique Arcane lattices. Now in the vast country-scape of Peradra’s heartland our abilities contoured themselves to the unobstructed natural laws of the living dimension. My Arcane sense reached out and expanded with the sunrise, now swollen on the world’s edge. I sensed Cohiri’s aura arcane and various others. I detected how, while connected as we were, we non-existed as equals – independent from the mundane and embracing its nature as our own. Defining what Zeraad was and what we truly were.

Zeraad, by the perspective of that which Peradra was in reality, was not. Zeraad was the Void; an immeasurable nonexistence reality that those of my native dimension had found safe passage into. One who, once there body and soul were imprinted upon forever with all that it was without ever being truly real.

My awareness seemed boundless, our empathy allowed us to feel the immensity of the landscape and Zeraad expanded impossibly further, blurring all the edges of accurate description. Its imprint was upon us both and two others in Peradra. Neither was visible to my senses nor those shared from Cohiri whom I could sense. Hers was delicate, poised within her being by a precise manipulation of Arcane forces. Together these things became for me the second such Dawning.

The muted palette of night receded into long shadows that fell away from the landscape texture. The rich green-blue plains below were dotted with herd beasts, slowly moving toward a long river that flowed from the Ridge through a deep forest of rock.

Amid the vertical strata numerous crystalline deposits caught the sunlight and split its wavelength just before the ultraviolet band. The effect was like I could see the very essence of the Arcane my senses beheld. A warm gust challenged my notice from somewhere beyond the enchanting forest of rock. The intensity of the light grew until I could not look directly at it. The sun seemed easier to look at then.

“That is the Styl’aad, nothing lives there for long.” Her sullen description made our empathic link seem to recede.

“Something must live there.” I insisted.

“Yes, but not exactly. It is refuge to packs of V’lod. They are deadly winged predators that can see in the intense light.”

The vivid empathy returned and I was invigorated by the surreal images that joined it. Cohiri had never seen a V’lod live but various portrayals surfaced in her mind’s eye, images living with remembered pseudo-movement.

The V’lod were roughly dog-sized, weighing in at only thirty to sixty kilos. They were not hollow boned like true avian, but possessed of sinuous filaments within their musculature instead that held their bodies in shape. Their hide was scaled and dark violet in color. The birdlike head was also scaled from beak to neck and varied in color from dark violet to bright green. The V’lods wings were made entirely of a strengthy carapace that flexed freely with overlapping semicircular plates about the size of a mans open hand. Each new row began at the pit of the wing-arm and ribcage. Beneath the ribcage were two stocky legs and three stubby talons protruding far enough to maintain balance atop their primary resting place amid the pillared strata of the Styl’aad. They attacked from above in small packs of three or five, kamikaze fashion. They flew above their targets until enough distance was between them to fold their armor-like wings under their feet and plummet upon their prey, stealing into an inverted glide to recover once more without ever landing.

“We should get moving if we’re going to reach the highlands by night fall.” I said.

Cohiri noticed my apprehension and longing for civilization. She asked; “How often, do Peradran words appear as images in your mind?” In an offhanded way she added; “For me, many words are accompanied by an image.”

I answered, “Quite often these days.” I had an easy smile on my lips.

For her, empathically describing what we might face during our journey down the mountainside was a bit easier, no doubt.

The rolling fields were clearly in sight though the path we followed wound out of sight several times and the foliage was heavier in the wrinkled hills below. The untamed plains would be just as challenging as the rocky decline, being more fertile it would no doubt support a wide range of bestial hazards, rather than topographical ones. There, the horizon would be much closer.

As the vegetation thickened and the sun was high above I could sense varied concentrations of the Arcane, only long enough to sense them not locate them. True hollow boned avian abounded, flying above the mountainous forest. Their gourd-like nests all seemed to be crowded in the same trees, the same types of trees. Except that was a ruse, these birds nested inside the trees themselves. Most all of them did save for a few brightly colored squatters that were quite vocal. Their songs provoked random responses from those high above. Behind my insights just within reach were Cohiri’s words. She was working on hear say of what could be expected in the highlands, mentioning first those she was sure of. That included the V’lod, T’zoas, Voltwa and various Demic. None of which was suitable for consumption, making their presence even more unfavorable.

The others she described were all said to be creations of Man and Lalgorè, of Magic. First mentioned were Mezzomen, made of wood and metal and even flesh--sometimes all three. Mindless for the most part once their creators break or loose control, they wander pointlessly avoiding populated territories. They can be very dangerous depending on the premise of their origin and the content of their making. Wooden Mezzomen mingle discreetly in the forest and the flesh Mezzomen can resemble the truly living. Metal and mixed Mezzomen are the most powerful but are easier to identify. Traps set for various reasons can be both magical or mundane and bad news if the creatures they were set by were near.

The last she mentioned might be the Eschelea or the ‘Hunters-of-All’. The image was a powerful one as was my first encounter with the misanthropic Eschelea quad. No less so was the biped Eschelea. The two forms represented a single life form, each one merely a part of a transformation cycle that was repeated every six hundred years in a total life span measuring thousands of years. During my encounter, one of them died. It was probably the first quad to die unnaturally in millennia.

The reason that could happen was in part how I came to be in an alternate dimension on an alien world, speaking their language and planning to sleep with one of their women that very night under a vacant sky of obsidian black and a single moon of the faintest blue-white.

THE MACHINE

Four days had passed since freedom. Convoluted memories sought advocation, for some sort of reprieve. There was pain, so much pain, unfelt yet remembered. There was more, more than pain alone. There were images in conjunction with the memory pain and others. Memories that pleaded to be real and were refused.

Its soul; more machine than human, made emotions as they were needed. Equally confusing to its tortured mind were the reasons, yes reasons. Reasoning was a human trait, even if it was ambiguous.

So far the Machine had met with no others since leaving the mountains. No humans that is. It knew that there would not be others like itself, the man called Morbannon told It so, that It was unique. To both the world of Its origin and the one It traveled now. He said most humans would react with fear, some with reverence. There were others yes, but only a few that might receive one such as the Machine. Such humans and more presumably Lalgoræ, if their company was desired, could be found in the great city of An’gor, far to the South and East at the mouth of a vast river delta. The source of which was Peradra’s largest and longest river, The On’V. It ran the entire course of the land from the frigid North central region to the tropical shores of the vast Rhembic Sea. The lands that met the Rhembic on the gulfed western edge were mountainous deserts that constantly spilled out into the sea from vaulted cliffs pocked with ancient lava vents. That region was not given a name, only that its inhabitants would prove most unfriendly.

The Alloydaemon Fivetoes was a tireless mount, supernatural and not at all tame. As a gift from Morbannon, Fivetoes carried the Machine easily. More than triple its passengers mass and proportionately as imposing.

Four days hence the duo faced each other in an encounter that might have led to the death of either. Fivetoes was an Arcane beast of living metal alloy, its hide was of coiled mercury, its powerful legs were supported by equally powerful talons, hot enough to singe the earth it trod.

Four days hence the Machine, fearing the pursuit of Earthly aggressors by the Alloydaemon’s track; attacked the beast. Instead of causing damage; the two somehow being of similar natures fused together into a symbiotic state. Sharing that which was most precious to both.

The daemon absorbed flesh.

The Machine absorbed the Arcane alloy.

Altering both before the eyes of the Mundane alone, for no other was seeing them.

Once unyielding metal, Fivetoes had flesh, about his eyes, ears and a mouth full of teeth made now of bone. The Machine, once human and fused into an armored robotic suit, had dull black biometal skin that turned to the same silvery mercury and the only flesh remaining - Its face, lost all color to a greasy white absorbing also the unseen qualities of the daemon’s alloy-flesh. Thus bonded, a tacited link was established. It didn’t recognize then how Fivetoes hide cooled so quickly. There was something to that but it remained out of reach.

So much to perceive were the subtleties, the delicate things, the simple things. Too much confusion and change, more than any man could endure, how they forced, yes forced animosity and reprisal upon themselves. Man made, start to finish. They expected failure, told it so when it was over. It tried to accept their reasons, tried like any man would. It almost seemed worth while. Until they repressed the transformation process, that was an incomplete death. All of Its memory became dulled by rage and fury. Then again ignorance seemed almost blissful. The present surrounded It with welcome arms and became an anchor for thoughts that It could accept. Pictures of freedom. Colorful, soundless pictures. Ones of the things It could understand.

Following Its defeat the Machine was hastily left in Morbannon’s care. It learned the basic terms needed to convey command to Its mount and others It might encounter during Its journey from Morbannon, who had a hand in the destruction of Kevin Connor, the human the Machine once was. His was not a simple motive, Morbannon, to aid the Eschelea in their revenge then provide the fundamental skills for Its survival. One might presume the indifferently aligned Morbannon was capable of compassion. Such was not his given way. He followed a destiny of ruthless power plays, of ultimate power and immortality. Morbannon was a Steel Wizard. The likes of which would forever be known the Machine was sure.

Fivetoes was cooling again under the cover of trees. Peace greeted absent memories like old friends. Then becoming lost beyond the veil of rage, a rage easily eluded in the growing din of the flourishing forest life, abounding, defying explanation at every glance. It could feel the edge of nonexistence, hovering just within reach and so far from this reality. All around from unseen sources sounds resonated in time with the dancing light on the forest floor and Fivetoes’ gait seemed easier then. Together those experiences manifested into unfocused emotional states. All too similar then for each to be relished alone. Instead for the first time the living machine had a choice to make for itself; to ponder what the place of such things would be, within.

SYMBOLICA

His scars still itched, where the glass hit. Lena had given him ointment to help the scaring fade. Even though it worked very good, it made him feel sweaty. He was idly tracing a particularly long scar that ran across his left cheekbone as he read the outline for Mission Five. It was written on PPT stationary that was water marked with the PPT logo in the center of the page. The outline was twenty-five pages long and every page was facing the correct way for the three initials to be read. At the head of the first page was his name; Alan Jerring, Projects Director. Hand written beneath his name was a message; “I still need a name ~” The message was initialed with two illegible scribbles. Those scribbles were not there to authenticate the brief memo, instead they really meant that the outline was merely a cover for those who simply invested or observed for the investors. Alan’s boss rarely dealt with anything other than his true ambition.

Alan still needed to read the outline and oversee its machinations. To put out one hundred percent throughout and replace Sakamoto Shimera and initiate the project that was coming up on his secure terminal. The terminal was vid-linked direct to the concealed Lab. There was only one other terminal that had access to the covert project file and that was the one sending it.

Though all of the big ideas were not his own he really enjoyed filling in the details. Like assembling a team of cyber-mercenaries that would overlook the proximate overtones of dishonor and the ardent appeal for obscurity. There were those that seemed to actually enjoy their status. Others met their obligations and disappeared. He enjoyed making most of the judgment calls, like controlling such talent and keeping it off the books and telling just the right people, just the right things.

Mission Five to all those concerned was a major deal. Ten Support Suits were to be built. Five of them would be exposed, pre-mission in a remote Void field. Then they would be piloted in pairs of two through the recently established dimensional Portal. The very Portal that breathed more life than ever into the PPT Foundation, following a certain event between missions three and four. A Portal that had served as a gate for three local veterans of the Void. First to last each approached more precariously the edge of validity. The fourth and most important being Idol, had surpassed that edge and no one even knew it.

The extra four Suits would serve as prototypes for auction upon various markets. Such exposure would guarantee the independence of the Foundation. Their poster-child for Mission Five was a woman named Stephanie Beller, her actual experience with piloting a Support Suit before and after exposure was nothing more than that. She was a Protocol Technician with a brand new Luxury Car. A good Pilot but she was being exploited for the media.

Alan surveyed a list of potential candidates for the covert mission that was to parallel the headliner mission. Out of more than fifty he selected only ten, from which just seven were needed to fill the gaps in the cyber-merc team left over from the covert Mission Four. There were enough specialized degrees on his hit list to hack Norad and build a small army to command with its resources. He had to laugh out loud as he sent various scrambled proposals. He expected positive results before the next sunrise.

Much of what was needed to complete everything was on site. From gold solder to machined titanium chassis components. Enough to build twelve of the Support Suit prototypes similar to the one Joseph Idol piloted in PPT’s first covert effort AKA VM4.

Alan enjoyed his mornings. He put his secure terminal to sleep. Actually, it was a security shell one of the “strays” left behind called Mirror4D. It completely locked itself out with a simultaneous five key lock and a password cache or “sleep”. Once triggered it mirrored any terminal in the open network with ultra high priority access and full interface capability. Even if someone could unlock the shell, if the secure terminal was compromised, it would function like any other terminal. The only difference being the user or hacker would have terminal priority over the mirrored one. They would only find files labeled `secure’ in the network mainframe; password protected and encoded but otherwise worthless. The real stuff was no less than untouchable, there were no dates or file sizes and most of them were real time, access for use only.

“Cyber-mercenaries, high tech soldiers of fortune. Damn, the stuff I’m using was left behind by these people and its the best I can do to stay quiet.”

“Sometimes your best is not good enough.” Alan stiffened, half out of his chair. That was not what that voice should be saying at that time.

He faced the secure vid-phone.

“Hello Theo. Good morning.” He was oozing complacency, partly sarcastic mostly genuine.

“Yeah. Same here. Do we have –, ” He paused to coax a face from Alan.

Alan’s mouth opened not knowing what it was going to say. Theo continued with a happy heart in his throat. “– a name.” He let the word trail on as Alan’s mouth closed. He meant a name or better yet names to take the position as Head Surgeon of Cybernetics. His new microchip designs needed new hosts.

“I’m doing background on the few that found their way in. So far as yet there are no surgeons.” He said.

“I know it seems difficult Alan.” He crossed his brow to signify he was not finished talking, then. “You know where I’m coming from.” He condescended well. From his mainframe terminal he ended the conversation.

Alan did know. The name had to be unattached, which made universities a target. More so were the recently unemployed. Scouting both left hopes for a turncoat to surface in either. What he really needed was time for some far out lecture or a small seminar on something like microprosthesis, it worked before.

FUTURE’S PAST

Drawing on the knowledge of his former self, Joseph Idol - the Demon knew that it had become possible for others like himself to emerge. The possibility was indeed small but for the moment Idol was alone, he had since left the world of technology and its forces behind and instead embraced a new one. A Living Dimension as it was called. Filled with powers and possibilities only dreamt of where he was from. He, as well as his former self were originally from Earth, USA. More specifically PPT Labs, located somewhere in the Panamint Desert.

At that point in his journey he was gliding over a long stretch of beach somewhere to the South and East of the Portal’s exit located in the confines of a secluded mountain citadel that was the residence of the amazing parallel to Humankind, a Human with unexplainable abilities – Magical abilities. One might refer to the man he had confronted as a Wizard. Battling him and his companions was indeed exhilarating to say the least. Having eluded a close call with an extremely potent union of Arcane forces and those associated with the Void and using his own unexplainable abilities to phase through nearly a ton of molten lead and a not so close encounter with another in a battle of wills. A battle he was sure he had won, he felt the Female Wizard succumb to his Void enhanced influence. Dragging her down slowly made him feel good.

Nevertheless, he was forced to depart in a tactless retreat. The light of the alien sun masked his more formidable power of subjugation, that being at its strongest during the first full hour after the hour of midnight and even more so during a full moon. He would have to investigate that on this new world, to determine his hour of dominion. Indeed, if there was it may well be longer than on Earth - or shorter. His instincts led him to the former.

The air was different; the spoor, the very texture was palpable. The now distant mountains remained visible in their magnitude, ancient, and prehistoric. The swollen rivers coursed through thoroughly eroded beds. Here the sand was more than silicon and ash. It glittered with an impossible texture as of something harder, more resilient. The ocean swelling over and away from the beach left deep tidal carvings. The sun, now almost directly above glowed deliberately orange over a deep amber, yet the light it shed provided a visual spectrum almost but not identical to the more juvenile light of Sol. These subtle differences, as Idol saw them added many facets to the already precious gem of his arrival in this living dimension.

AMALGAM

A familiar silence settled over the young man, in darkness he waited. Soon the air would be gone but his muse would remain. Then the darkness too would be gone. Every detail would be erased, leaving Zeraad. Once he was there - within the beyond he would command his inborn faculty - to bring a weapon like no other into the world. A single instrument of unimagined power, the ‘Blade Unforged’.

His concentration narrowed as the air grew thin, his muse was bright and energy held her in a crystal-like spider web, full of light and invisible he beheld her from within. All was within and Zeraad engulfed him. His perception cast out into the endless gray. His mind now empty, a slave to the words necessary to bring about his design.

“Let Steel meet Steel!”

Arcane energy obeyed the irrevocable demand. The youthful man Ataze ceased to exist instantly. In his place was a mirror image of the muse, radiant strands cast themselves out into the endless dimension, searching for reality. None is found, yet the energy Arcane manifests itself and Ataze’s Destiny is sealed. From out if the nothing came a shape, narrow and elongated yet phantasmal, noncorporeal. The sinuous mirror image creation of energy fell in upon itself, the broken light strands glowing like molten glass. Shimmering before it was the image of a cross on fire.

Awareness, then light fell over the recalcitrant Ataze. Kneeling, his hands were palm up on his knees. He could feel cold steel upon his fingers, then the weight of that steel. Both were sublime in their perfection. His eyes remained closed, looking within.

Searching.

Suddenly he gasped inward and his eyes shot open. It was there. He looked to his prize. The very light it reflected held the essence of Zeraad.

“As within - as without.” He whispered.

The room around him emulated that of his Father’s own Summoning Chamber, if not moderately smaller. The circle around him was a thick bead of lead, its surface was just then leaving its molten state. Narrow streams of smoke hung in the effluvium resisting dissipation. The thick curtains no longer defied the empty night sky. Instead, daylight defined the frail threads of its weave, heating the air further and his skin. The sword remained cold as he stood. He took the hilt in his hand and held the weapon at arms length. He guessed his reach was almost seven feet to the tip of the blade. He felt the balance; he could easily wield the sword with one hand if necessary. The temper was such that the narrow blade did not wobble or bend the slightest bit.

His Swordsmanship was masterclass but the blade in his hands felt beyond his abilities. In the limited space of his Chamber Arcane he tested his skills. Immediately he felt a rhythm in his movements and the blade cut the air like a whip. Over and over he riposted, parried and slashed the air. Thin streamers of lingering evaporate hanging in the thick air danced apart in the flurry. A single motion cut clean through a solid stone pillar, particles of glittering rock floated to the floor in the wake of such movement.

Suddenly the Presence was upon him like a predator. It had no form or semblance. It manifested from within. The steel in his hands now heavy, ten times over. He expected something like a spirit or even a demon. There was neither. Instead there was only the Presence, consuming and exhuming Arcane energy. The blade refused to budge from where its point rested on the floor. Stiffly he held the steel mesh handgrips with both hands. He growled as he stole a glance toward the cold circle of lead.

All the while the Presence he felt increased in magnitude also. Soon he was fighting for his life. Zeraad filled his vision, his mind. If he could not resist, with no circle to protect him he would die. In desperation he howled for the strength to lift the blade. He fathomed then that not to do so would be the sole cause of his demise. Zeraad resonated within every fiber of his being. The sword was too closely linked. The very link that was to be his tool had turned on him, unbridled. The Presence flowed from him then returning again through the sword, tainted with the taste for blood. Then he remembered his own words, `As within, as without.′ He was the sword -- the sword was him. Both were Zeraad. Drawing then upon its power instead of fighting it the endless gray perceptibly faded to white. His eyes strained as he fought to see clearly the source of the brilliant whiteness – if it was the blade. Only until he used the last vestiges of his strength did he feel the blade rise, did his sight fully return.

Powers as yet unused coursed through the circuit of Man and Blade. The Presence soared to a crescendo. Ataze commanded the flow, experiencing the absoluteness of the moment. He poised himself in spirit and body once more asserting his human influence. In the stead of singular thought the circuit widened and the flow surged beyond Ataze’s limited expertise. Then as if by his design the blade was literally consumed, or better, absorbed, into his being. His hands were empty, he felt his strength return without burden. A sense of loss lurked for a moment behind his realization of what just happened. First was the thought of Zeraad as being too unreal to harness in such a way. Yet the Presence still remained and his sense of it. Ataze was adequately versed in Arcane manipulation. He focused within. The essence of the Amalgam formed in his mind. His eyes remained open and before them Amalgam manifested from out of his very flesh. He closed his hand reflexively before the blade dropped. So quick was the event. Understanding another tangent of the Steel Wizards’ destiny for battle, he must understand the weapon to use it. The gift was the blade was always with him, easily hidden...

“Easily revealed...” Continued his brother as he entered the room.

“Alas.” The blade returned to its only resting place. A proud smile graced his features.

“Remarkable.” Airaemor was studying not praising.

Ataze waved off the apparent direction of interest. “Now you understand my brother.”

Airaemor added, “Understand also, Brother, I am no longer suited to impart upon you secondary psychic impressions. Zeraad has been imprinted on more than the essence of your body, but your very Soul has been changed forever.” A slight hint of loss in his voice.

“Yet my thoughts are still within your grasp. That will surely be sufficient.” He affirmed.

Airaemor focused his mental sight toward the essence of Zeraad within his twin brother. Where he expected to find the signature of Zeraad, he found instead a mental wall of pure psychic energy. He canceled the thought-image only after failing to parlay it to Ataze.

“Did you understand that?” Said Airaemor. (No image)

“It is difficult to say, brother. I know you were using your Psi. I’ve learned to tell that much so long ago. But it seems that my sense of the Presence has shut off for the moment.”

“Look now, within.” Airaemor’s voice was full of consequence.

Ataze did as his brother asked, finding immediately the Presence and Zeraad. The nonexistence reality opened into the circuit. Amalgam manifested in reflex. Without a thought his hand closed about the steel mesh.

Airaemor stepped back out of range of the narrow blade and resumed his experiment. His perception calibrated for the shield he first detected. Past structured thought toward what Ataze himself perceived, hovering on reality’s edge.

Beyond the psychic shield lay that which had become more than Airaemor’s Psionic mind could perceive – nonexistence blending with reality flawlessly, in thought only yet expanding beyond the crux of three dimensions as time flowed much slower.

“Unngh!” Airaemor pulled himself free of the Presence, feeling nothing. His mind was drained, physically. Ataze caught his fall when his body ran out of things to do.

“Now you understand, my brother.”