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libermachinae · 3 years

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Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part II: Breathe - Chapter 5: Thoughts Expand in Blooms

Also available on AO3! Summary: The consequences of Ratchet and Rodimus' chase become known. Chapter Word Count: 2644

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“Try again.”

“Yes, sir. Rodimus, come in Rodimus. This is Blaster, coming to you live from the Lost Light command deck. Do you read me? Status and further instruction requested. Over.”

Years of handling the Wreckers’ fluctuating schedules meant it was no effort for Ultra Magnus to resist rubbing his optics as he watched the progress of their three recovery speeders. Siren, Crossblades, and Waverider had launched with minimal deviations from standard procedure (Crossblades would receive a write-up for nonessential helical rotation) and tracked Arcee’s shuttle up to acceptable pursuit range. That was where the chase had stalled, as Rodimus had provided no further instructions and protocol required command from a captain before they could proceed. Either captain.

Protocol fell apart when one refused to leave his hab and the other had stopped answering his comms. Magnus started mentally writing up a proposal for temporary transfer of pursuit command responsibilities while they waited.

The control panel refreshed as the latest information poured in. The speeders were entering upper atmosphere, rotating in pyramid formation in the shuttle’s trail. Acceleration had decreased to the minimum required to maintain orbit and altitude held steady as they sailed through Scarvix’s exosphere.

“Ultra Magnus, I have a visual on Rodimus’ ship,” Bluestreak reported.

“Pull it up.”

The datafeeds compressed to the right of the screen, replaced with the compound live feed from the speeders, displaying the shuttle’s stern, the glow of its thrusters closer to a lightbulb than anything spaceworthy. The engines were keeping it aloft, but there was an unnatural stillness about it, like debris floating through space.

“Again.”

Blaster adjusted settings on the ship’s communications hub and leaned into the mic.

“Rodimus, come in Rodimus. This—”

There was a crackle and buzz as the ship’s receiver finally picked up a signal.

“This is Rodi—ack, Ratchet, this is Ratchet. We read you.”

Blaster’s shoulders relaxed as he transferred primary input to the third in command’s station, but Magnus did not match his relief. Underneath the fritz of the shuttle’s poorly maintained equipment, Ratchet’s voice was shaking.

“Ratchet, this is Ultra Magnus. Report.”

“Report. Report… um, Arcee’s gone. We lost her. Satellite. Crash. Is Cyclonus there?”

“No. What is your—”

“Get him,” Ratchet interrupted.

“Where is Rodimus?” Magnus asked. Ratchet was supposed to be one of the good ones, recognizing his place within the chain of commands. Making demands was out of character for him.

“Here! I’m here,” Rodimus’ voice crackled down the line. “Present. Available. Get Cyclonus.”

Magnus sent the ping and tagged it urgent. Cyclonus had never been known for tardiness, but that put it on the record.

“What is your status?” he asked as he acknowledged Cyclonus’ response.

“Good! Weird? Ratchet is banged up, which is bad. He suffered impact shock in his lower spinal strut, chance there’s a disk… how do I…”

Magnus’ orbital ridge twitched, a coding bug when expression protocols tried to assign a profile to stress of unknown origin. He wiped the cache, regaining his neutral set, and sent a command to have the speeders approach the shuttle. Visual on the command deck would be helpful, but flight integrity was his main concern. If neither Rodimus nor Ratchet was in the right mind to pilot, they would need to engage in emergency grounding maneuvers.

“Ratchet, are you still there? Rodimus sounds incoherent; what is his status?”

“He’s fine.” His voice was briefly drowned out by shuffling and crashing on the other end. “—cessor’s functioning normally. It’s loud, but it’s working.”

“He’s overheating?” Magnus asked.

“Not his fans, his thoughts.”

“Is his comm link malfunctioning?”

“He’s bright like the goddamn sun. I can barely get two words in. Will you shut that off? ”

“Ratchet?” Speeders were closing in.

“Not you.”

“Stop yelling at me!” Rodimus snapped, volume raising and lowering like he was pacing around the microphone. “I heard you the first time.”

“I don’t see how. I can barely hear myself.”

“Aw, poor Rodimus, doesn’t get to hear his own voice.”

“ You’re Rodimus, that’s my line.”

“Rodimus, Ratchet, Waverider is en route to board,” Ultra Magnus interjected. “If you are able, please lower the hatch for arrival, otherwise he will engage emergency stove—”

“No, don’t!”

It wasn’t just that they shouted at the same time, but that Rodimus and Ratchet’s voices matched in pitch, tone, and cadence which caused Magnus, for the third time in his life, to forget what he had been saying.

“Is Cyclonus there?” Rodimus asked.

“There’s something on board,” Ratchet said. “Don’t know what it is, but you can’t let anyone else get near it.”

“It did a weird thing. I’m Rodimus, but also I’m Ratchet? And both?”

“Those sound like the same things, Rodimus,” Magnus said, half distracted as he instructed Waverider to return to position.

“They’re not,” Ratchet said.

“Sir?” Cyclonus’ voice came as a blessing. Magnus gestured him forward.

“Cyclonus just arrived,” he announced. “Cyclonus, Rodimus and Ratchet uncovered something on Arcee’s shuttle. It’s…” He blanked.

“I can feel Ratchet’s processor,” Rodimus said, rushing like it would make any of this comprehensible. “He’s thinking and it’s all really fast and hard, but it’s not rough like you would expect? Like, the feeling of grit in your gears, I thought it would be like that, but it’s more like there’s just a lot of gears and it takes a lot of power to turn them all, and it’s too hard to decide whether to focus on just one or the entire thing. And he keeps thinking about me and my thoughts and how they’re not like that, and I’m thinking about him, and then I get stuck because all the thoughts start to sound the same and I don’t know which ones came from me or which are Ratchet or even which me is me. It’s all a big thought reservoir, a—a thought battle, an entire brain war and I don’t know which side I’m on!”

Cyclonus’ gaze was steady at the screen. Once it was clear that Rodimus was done, he leaned over the microphone.

“Can you send an image of the object?” he asked.

“Sure,” Ratchet said.

Blaster raised his hand.

“Image received.”

Ultra Magnus nodded and the feed of the shuttle was replaced with a still capture, a calamity of wires and light that took his visual center a full millisecond to parse.

“It’s the Enigma of Combination,” Cyclonus said.

“What’s that?” He could differentiate the orbital plating of the object itself and the red dwarf dew drop at its center, but the light it cast on its surroundings made his spark flicker with a disturbing fuzz.

“A plague,” Cyclonus said. “Considered a long-lost relic even in my own time. I would doubt this was the legitimate article, if Rodimus hadn’t so perfectly summarized its less infamous effects.”

“It can do more?” Magnus asked. What it had already done— whatever it had done, he still was not clear on the details—seemed itself too much for a bot to handle. Or two.

Cyclonus hesitated.

“Well, you see…”

“No. No, no, so much no, you’re kidding. Ratchet, tell me they’re kidding!”

“I don’t bloody well know!” he snapped back. He had sunk back into the pilot’s chair while Rodimus paced the bridge. His spark was spinning like a centrifuge, its engine overfed by the deluge of panicked thoughts tumbling through his mind. It was all Cyclonus and shuttle and Arcee and combination and Drift, new threads knocking each other out of the way so nothing could reach a conclusion, just endless half-thoughts pinged repeatedly. Worst was when Rodimus tripped over the junk now scattered across the bridge as it brought everything to a shuddering halt, like a whole expressway’s worth of engines seized up simultaneously.

He pressed his hands to his face and tried to focus on keeping his vents open, ignoring the storm of queries of Is Ratchet overheating? and Drift is going to kill me.

“I can’t be in a combiner with Ratchet!”

He hates me he hates me he hates me rattled around their processors like screws in a box.

“The Enigma has determined otherwise,” Cyclonus said.

So now the damn thing was having its own thoughts?

“It’s thinking ?” Rodimus asked, earning an additional glare from Ratchet.

“No one knows,” Cyclonus said. “It’s ancient technology, built on the same principles that govern sparks.” Principles that even modern science knew so little about. Ratchet was going to say it but froze when he felt Rodimus grab for it, tossing at it a hundred questions he had no answers to: Is that thing a person and Where do sparks come from and Would this stop if we broke it followed by another run of apologies.

“The Enigma has you in a holding pattern,” Cyclonus went on. “There aren’t enough of you to form the combiner, so it’s keeping your sparks connected until it can interface with at least one more Cybertronian.”

Ratchet saw the image that formed in Rodimus’ mind and his glower deepened.

“I don’t have the knowledge or the skills to disconnect something like that,” he said. “Sparks are complicated, Rodimus, and there’s still so much we don’t know about them. I didn’t even think it was possible to maintain a connection of this magnitude without direct contact.” Rodimus’ next idea was even worse. “Have you met your crew? The moment you put it in a box and tell no one to look, Brainstorm, Skids, and Whirl are all going to make breaking into it their personal quest.”

“Isolating the Enigma will not contain its effects,” Cyclonus added. “Because the holding pattern is an open channel, you have become conduits for the Enigma’s energies. If even one of you encounters another compatible component, it will complete the process, regardless of its distance from you.”

Rodimus stilled, then sunk to the floor, his thoughts miserably coalescing into a single thread.

“So, either we drag someone else into this mess, or we’re stuck in this shuttle, trying to think over each other forever?” Forever was steeped in darker emotions that caught Ratchet off-guard, which Rodimus immediately covered up with nonsense branches of observations about the junk on the floor. A negativity storm, Drift would have called it.

From behind, he heard Rodimus chuckle, though his thoughts betrayed little amusement.

“If I may,” Cyclonus said, interrupting no one. “Ratchet, I do respect you as a physician, but modern medicine is not the only source of knowledge concerning the Cybertronian body. Even modern theology, shallow thought it may be, offers insights to the nature of sparks that your specialty lacks.”

“No.” Ratchet scowled and shook his head, though more so at the way he felt Rodimus stirring that observation than the idea itself. “None of the woo-woo nonsense. Drift’s mindfulness agility course was bad enough.”

Unfortunately, his words made Rodimus’s thoughts expand in blooms, accompanied by shuffling as he stood to lean over the pilot’s chair.

“Drift was always trying to get me into his meditation thing,” he said. “He—he talked about the Rossum connection, how the mind impacts the spark and vice-versa. It was mostly, you know, power poses and cool sword moves, but there was more advanced stuff we didn’t get around to.”

“It could be a lead,” Cyclonus said, his grave voice somehow failing to make a dent in Rodimus’ growing enthusiasm. “I know very little about Spectralism, but if it involves manipulation of spark energies, there is a chance it could be used to counteract the effects of the Enigma.”

“Yeah, remember how Drift can see auras?” Rodimus said. “Maybe he can see where we’re tangled and just undo the knot.”

“There is no scientific backing to that kind of pandering—”

But we don’t have any other ideas.

Rodimus drew him up short, his own dearth of creativity reflected back to him as though in a mirror. Loathe though he was to admit it, Rodimus was right: they had nothing else. No leads, no one to fall back on. Cybertron’s history, the ancient mythologies that might have shed light on this technology, was lost to war and time, and all that was left was the third, fourth-hand accounts of people who claimed to know what was lost.

There was a chance Drift would have nothing to offer them, but even the possibility of guidance was an improvement over the helplessness Ratchet felt when he tried to imagine them fixing this on their own.

He received an image burst: Drift, wild and beautifully unhinged, leaping for the chance to care for Ratchet with literally open arms. Rodimus shut it down, distracting himself by counting rivets in the bridge ceiling, but vibrating embarrassment persisted between them.

“Would it be appropriate to call Drift for this?” Ultra Magnus asked, pulling the further from their internal squirming. “The truth about his role in the Overlord plan came out months ago, and since we’ve made no effort to contact him. To approach him now so he can solve this seems exploitative.”

Ratchet caught only the yellow of Rodimus’ hand before the captain vaulted over the back of the pilots’ chair, landing with a solid bang.

“I’ll take the blame,” he said.

“For what?” Ratchet asked, though he could already see it.

“For not fixing this sooner,” Rodimus said. He shrugged, a movement so automatic Ratchet did not pick up who it had been directed to. “I’m the captain. It was my responsibility and I failed. That shouldn’t doom Ratchet to having to live with my mistakes.”

He avoided Ratchet’s optics as he spoke, but Ratchet still caught his expression, the shiver of his spoiler as he spoke. It struck him that the reason Rodimus was so hard to read from an external perspective was because a single look meant so many things: frustration, guilt, grief, and hope piling on top of each other too quickly to discern where any one emotion rooted. His thoughts were going in so many directions all the time, of course it would be a challenge for everyone else to keep up.

“How do you intend to locate Drift?” Ultra Magnus asked, ever pragmatic.

“I have a tracker,” Ratchet said.

“I memorized the specifications for his shuttle,” Rodimus added, his processor spitting out the codes in full.

“And will that ship be adequate? Do you need additional supplies?”

Ratchet turned in the seat, looking around the scattered contents of the bridge, to say nothing of what their collision might have done to the storage down below. Despite the mess, he saw what looked like intact crates of potable energon, and the shuttle’s own systems were not in imminent danger of running dry.

“We’re stocked,” he said, and catching Rodimus’ primary concern, went on, “Unless Cyclonus know how far the Enigma’s effect extends, it’s going to be too risky to dock back in the Lost Light. We’ll make due with what’s here.”

“I’ll have Rewind compile you a list of known energon distributors with minority Cybertronian populations. That will be your best opportunity to refuel without risking exposure, should the need arise.”

Could the Enigma grab non-Cybertronian mechanicals? Rodimus wondered, a query Ratchet did not have the energy to entertain.

“Thanks, Mags,” Rodimus said out loud. “Take care of the place while we’re gone; you know the drill.”

“Of course, Rodimus. Uh, stay safe?”

Rodimus laughed, a sound that Ratchet felt as a golden thread, spun in a ripple through space before vanishing to nothing. He squinted, trying to make sense of what the hell that had been, but Rodimus’ burst of enthusiasm and plans for the coming journey overwhelmed him.

“Don’t worry, Ratchet’s pride will make sure I get back in one piece.”

You—!

It was going to be a long journey to the outer rim. Though Rodimus was grinning cheekily, the tense coil at the center of his thoughts agreed.

#maccadam #transformers #rodimus #ratchet #my writing #longfic #fault lines

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crimson-wings-n-icarus-dreams · 5 years

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Helice had just detained a criminal trying to assault a woman—she’d been out shopping by herself when she came across the incident. She’d been waiting for the police while soothing and calming the hysterically crying woman. The man was tied up, unconscious on the ground. (On Hero Duty or not, Helice, aka Syren, always had many of the tools of her trade on her person.) Then, there was a whoosh and Helice whirled around to find a man with crimson wings.

Hawks folded his wings as soon as he had landed. He'd seen the brunette subdue the man and proceed to comfort the woman as he was on his way to meet up with his "apprentice" Tokoyami. Surely the bird-headed boy wouldn't mind a slight delay."Everything alright, miss? Is there anything I can do to help you while I'm here?"Hawks asks, slowly approaching and taking in the situation before him. This girl--she was old enough to still be in school. How the heck did she manage to take control of a situation like this?? @helice-haides

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tomasorban · 5 years

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Magnetic Vortex in Space

It has been called a “magnetic Slinky” in the Orion Molecular Cloud. But electrical theorists predict that we will discover counterparts everywhere in space if we will simply look for them.

Astronomers say they have discovered a giant magnetic field that is coiled like a snake around a rod-shaped gas cloud in the constellation Orion. Timothy Robishaw, a graduate student at the University of California, Berkeley, involved in the discovery, described the structure as a "giant, magnetic Slinky wrapped around a long, finger-like interstellar cloud." So goes the story from Space.com about the discovery of an electrical vortex whirling through the cosmos. But, as we have often noted in these pages, astrophysicists continue to misunderstand what they see because they insist on seeing gas where plasma currents flow. Continuing with the article...“The helical shape of the magnetic field is believed to be caused by matter in the interstellar cloud moving in a straight line along the length of the filament. When this happens, it causes the magnetic field around the cloud to spiral around in a corkscrew pattern. The researchers were able to detect this spiral shape using the Green Bank Telescope, a radio observatory in West Virginia.” This is the classic "cart-before-the-horse" argument used by astrophysicists. It relies on a magnetic field being generated and trapped mysteriously within the gas cloud, the movement of the cloud itself causing the spiral magnetic field. Nothing about the cloud – its magnetic field, its shape, its movement, or what lights it – is actually explained by this kind of argument. The unwillingness of theorists to countenance electric currents in space prevents them from seeing the obvious: The power that forms and lights the rod-shaped gas cloud is electrical. The cloud and the magnetic field merely trace the current flow of a cosmic Birkeland current (see Figure 15.3.2). It was Kristian Birkeland in 1908 who postulated the existence of the currents that bear his name. And in 1939, Nobel Laureate Hannes Alfvén was the first physicist to promote Birkeland’s theory in a paper about electrical currents generated by the solar wind. In electrical terms, the spiraling magnetic field of the Orion Molecular Cloud derives partly from an external field aligned with the cloud axis and partly from the toroidal field produced by the current flowing along the cloud axis. This is the way electrified plasma behaves in the laboratory. The current is strongest at the axis (shown in red) and becomes weaker further away from the axis. If astrophysicists recognized this simple fact, the glowing arms of spiral galaxies would at last be seen as electromagnetic structures, subject to electromagnetic forces. The point needs to be made again and again: In our Electric Universe there is no need for weird "dark matter." We should look to radio astronomers, like those at the Green Bank Radio Telescope, who can map cosmic magnetic fields, for more and more evidence of cosmic Birkeland currents.

#cosmology #astronomy #astrophysics #science #electric universe

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anistarrose · 5 years

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Distortion (Gravity Falls x Pokemon)

Summary: Ford’s search for a way to take down Bill Cipher brings him to the Distortion World, where he meets a surprisingly kindred spirit.

Word Count: ~3800

Warnings: some self-blame and self-hatred

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440313

Another Pokemon Falls crossover, this time with Portal Ford!

***

Finding himself surrounded by shadowy trees that hung in the air like smoke, and staring down a massive waterfall that drew from a pool at his feet and ran upwards into the sky, Ford decided that he was getting really damn tired of gravity anomalies.

You’d think that falling through a punched hole in spacetime would be a singular sensation, unmatched by any other experience — but one of the first lessons Ford had had to learn was to never underestimate the vastness of the multiverse. There would always be yet another dimension where every too-light step would remind him of being lifted off the ground by a humming, crackling portal behind him, of bolts of blue-white electricity winding around him while gravity’s pull rendered him just as immobile and helpless as a Thunder Wave would —

At his side, his Ninetales let out a soft warning growl that jolted him back to reality, just in time to glimpse a shadow shoot across the clouded, dark blue sky. It vanished the span of a single pounding heartbeat, and Ford couldn’t help but look back to Ninetales, hoping for some confirmation that he hadn’t imagined the sight —

An ear-splitting screech filled the air, inhuman and indescribably enraged. Ford dove into the grove of spectral trees, Ninetales close behind him, but as his hand passed through one, they all faded away completely, leaving him no cover.

Yet as painfully exposed as he was, neither the shadow nor the screech returned. The dimension was left eerily silent, aside from the almost peaceful gurgling of the waterfall.

Ford stomped to the center of the floating platform, and yelled to no apparent target: “What is this place? Why did you guide me here?”

Naturally, there was no apparent reply. The waterfall kept gurling, and the illusory trees kept swaying in an intangible wind, but the dimension seemed almost completely devoid of any sentient life.

Except the shadow, of course — and Ford was already forming a hypothesis about that shadow, just as he did about nearly everything, but it seemed almost too incredible to believe. He wasn’t even sure if he would be thrilled to be proven right, or terrified.

He would make up his mind soon enough.

***

On many a rainy autumn afternoon back home, Ford would curl up in the top bunk with Rowlet and Vulpix while Stan would build a pillow fort beneath him with Meowth and Zorua, and they’d just sit peacefully together, drinking hot chocolate and sharing little tidbits from whatever they were reading at the time. Stan preferred comic books, loved the adventures of Crobatman and Captain Braviary and the Green Lanturn, but Ford…

Ford was always into mythology.

“Get this, Stan! There’s a Pokemon called Giratina that can travel between dimensions — and takes on different forms in the different worlds!”

“Huh, neato.”

“And here’s the coolest part — they say that in at least one of its forms, it has six legs and six spikes on its wings!”

“Really? Wow, sounds like you should try and catch one!”

“Well, according to the legend in this book, there’s only one in the whole universe — so catching it is probably off the table, but I’d still like to meet it. Except… except it doesn’t look like I’ll get a chance to, because…”

Ford’s face fell as he skimmed the next few paragraphs. “They say it mostly stays in a world on the reverse side of ours, because it was… banished there. It was just too… violent and destructive for our world, I guess…”

He didn’t say it, but he thought: Too much of a freak.

“Hey, lighten up! That just sounds like a spooky bedtime story someone made up to try and scare their kids into behaving,” Stan told him. “Or their little siblings. It seems kinda like something Shermie would come up with, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Ford said quietly. “These myths are usually pretty credible. I think it’s real.”

“Well, then I bet it’s just misunderstood,” Stan declared, unfazed. “You know, I bet you will meet Giratina one day — ‘cause you’re gonna clear its name! Find it an alibi! Show the world what makes the freaks and the weirdos the coolest of all of us, not the scariest!”

That got a smile out of Ford. “You’re right. And, you know… I always have wanted to travel to other dimensions…”

***

Ford quickly discovered that not all of the trees were illusions — but not before confidently walking into one and getting a faceful of rough, paper-thin leaves. He didn’t hear or see any more signs of Giratina — if that even was the shadow’s true identity. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be.

True, he had kept seeking out more myths about the Renegade Pokemon well into his college years, and would always be thrilled upon discovering a new tidbit of lore of even the most dubious credibility; and true, he had always clung to the improbable, self-indulgent dream that he might one day encounter Giratina itself and discover its true nature for himself —

But here in a dimension that bore an uncanny resemblance to the elusive Distortion World, subject of both shrouded legend and scientific speculation; here outside of idealistic childhood fantasy; here in reality where a hostile Legendary Pokemon could hurt or more likely kill him with ease, where his demise could spell the end for the whole universe’s best shot at escaping a demon’s tyrannical reign… here, Ford couldn’t help but be terrified.

Terrified and frustrated, that was, as he walked into the same damn tree for the second time.

“We’re just going in circles, aren’t we?” he realized aloud, and Ninetales gave a low murmur of agreement. “Just big, spacetime-defying circles. Shit, what do we do?”

As if on cue, something lit up near the edge of his peripheral vision. He instinctively whirled around to face it, but the light — a pulsating blue sphere, reminiscent of ball lightning — was already darting away, erratically weaving between floating trees and leaving behind a meandering, faintly glowing trail that arced between floating slabs of earth and across sideways lakes.

It was a familiar sight to Ford, having led him to this world in the first place.

“Azelf?” he whispered. There was no reply aside from the trail growing just the slightest bit dimmer.

“Fine,” he finally muttered. “I’ll follow you one more time.”

***

On many a day spent while wandering the multiverse, far from home and even further from peace, Ford would catch himself wondering if it was for the best.

Growing up, it would have taken more than twelve fingers to count all the times Ford was told he was cursed, or a bad omen, or simply a “monster.” Often, it wasn’t to his face — just whispered to his parents, or sometimes even his brothers, when the accuser didn’t think he was listening — but it was an omnipresent, inescapable constant of his childhood, something he had to learn to either tune out or shrug off.

Ironic, then, how it was only now that he was starting to believe it.

Now that he’d seen the lives he’d ruined. Now that he’d seen the destruction he’d invited in to his world. The way he’d torn Fiddleford away from a young and loving family and traumatized the poor man into starting a cult, the way he’d been so wrapped up in his own ego that he ignored all the words of warning from his friend, from his Pokemon, and eagerly put himself to work for an ancient entity of pure chaos and malevolence… “bad omen” didn’t even begin to describe the way he endangered everything and everyone he grew close to, the way he ruined everything he laid a hand on.

And yes, he was doing everything he could to fix his greatest mistake, to construct a weapon capable of destroying Bill, but his conscience simply would never allow him to do anything else. And yes, he sought out leads for ways he might one day be able to get safely home again, after Bill was dead and gone, but that was for his Pokemon’s sakes, not his own. He had left a world that he had never fit into, never done anything but endanger, and had he been adrift in the multiverse alone… he wasn’t sure he’d ever go home, even if given the chance.

***

Ford called Ninetales back into its Pokeball for a time, as he leapt between stepping stones across an unnaturally calm lake. Two twin rivers fed into it, twisting down from above like a double helix and generating a froth of bubbles that dissipated quickly, leaving the surface pristine like a giant mirror. For a moment, he thought that he saw a massive shadow reflected in it, looming and angular — but then he blinked, and it was just an all-too-familiar face that was staring back at him.

(His face, but not his face. Gaunt with exhaustion and weary from fighting off despair just like his, but not for the same reasons.)

Then the surface began to ripple, so subtly at first that Ford couldn’t quite pin down what was wrong, even as his instincts screamed at him to run. Cautiously, he crouched down and lowered his head to the water’s level —

Another screech tore through his ears, and he jerked his head up to see an invisible shape burst through the helical tributaries. Based off the massive explosion of water it displaced, Ford surmised it must have been gigantic, easily taller than he was and maybe as much as three or four times as long…

And now it was barreling straight towards him, its path made visible by the V-shaped wave it churned up as it flew. The spray from the lake seemed to interact with its body for a few brief seconds, revealing a glimpse of a set of long, thin wings — six of them, by Ford’s count.

He took a step backwards, nearly toppled into the lake, and then made a split-second decision as he righted himself. The creature had to be flying only just above the surface, in order to leave such a large splash in its wake —

Just before the point of the V reached his stepping stone, Ford jumped as high as his legs could carry him and slammed against something solid.

***

When Ford had nearly drowned while hiding from pursuers at the bottom of a lake, his oxygen tank leaking at an alarming rate, the hidden entrance to a submerged cave full of breathable air had felt like divine intervention — and the stories of lake-dwelling spirits, representing knowledge, willpower, and emotion, that he remembered reading as a child only reinforced that feeling.

Yes, it may it may have been a bit naive, a bit too optimistic, of him to get his hopes up for an encounter with Uxie in particular — but he couldn’t stop his mind from leaping to the possibilities that a favor from the Being of Knowledge would offer him. He could ask for information about Bill Cipher’s history, or weaknesses, or even where in the multiverse he could find some of those stubbornly elusive components of his quantum destabilizer…

And besides, he was Stanford Pines. What lake guardian would take an interest in him, if not the one representing knowledge, and truth, and memory, and by extension science?

So when he noticed a pulsating blue light shining on the cave walls — not the golden-yellow of Uxie, which he’d been so desperately hoping for — he was taken aback. He froze in place reflexively as a glowing blue orb darted out from around the corner and circled him erratically, stopping inches away from his face for a second before teleporting a few feet back and taking on a less luminescent, more defined form. Two resplendent red gems rested near the tips of two long, flat tails, and another between bright, intelligent golden eyes that seemed to be constantly shifting, looking Ford over.

Azelf, Being of Willpower, was not the first Legendary Pokemon Ford had ever encountered, but it may very well have been the most unexpected.

“Why you?” he blurted out. “Can you help me defeat Cipher?”

Azelf took off in a flash, so quickly that Ford momentarily thought it had left the room before he noticed it behind him, circling one of the the larger puddles like a glowing, crackling blue whirlwind. He took a step towards it, and realized the puddle seemed oddly reflective — his mirror image was bright and vividly colored, albeit warped and distorted by ripples.

Azelf zipped by once more, narrowly missing his face, and he tried to take a step back but his legs felt as heavy as lead. With horror, he watched as the puddle in front of him sunk into the ground, creating a roughly conical and ever-widening depression that he almost immediately found himself on the slope of.

“With all due respect, Azelf,” he growled as he was dragged towards the center, “what the fuck?!”

After a moment of frantic fumbling, while continuing to slide towards the apparent portal — a cylindrical hole in spacetime itself, starlight from Arceus-knew-what galaxies flashing from within the tunnel’s navy blue walls — he managed to procure a grappling hook from his bag, and aimed for a jagged formation of stalagmites a few feet beyond the outer edge of the conical whirlpool. But his shot was instantly pulled off course as the wormhole’s gravity caught it, redirecting it down and into the distortion as Ford felt a violent tug on his end of the line. For the first time since the portal had appeared, he felt his feet move — dragged down the side of the cone and into the portal, where his vision went white and his body went weightless.

When he felt solid ground beneath his feet again, he was surrounded by gravity-defying waterfalls and wispy illusory trees.

***

His attacker became visible as Ford landed on it, his hands running over a red and black-striped back that felt rough, yet oddly immaterial. The sensation of touching rough scales was undoubtedly present, just not as vivid as it should have been to Ford’s senses. He nearly lost his grip as the creature — no, as Giratina, there was no doubt anymore — writhed and screeched in apparent surprise, but Ford somehow managed to turn himself around and grab one of the yellow ridges where its wings attached to its body, straddling its serpentine neck awkwardly as the six wings beat furiously around him.

Half-blinded by the spray as Giratina flew through another waterfall, Ford was guided by experience and instinct alone as he reached for a Pokeball on his belt. His Decidueye appeared in a flash of light, dodging red-spiked wings and a lashing tail to fly along Ford’s side.

“Use Spirit Shackle!” Ford yelled. “Immobilize the wings!”

Decidueye perched briefly on a floating stone and let three arrows fly. Two of them were lost to the gravity anomalies, deflected off in unpredictable directions, but the last one flew true — piercing through two of six smokelike wings, which spasmed as a purple aura spread down the tendrils. Giratina immediately careened off to one side, and Ford instinctively tightened his grip — a mistake, he realized a few seconds later, when the two of them crashed into the mirrorlike surface of the lake below and the force of the impact tore through him, ripping him off of Giratina’s back and plunging him into the water.

The cold hit him first, a wave of icy pins and needles that swept down his body, trying to inject him with numbness, with that atmosphere of lifelessness and hopelessness that permeated this dimension. He spluttered and thrashed, desperately trying to breach the surface, to find a handhold to pull himself to shore, but as second after precious second crept away without oxygen, he realized: there was no sense of buoyancy in this lake, no tug pulling him towards the surface. No way to know which way was up.

He forced his eyes open, and saw glowing red stripes lighting up the darkness. They coiled all around him, above and below and to every side, as two gleaming crimson eyes floated ever closer —

Enveloped in a bright blue aura, Azelf zipped through the water between them. It touched one tail to Ford’s forehead and the other to a spot right between Giratina’s eyes, then disappeared before Ford could even process what had happened.

“What —” he gurgled, opening his mouth reflexively and not closing it fast enough to stop the water from surging into his lungs. He hacked and coughed, trying to whack himself in the chest with one hand and reach for his Pokeballs with the other, but he failed on both counts as his limbs grew heavy, and blurry spots danced across his already obscured vision —

Something lifted him above the surface and he gasped for breath, taking longer than he should have to realize that he was now kneeling upon Giratina’s head, just behind its golden crown.

You need to breathe? a raspy and faintly echoing, yet surprisingly soft voice asked him.

“Most humans do,” he choked out automatically, spitting coughed-up water back into the lake and recalling a concerned-looking Decidueye back into its Pokeball before the nature of the conversation sunk in. “Wait — Giratina? You saved me?”

Yes. Giratina went silent for a while, as it lazily drifted across the surface of the lake — how it could float despite the disorienting lack of buoyancy, Ford wasn’t sure.

Why are you here? it finally continued.

That was a good question, Ford thought, and also a question he wasn’t sure how to reply to. It was tempting to simply blame Azelf, but given how it was Azelf who had evidently opened up their current line of telepathic communication, that didn’t seem wise.

In a roundabout way, he’d ultimately ended up here for the same reason he ever traveled to any dimension, Ford figured, so that was how he decided to reply.

“I’m looking for a material that will help me save the multiverse,” he stated slowly.

Why does the burden of saving the multiverse fall to you?

It wasn’t the response Ford was expecting — though it may have been one that he deserved.

“I made a mistake. I was the one who endangered my home dimension in the first place, and now I need to fix things.”

Giratina didn’t respond immediately. What is the material? it eventually asked.

“Well, there are a few different components I’m looking for… do you have anything small that distorts spacetime either far more or far less than its mass would indicate?”

Yes. Hold on tight.

Giratina spread its wings and lifted into the air, Ford still perched atop its head. Columns of water and floating rocky islands flew past them as they ascended, and raced towards the blanket of foreboding purple clouds that stretched across the sky from horizon to horizon —

And then, they’d breached it, and were surrounded by stars — white dwarfs and red giant and everything in between, binary pairs dancing waltzes together while supernovas exploded into sizzling plumes of plasma. Yet they all ranged just from the size of a fist to a basketball, and floated by within arm’s reach of Ford, so close that he could feel their heat drying out his sopping coat.

Instinctively, he held out an arm to run a hand through a glowing red-orange nebula, and streams of gas danced around his fingers, swirling together to consolidate in his palm. He made a fist, and the contents of his hand immediately caught ablaze under the pressure — not quite hot enough to singe him, but bright enough that rays of white light escaped from the cracks between his fingers, illuminating all six of them like a beacon in the night sky.

Giratina dove back beneath the layer of clouds, and as they slowed to a more leisurely pace, Ford opened his hand again to see a system of six tiny stars all orbiting each other as they hovered just above his palm.

Will that work?

“...It’s perfect.”

They drifted past the double helix waterfall once again, close enough for Ford to make out his distorted reflection in one of the streams.

Life isn’t meant to stay in this world, Giratina told him. We should part ways soon… but before, I can open a portal nearly anywhere in the multiverse for you…

A pause. You know, I could open a portal to your home.

Ford looked down at the star system in his hand, and then back to his reflection… and then over his shoulder, to the still nowhere-near-complete weapon strapped across his back.

“I deeply appreciate the offer, but my team and I can’t. There are still things we need to do that… we need to keep traveling between dimensions to accomplish.”

You are banished by your own choices, then…

Giratina nearly came to a complete halt for a moment, and Ford cringed, so preoccupied with worrying he’d misspoken that he hardly noticed the sphere of ball lightning descending from the sky just a few feet from his face.

You have a fierce stubbornness inside of you. Azelf’s voice was loud and resonant inside Ford’s head, completely unlike Giratina’s hesitant, rasping whisper. And when you embrace it, it may often turn out to be to your detriment…

It shed the sphere of blue lightning, revealing its true form. Warm golden eyes fixated on Ford, and its tails twitched as an oddly human smile spread across its tiny face.

But our flaws often stem from our greatest strengths, and you possess exactly the dedication and endurance that are needed to save this universe.

“Thank you, Azelf,” Ford whispered. “I’m sorry for doubting your judgement.”

Have you decided where you wish to go, if not home? Giratina asked him.

“I suppose… Dimension 61-6,” Ford decided. That was the dimension he’d encountered Azelf in, a place that he still hoped would contain many more resources to help him in his fight against Cipher.

Alright. Giratina opened its mouth and breathed out a whirlwind of shadows that bore into the surface of the lake below, carving a conical depression in the water. A white glow lit up at the bottom of the funnel, flickering faintly as if beckoning Ford towards it.

“I’d be so lost without your help, Giratina. Thank you so much.”

Giratina’s head bobbed slightly, as if nodding.

I wish you luck with your quest… friend.

Before he could change his mind, Ford jumped through the portal.

***

Bhduv odwhu, ehlqj suhvvhg iru lqirupdwlrq dqg hqyhorshg lq d yhub gliihuhqw wbsh ri eoxh oljkwlqj, lw zdv wklqnlqj edfn wr wklv hqfrxqwhu wkdw nhsw Irug iurp jlylqj xs.

Thanks for reading, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always! I’ve been thinking about the Mystery Trio and how they correspond to the Lake Guardians for a while, and eventually settled on:

Stan is emotion (Mesprit): He can definitely be very stubborn, but that stubbornness is often derived from emotion, such as his love for his family. He acts closed-off sometimes, but emotions are the driving force behind so many of his actions, like restarting the portal despite the dangers and sacrificing himself to beat Bill and save his family.

Fiddleford is knowledge (Uxie): This one is probably the most clear-cut, since Uxie is capable of erasing memories. Of course, Fidds is highly intelligent and inventive as well, just like the traits Uxie is said to grant.

Ford is willpower (Azelf): Knowledge could of course be fitting for him too (and that manifests a little bit in the fic itself, with Ford hoping to meet Uxie), but I think willpower encapsulates his personality even better. He survived in the multiverse for 30 years with the sole goal of taking down Bill, and then endured a brutal amount of torture in Weirdmageddon but still refused to give Bill the equation.

#pokemon falls au #gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #pokemon #giratina #crossover #rosalia writes fic

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justbeingnamaste · 6 years

Photo

Here Are 7 ‘Lost Technologies’ From Nikola Tesla That Threatened The Global Elite !

Not long ago I wrote about how the federal Bureau of Investigation (The FBI) released a number of declassified files about Nikola Tesla.

Among them, the government revealed their interest in the Death Ray –a futuristic particle beam weapon that Tesla had invented.

Check out this article and download ALL of Nikola Tesla’s patents.

73 years after the FBI seized nearly TWO TRUCKS of papers of one of the world’s most famous inventors, the Federal Bureau of Investigations released the documents to the public. The batch of documents made available through the Freedom of Information Act also reveal Tesla did not die on January 7, 1943, as previously believed, but a day later on January 8.

In general, the FBI documents revealed a number of details that changed a lot of what we know about Tesla, his life, his inventions and his legacy. Check out the declassified documents from the FBI HERE.

Tesla, like the genius he was, was way ahead of his time.

He envisioned a bright and positive future for mankind, as he patented and created hundreds of technologies that no one before had envisioned, nor dared to imagine.

It is rightfully said that the Croatian-born inventor was a man who changed the world.

In this article, we take a look at seven ‘lost’ inventions by Tesla, which many people are unaware of.

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Tesla’s UFO—antigravity technology

We know that Tesla was all about free energy and alternative powers sources.

Actually, it wasn’t unidentified.

Despite this, the methods and design of Tesla’s revolutionary vehicle is believed to match the description of people who witnessed disk-shaped flying objects, or UFO’s.

It is believed that Tesla’s UFO had ‘eyes’ made of electro-optical lenses, arranged in quadrants, allowing the pilot to see everything. Screens and monitors are placed on a console where the browser can observe all areas around the vehicle, and Tesla’s incredible invention included magnifying lenses, which could have been used without changing positions.

Evidence of such a vehicle can be found in an interview between Nikola Tesla and The New York Herald, from 1911:

“My flying machine will have neither wings nor propellers. You might see it on the ground and you would never guess that it was a flying machine. Yet it will be able to move at will through the air in any direction with perfect safety, at higher speeds than have yet been reached, regardless of weather and oblivious of “holes in the air” or downward currents. It will ascend in such currents if desired. It can remain absolutely stationary in the air, even in a wind, for a great length of time. Its lifting power will not depend upon any such delicate devices as the bird has to employ but upon positive mechanical action.”RF

Tesla’s Death Ray

Prior to the release of the declassified documents by the FBI, many people argue that Tesla’s Death Ray was just another conspiracy.

Previously, it was believed that Tesla’s Death Ray did not exist, and the FBI claimed for over a decade that none of their agents had EVER investigated Tesla’s papers, nor was the bureau in possession of any of them.

However, after the FBI published Tesla’s files, we learned that among the published files, a letter addressed to J. Edgar Hoover, the first Director of the FBI, highlights the importance of an article in which Tesla speaks of the death ray and its ‘crucial importance’ for future warfare.

It was recommended that Tesla constantly remained under surveillance in order to protect him from ‘foreign enemies’ who may also have an interest in “the secret of such an invaluable instrument of war and/or defense.”

Free Energy, and wireless electricity

With the help of funding from JP Morgan, Tesla successfully built and tested the famous Wardenclyffe Tower.

The structure was a massive wireless energy transmission station which, according to Tesla, had the ability to transmit wireless power across great distances.

Tesla saw the Wardenclyffe Tower as the beginning of a massive free energy project.

Tesla wanted to use the tower not only to transmit free energy but to send out messages, telephone calls across the Earth.

As explained by Tesla himself, the Earth is “…like a charged metal ball moving through space”, which creates the enormous, rapidly varying electrostatic forces which diminish in intensity with the square of the distance from Earth, just like gravity. Since the direction of propagation radiates from the earth, the so-called force of gravity is toward earth.

His theories were based on the idea that our planet had the ability to conduct the signals. Using a number of different towers, Tesla could have made the idea work.

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However, and as we have learned through history, the idea of Free Energy isn’t really welcomed by big corporations. After all, why give free energy to the masses when you can make the masses pay big time?

Eventually, Tesla’s funding was canceled, and the tower was destroyed, along with Tesla’s ideas of a world powered by free energy.

Tesla’s Oscillator

This device was an electromechanical apparatus patented by Tesla in 1893.

The device was popularly known as Tesla’s Earthquake machine after the European inventor claimed that one version of his device caused an Earthquake in New York in 1898.

In other words, the device could allegedly simulate earthquakes, which meant it could be weaponized. Some conspiracy theorists are convinced that Tesla’s technology was later further developed and is being used by HAARP.

Tesla’s Futuristic Aircraft

In addition to creating devices that could potentially be used as weapons, and structures that could offer Free Energy to the world, Nikola Tesla also worked on electrically powered airships that, according to reports, could transport passengers from New York to London in three hours.

These aircraft were not ordinary vehicles. They were supposedly able to harness energy right fro Earth’s atmosphere and had no need ever to stop and refuel.

But why have aircraft that makes use of free energy, if billions can be made by selling it?

Drones in 1898

More than a hundred years ago, Tesla invented DRONES.

So, everyone who thinks that Drones are actually a product of recent technologies, you are wrong.

It was called Tesla’s TELEAUTOMATON. And the funny part is that the government had this technology in their possession for over a hundred years. This raises a number of questions.

Is it possible that they adopted, further developed, and used ‘drones’ more than half a decade ago?

Here’s an excerpt from Tesla’s Drone patent:

Here is an excerpt from his patent:

“Be it known that I, Nikola Tesla a citizen of the United States, residing at New York, in the county and State of New York, have invented certain new and useful improvements in methods of and apparatus for controlling from a distance the operation of the propelling engines, the steering apparatus, and other mechanism carried by moving bodies or floating vessels, of which the following is a specification, reference being had to the drawings accompanying and forming part of the same… The invention which I have described will prove useful in many ways. Vessels or Vehicles of any suitable kind may be used, like life, dispatch, or pilot boats or the like, or for carrying letters, packages, provisions, instruments, objects, or materials of any description, for establishing communication with inaccessible regions and exploring the conditions existing in the same, for killing or capturing whales or other animals of the sea, and for many other scientific, engineering, or commercial purposes; but the greatest value of my invention will result from its effect upon warfare and armaments, for by reason of its certain and unlimited destructiveness it will tend to bring about and maintain permanent peace among nations.”

From: “Specification forming part of Letters Patent No. 613,809, dated November 8, 1898.” The full original text and diagrams can be found at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office website: http://patimg1.uspto.gov/.piw?docid=00613809&SectionNum=1&IDKe

Propulsion systems for Spacecraft, and Tesla’s Dynamic Theory of Gravity

While we discussed something similar in Tesla’s UFO, the truth is that he went beyond flying objects.

In an unpublished article of Man’s Greatest Achievement, Tesla outlined his Dynamic Theory of Gravity saying that ‘luminiferous ether fills all space’. Tesla said that the ether is acted upon by the life-giving creative force. The ether is thrown into “infinitesimal whirls” (“micro helices”) at near the speed of light, becoming ponderable matter. Then, the force subsides and motion ceases, matter reverts to the ether (a form of “atomic decay”).

Mankind can harness these processes, to:

-Precipitate matter from the ether -Create whatever he wants with the matter, and energy derived -Alter the earth’s size -Control earth’s seasons (weather control) -Guide earth’s path through the Universe, like a spaceship -Cause the collisions of planets to produce new suns and stars, heat, and light -Originate and develop life in infinite forms

~~~ Source ( Gratitude ) Ivan is editor-in-chief at ancient-code.com, he also writes for Universe Explorers. You may have seen him appear on the Discovery and History Channel.

#Here Are 7 ‘Lost Technologies’ From Nikola Tesla That Threatened The Global Elite #Love and Respect Nikola Tesla #By Ivan #Gratitude Ancient Code

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terrifyingrenegadelibrary · 7 years

Text

Volume 2, Chapter 5

Time and Space

-battle lines immediately begin to form-

-Novju begins advancing on Zaresi, and the two vanish-

-Liz moves towards her, but is intercepted by Dee, Andrew, and the Poltergeist-

Liz: Oh? Is this really the decision you want to make?

Poltergeist: Do we really have a choice?

Liz: We all have choices. Dee? Um, whoever you are?

Dee: Just because I ran out of rituals doesn’t mean I don’t know how to fight.

Andrew: …(weakly) I’m Andrew.

-Dee gives him a look-

-Liz shrugs-

Liz: Well, if you’re sure.

-she summons a single wing-

Liz: Last chance?

Poltergeist: Bring it.

Liz: Okay.

-Liz lunges, moving so fast she turns into a streak of energy. Dee already has a tesseract up, and Liz is suddenly moving in a different direction, but the Reaper stops on a dime, whipping around and hurling three feathers. Andrew steps forwards, and puts out his hands-

-and a rock appears, whirling around in the air to deflect the attacks into the ground-

Dee: …Where did Morgan find you?

-Andrew shrugs helplessly-

-as Liz prepares to strike a second time, the Poltergeist flashes past Dee and Andrew, intercepting her, bursts of miasma meeting wings-

Liz: You’re quick. I’m quicker.

-she vanishes, reappearing behind the Poltergeist, and grabs it by an arm, swinging it around and slamming it into the ground as one of her arms extends into a long tendril-

Liz: You won’t be making it out of this in one piece, I’m afraid.

Poltergeist: I didn’t come into this in one piece either, so I’m not too worried. Anyway, as Morgan would say, distraction.

Liz: …Damn.

-she spins around in time to parry attacks from Andrew and Dee, but is forced to spin back again, as the attacks are now coming from both directions-

Liz: Not bad for a bunch of kids. But I’m pretty sure I’m older than all of you put together, and I’ve still got a trick or seventy up my sleeve.

-and she vanishes again-

Poltergeist: That’s a cheap tactic.

Andrew: Why can’t you do that?

Liz: They’ll probably figure it out. Assuming they live that long, which is looking unlikely.

-she reappears, darting around the three and launching feathers from all sides, but Andrew and Dee work together to redirect them. The Poltergeist, meanwhile, charges, crashing headlong into Liz and sending both Spirits tumbling-

Poltergeist: Hey, you’re right!

-and Liz disappears again, leaving the Poltergeist to keep going and crash into a wall-

Liz: Credit for trying, I suppose.

-at which point a stream of attacks from Dee and Andrew force her to put up a wing as defense-

Liz: Hm.

-Laura, seeing the battle, runs towards Liz-

-and a moon smashes to the ground in front of her. She turns around to see another behind her, and then turns to see Morgan glaring at her-

Laura: Morgan, what are you doing?

Morgan: Something I should have done earlier.

-she smashes the two moons together, and Laura jumps back to avoid being crushed. Morgan swings herself around, whirling the moons like flails, and Laura ducks and scampers around them-

-then Morgan collides the moons again. One vanishes, reappearing along a completely different line of attack. It collides with Laura, and sends her flying-

Laura: Erk!

-she rolls to a halt as Morgan sprints towards her. She scrambles away from the two attacks, and blasts them apart with Death magic-

Laura: I don’t want to hurt you.

Morgan: Too late by a lot.

-Morgan conjures another moon and swings it down onto Laura, who sidesteps. Morgan then once again hits the moon with another moon, sending it careening off towards Laura, who sprays a barrier out from her hands to parry it-

-at which point the other moon, which reflected off the first one, hits Laura from behind, knocking her to the ground-

Laura: …Fine. Is that how you want to do things?

Morgan: I’m done listening to you talk.

-she whirls the moons around, swinging them down onto Laura-

-and dozens of spirals of Death magic shred them into nonexistence-

Laura: Okay.

-she stands up. She looks more or less on the verge of despair, but her eyes narrow and her face hardens-

Laura: I’m really, really sorry it got here, Morgan.

Morgan: Save it.

-Laura breathes out-

-and the two leap at each other-

-cut to the skies above London, where Novju and Zaresi are battling. Zaresi flashes around the other goddess, whirling twin scythes, each pitch-black and trailing Death magic in their wake. Novju is taking a far less flashy approach. Each time one of Zaresi’s scythes gets close, she simply alters space to avoid it-

Zaresi: It is not too late for this to end peacefully, you know. We both have an interest in conquest. There is no reason we could not work together.

Novju: Interesting offer, Zaresi, but let me remind you of something.

-two slashes are made. Each is made to miss-

Zaresi: Yes?

Novju: When you thought I was just some backwater Goddess of Parking, you snuffed out my life without a second thought. You’ve killed, by my count, at least five of my bodies between your hometown and here.

Zaresi: And?

-Zaresi slashes at Novju, who decides she’s bored of simply dodging and teleports to a nearby rooftop. Zaresi plunges after, veering around pockets in space created by Novju-

Novju: Am I to expect that your show of mercy now, when you’ve finally had your chance to see me at my full power, is anything other than a sad attempt to bluff?

-she grins as she waves her hands lazily back and forth, conjuring up more obstacles in Zaresi’s path as the other goddess attempts to reach the rooftop-

Novju: I’m older than you can imagine, Zaresi. I’ve met gods like you, and I’ll meet gods like you again when I’m finished here. I know you. You take what you want from those you think can’t resist you, but you roll over like a dog to anyone who might be a real threat. You wouldn’t stand up to Vorn until you knew you could kill her without retaliation, and you won’t stand up to me now. But I guess that’s why you’re a goddess of Death, huh? Not willing to take on anyone with any life still in them.

-Zaresi finally lands on the roof, immediately whirling her scythes at Novju, who leans back ever so slightly to dodge-

Novju: Your second mistake was in assuming I was looking for power. My only goal has been to prolong my existence as long as possible. To see everything. To experience everything. Until now, I’ve never even felt the need to so much as step out of the shadows.

-she shrugs-

Novju: But I suppose you’ve never been much for subtlety. I’m not surprised such a concept would escape you.

Zaresi: I am Death, Novju. Nothing escapes me. I claim all.

-Novju smiles ever so slightly, placing her hands together as though triangulating-

Novju: Claim this.

-it immediately becomes clear what the earlier columns of Space magic were. A tiny, glowing point streaks from Novju’s hands, and as it reaches Zaresi, it erupts with light. A column stretches skywards, carrying the Death Goddess with it. Novju then jerks a hand, and the column vanishes, Zaresi dropping like a rock to crash back into the rooftop-

Novju: Your first mistake, by the way, was picking a fight with me at all.

-she begins gathering Space magic into a point again-

Novju: Sure you’re feeling up to this?

-Zaresi floats back to her feet-

Zaresi: It is my turn now.

Novju: Are we taking turns? You should have mentioned something; I’m afraid I’ve been taking yours.

-cut back to Morgan and Laura, who can see the battle from far away-

Morgan: Looks like we’re winning.

Laura: Zaresi knows what she’s doing.

-the two exchange attacks, Morgan flailing away wildly with her moons and Laura destroying them with precisely-aimed bursts of Death-

Morgan: Does she really?

Laura: Yes!

-for the first time, Laura seems to show an emotion that isn’t anxiety or sadness. She makes a frantic series of attacks against Morgan, swirling helices of Death homing in on her from all directions-

Morgan: Sure.

-Morgan forms a moon in front of herself, bending Laura’s attacks away from her-

Morgan: So, where’s Thing #2? Not that I’m complaining about not having Evan around, but I’d really like the chance to punch in the face of the guy who personally murdered all my friends, as opposed to just the one who helped.

-Laura winces, and chooses to ignore the jab-

Laura: I don’t know where Novju sent him.

-Laura ducks under a moon, and blasts another one away-

Morgan: Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and he’s in the Thames.

-Laura sighs, while Morgan swings a moon over her head, smashing it down onto Laura-

Morgan: Got you!

-no response. Morgan’s eyes widen slightly-

Morgan: …Laura?

-Death magic bursts out of the moon, shredding it and revealing Laura standing, uninjured. Morgan’s eyes narrow again, while Laura’s widen with realization-

Laura: You don’t want to kill me.

Morgan: I’m not the killer here.

Laura: What do you want, then?

Morgan: I’d like my sister back.

-she conjures multiple moons-

Morgan: I’ll settle for stopping you.

-Morgan whirls the moons at Laura, who tears them all apart with a spiral of Death magic-

Laura: …I’m sorry.

Morgan: Stop apologizing.

Laura: Not seeing many other options.

-and the two continue fighting. Cut to Liz, who is watching the battle while easily fending off attacks from Dee, Andrew, and the Poltergeist-

Liz: A shame about those two. I could have told you from the start it was a poor decision, but…

Poltergeist: Oh, come on! At least pretend like you’re putting effort into this.

Liz: Erm. Sorry.

-she dodges the next attack from each one, then grabs the Poltergeist, still evading strikes from Dee and Andrew as her arm extends to smash the Poltergeist into the walls, floor, and ceiling of the garage-

Liz: Better?

Poltergeist: Not really…

-the Poltergeist vanishes, and Liz sticks out a wing in what seems like a random direction…only for the Poltergeist to reappear with the wing intersecting what would be its torso-

Poltergeist: …Uh-oh.

-there’s a blast of Death magic, and the Poltergeist is flung away, landing in a heap with smoke pouring from burning holes in its essence. Liz turns towards Dee and Andrew-

Liz: Any further concerns?

Dee: None.

Andrew: You know we’re both screwed, right?

Dee: I kind of think I knew that when I got into this.

Andrew: No, but like…not abstractly. Not just “Oh, we’re up against it.” We are concretely and conclusively screwed.

Dee: Don’t be such a pessimist.

Liz: You’re welcome to cut and run at any time, you know. You have my word, you won’t be pursued any longer.

Dee: I’ll admit it’s tempting…but no.

Liz: Don’t say I didn’t give you the option.

-Liz flashes forwards. Without the Poltergeist, Dee and Andrew are left at a massive speed disadvantage, and in a storm of feathers the two are left stunned on the ground. Liz sighs and sits down-

Liz: This is kind of boring, you know.

Dee: Screw you…

-cut back to Novju and Zaresi’s fight-

Novju: This honestly isn’t nearly as entertaining as I’d hoped it would be.

-she waves her hands back and forth, space shifting around them. Zaresi is slammed into the ground, then launched high into the air, where she struggles to a halt in time to dodge another explosion of Space magic. Zaresi hurls a scythe down at Novju, but Novju stretches space, and then collapses the scythe into a point, destroying it-

Novju: I mean, it’s fun and all, but is it really worth it? I didn’t have to call in my whole self just for you. Remind me to complain to Morgan and the rest after I’m done here.

-Zaresi dives for Novju, but is simply redirected to the side-

Novju: Actually, wait, I guess you won’t be around to do that…

-she sighs-

Novju: Is there anything you could maybe do to make this more interesting for me?

Zaresi: I have an idea, but I doubt you would like it.

Novju: Meh. Can’t be any worse than this.

Zaresi: Very well.

-she vanishes, reappearing on another rooftop-

Zaresi: Now.

Novju: Hmm?

-darkness pours out of the windows of buildings, whirling around Novju-

Iggy: We hear and obey!

Novju: That isn’t cool. Like, at all.

Iggy: Oh…

-the darkness coalesces into dozens of Reapers, which all dive towards Novju-

Zaresi: I have been collecting! All the gods with any real sense agreed to join me, so I sent them on ahead! This whole battle, I have been maneuvering us to where they were waiting! And now, Novju, you will—

-Novju spreads her hands wide, and dozens of pockets of space erupt, mostly in the middle of the Reapers. The unfortunate ones who happen to be occupying those spaces are quickly torn apart. The survivors of the attack pull back-

Novju: I will what? Finish your sentences, Zaresi.

-as Zaresi flashes forwards, Death magic exploding off her, Novju casually evades a half-dozen scythes-

Novju: Out of words? That works too, I guess.

-cut back to Laura and Morgan-

Laura: You couldn’t finish me when you had the chance, Morgan. I know you don’t want to hurt me any more than I want to hurt you, so let’s just call this off.

-Laura sends a blast of Death magic at Morgan, who bats it aside-

Morgan: …

Laura: It isn’t too late, Morgan. Zaresi’s angry, but I could talk her into letting you back.

Morgan: …

-and her magic shifts. Instead of the moon, her scythe forms, splitting into several blades as they tug Laura’s helices apart and send her tumbling-

Morgan: That ship’s sailed.

-Laura stares-

Laura: How did you…

Morgan: I dunno if it really matters. Sheer righteous anger, probably.

-and she hurls scythes at Laura, who only barely destroys them before they reach her-

-the two exchange attacks-

Morgan: Maybe, just maybe, I could have forgiven you for the tulpa that hurt Holly. And even after you killed everyone, I still didn’t really want you dead. But after you got my sister killed?

-fighty fighty-

Morgan: I got into this for my sister. I pledged myself to Zaresi because I had the slightest hope that I might be able to save her. And you helped take that away.

-Morgan begins to gain an edge, as her attacks bend Laura’s out of shape, pushing them out of the way. Laura backs up, nervously-

Morgan: But you think I’m not only going to forgive you, I’ll come back to work for Zaresi? And you think that because I don’t just kill downed opponents that I’m secretly still on your side?

-she hurls a scythe. As Laura moves to block it, it shrinks…and then reappears in front of Laura, slamming into her and carrying her twenty feet back before dissipating. Laura’s attacks vanish, as she collapses to the ground-

Morgan: Well, fine. I won’t be making that mistake again, don’t worry.

-cut back to Liz’s fight. Liz is sitting cross-legged among her opponents-

Liz: So how’s it going?

Poltergeist: Ow.

Liz: That’s fair. Are you getting used to being a Spirit?

Poltergeist: Not really.

Liz: Remembering anything?

Poltergeist: I’m remembering you just smacked me into the ground hard enough to kill anything corporeal.

Liz: Well, yeah, that happened like twenty seconds ago.

Poltergeist: I’m just trying to point out that we’re not friends.

Liz: That doesn’t mean I actually bear you any ill will. I just need to stop you.

Poltergeist: Do you really?

Liz: Well, it’s this or you go to fight Zaresi and actually get killed.

Poltergeist: So I should thank you?

Liz: I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m only stating a fact. You fight me, you get thrown around some, it��s awkward for you, it’s boring for me, you get to live another day. You fight Zaresi, you’re never going to get a chance to figure out who it is you are.

-behind Liz, Dee and Andrew have recovered. Andrew waves to the Poltergeist-

Poltergeist: Hey, Liz?

Liz: Yes?

Poltergeist: If you were going to shake your head, but you didn’t have a head, what would you do?

Liz: There’s always ASL.

Poltergeist: Don’t know it, unfortunately.

Liz: Shame. Why do you ask?

Poltergeist: No reason.

-Andrew and Dee both lunge. Liz, without looking, catches them both and flips them over her head, where they land in a heap-

Andrew: Ow.

Dee: This isn’t any better for me; your elbow is in my lung.

Andrew: Sorry.

Poltergeist: I did try to warn you…

-cut back to Novju and Zaresi. Novju isn’t really bothering with anything fancy at this point, just using telekinesis to slam Zaresi all around the city, occasionally teleporting to keep track of her-

Novju: I’m kind of disappointed, if we’re being honest. I recalled every tulpa I have in the field to gather all the power I thought I was going to need to defeat you, but this is just overkill. And to think of all the excuses I’m going to have to make…

-she flattens Zaresi to the ground in the parking lot again, gently drifting down after her, barely glancing at the downed goddess-

Novju: Well, you have conclusively failed to put up any sort of fight, so I think I’m just going to kill you now. Send that poor girl back to what’s left of her life.

-she advances on the fallen Zaresi-

-Morgan and Laura turn to see the two returning. Laura’s eyes widen, Morgan’s narrow-

Morgan: The last couple times I fought you guys, I lost because I didn’t have a god to draw on. Let’s see what happens when the shoe’s on the other foot.

-the two duel for a moment, but at this point Morgan’s clearly ahead. The two split apart, Laura surrounded by her helices, Morgan holding twin scythes-

Morgan: This is over, Laura.

-cut back to Liz and the others-

Poltergeist: Well, it looks like your work was for nothing. Your goddess is about to become past tense.

Liz: Mmm…

Dee: You could just surrender now and spare yourself the trouble.

Liz: I don’t think I’ll do that.

Dee: To the bitter end, huh? Fine, I guess.

Andrew: Aren’t you going to, like, kill us out of spite?

Dee: Do you want her to?

Liz: Why would I do that?

Dee: …Could you at least take him?

Liz: Sorry.

-cut back to Novju and Zaresi-

Novju: I have a lot of choices, you know. I could push you into a fold in space and rip you in half, I could just shunt you out of the atmosphere…

-she lifts up Zaresi, who is looking somewhat raggedy at the edges-

Novju: Any preferences?

Zaresi: None especially.

Novju: Alright then, I’ll pick for you.

-Zaresi’s cloak begins to shift-

Novju: I think… I think I’ll just teleport each individual bit of you to a different place on Earth. I’m sure that wouldn’t kill you normally, but if I put enough magic into it, it should do the trick. Besides, it feels apropos.

-suddenly, a voice emerges from Zaresi’s arm-

???: Ooh, I get that joke.

Novju: Hm?

-and Evan sticks a head and arm out of Zaresi-

Evan: Heya!

-cut to Morgan and Laura. Morgan sees Evan emerge, and her eyes widen. She makes a snap decision, and lunges at Laura, swinging her scythe-

-cut to Liz’s group. As Evan emerges, the Poltergeist sits up-

Liz: And this is why I don’t surrender.

-as the Poltergeist lunges, and Dee and Andrew fire blasts, Liz takes action. She hurls two feathers at Dee and Andrew’s attacks, destroying them, catches the Poltergeist out of the air with an arm and slams it back to the ground, and bats Dee and Andrew away with a wing-

Liz: Sorry about the inconvenience.

-back to Novju, Zaresi, and Evan-

Evan: That was a lot less comfortable than I expected it would be. No offense.

Zaresi: None taken.

Novju: …When?

-her eyes widen as she realizes-

Novju: The Reapers.

Zaresi: I needed to recover Evan. He was, I will admit, my only hope of defeating you. The Reapers located him, and distracted you long enough for me to collect him.

Novju: You sacrificed half your forces just to—

-Zaresi leans in, her human face appearing from within her hood-

Zaresi: Do you not understand, Novju? There is nothing I will not sacrifice to achieve my goals. And that is why I win. Evan. Do it.

-Evan hops the rest of the way out of Zaresi, and stabs Novju in the arm-

Novju: No—

Evan: Necrosyrtes!

Novju: N—

-there’s a flash of black light-

-flickering tendrils wrap around Novju as she twists space around her, but it’s not enough to get anywhere-

-it takes much longer than Nicholas, and resembles much more the draining of Morgan’s hometown-

-and then, in a burst of light, Novju’s gone-

-as Morgan leaps for Laura, her scythe disappears, and she stumbles-

Morgan: No!

-Laura catches her, and Morgan shoves herself away, glaring at the other girl, who looks to the side-

Laura: …I’m sorry.

-the Poltergeist, still lying on the ground stunned, gradually dissolves away, into a formless mass of light-

Dee: Ah, crap.

-Andrew just gulps-

-Evan, meanwhile, is standing on the ground, staring into space. His eyes are glowing bright blue-

Zaresi: Evan.

-after a moment, the glow fades, and Evan rubs his head-

Evan: Now that was a rush.

-he staggers for a moment, leaning against Zaresi-

Zaresi: Are you well?

Evan: Oh, I’m better. 5000 years of experience, times hundreds? Thousands? I could fill a library with that kind of stuff. It’s just…

-he sways slightly again-

Evan: …You know. There was a lot to it. Hard to keep it all straight. But hey.

-he grins, and holds up his knife, which is giving off a blinding glow. He pushes himself to his feet, blinks, and stands straight-

Evan: What’s dead is dead, am I right?

-Morgan’s eyes widen, filling with tears-

Morgan: NO!

-she sprints towards Evan-

Laura: Morgan, wait!

-Morgan doesn’t wait. Dashing past Zaresi, who seems too surprised to stop her, she tackles Evan to the ground, sending the knife skittering away from him-

Evan: Nngh!

-Liz, noticing this, blinks, and gets to her feet, but is suddenly tackled by Dee and Andrew-

Liz: Oh, what are you doing?

Dee: Keeping you from doing whatever it is you’re planning on doing, obviously.

Liz: Despite the fact that you’re now just ordinary people, and I could crush you utterly?

Dee: Yeah, definitely despite that.

Liz: I guess I’m impressed, but I really need you to let me go.

Andrew: No dice.

-meanwhile, Morgan has knocked Evan over-

Evan: Get off of me, you irritating moron!

-and she punches him in the face-

Morgan: That was for Novju!

-she punches him again-

Morgan: That was for Holly!

-and again-

Morgan: That was for Quinn!

-and again-

Morgan: That was for Tirali!

-and again-

Morgan: That was for everyone else in town!

-she raises her hand-

Morgan: And this is for me!

-and a blast of Death magic appears, picking her up and sending her flying away from Evan, where she lands in a heap-

Laura: (barely audibly) Sorry.

-she walks up towards the knife. Liz finally hurls off Dee and Andrew, both of whom crash to the ground unmoving, and darts over to where Laura has picked up the knife-

Liz: …Excellent.

Morgan: Argh!

-she leaps to her feet, and Laura blasts her over again-

Morgan: Laura! You know he deserves this!

Laura: Probably.

-she holds the knife uncomfortably-

Laura: But, at the end of the day, he’s on my side. And you’re not.

-Morgan moves, and Laura fires another burst of Death magic at her-

Laura: So please. Just stay down, okay?

-Morgan begins to pick herself up again. Evan and Liz look to Laura-

Laura: …She’s not a threat at this point.

-Liz shrugs. Evan snatches the knife back from Laura, pointing it at Morgan-

Laura: I told you, she’s not a threat.

Evan: Yeah, but I am.

Morgan: You’re all…Evan, you suck.

Evan: Haven’t heard that before. Do you have anything original, or did you just plan on spouting random gibberish to try and annoy me?

-Morgan drags herself towards him. He yawns-

Morgan: And Zaresi, you’re pathetic. You beat someone so much better than you…with a cheap trick. Couldn’t even, in a fair fight…

Evan: And now you are crossing a line. Spinus tristis.

-he tosses a marble at Morgan, and it detonates in a burst of darkness. She screams and crumples, twitching. Laura looks away-

Liz: Enough.

-she waves her hand, and a bubble appears around Morgan. Evan frowns-

Evan: Really? I wasn’t done.

Liz: And now you are.

Evan: Hmph.

-he twirls the knife-

Evan: Well, not quite the grand presentation I had planned, but hey. Proust.

-he tosses Zaresi the knife. Zaresi takes a hold of it, and focuses…-

-and suddenly swells to a massive size, her head scraping the ceiling of the parking lot-

Zaresi: Now this is magic.

-Laura stares up in a mix of awe and terror. Evan looks up in glee. Liz looks utterly impassive-

Zaresi: What do you think?

Evan: Hmm… maybe ease off on the giant form, milady? It’s a little hard to talk to you from down here.

Zaresi: Hmm. Oh well.

-she shrinks back to a more manageable twenty feet tall-

Evan: …So, how do you feel?

Zaresi: Powerful.

Liz: Powerful enough?

Zaresi: Without a doubt.

-she points into the air, and tiny sparks of power emerge from her, zipping off into the distance-

Laura: What was that?

Zaresi: Call it phoning ahead.

-cut to a street somewhere different -

-the spark plunges down from the sky, and strikes the ground-

-suddenly, corpses exhume themselves from the earth. There is general panic-

-the same scene repeats itself around the world-

-cut back to London-

Evan: So.

Zaresi: So?

Evan: What are we doing about Tall, Dark, and Lost Everyone She Loved in the Last Couple of Days?

-Laura winces-

Zaresi: Hmm.

Evan: Can we kill her? Please? I really want to kill her.

-Laura closes her eyes. Zaresi seems to think about it for a moment-

Zaresi: We will keep her alive for now. I want her to see the world I will create.

Evan: …But then we can kill her?

Zaresi: Yes.

-Laura bows her head. Evan fistpumps-

Zaresi: Now. We have some kingdoms to claim.

-Zaresi emerges from the parking lot-

Zaresi: You did not like the giant form, Evan?

Evan: It has its pluses and minuses.

Zaresi: In this case, I think it will be useful. You have the ritual?

Evan: Sure do!

-Zaresi grows again, holding out a hand, which Evan cheerfully hops onto as the two exit the garage-

Morgan: What…

-Liz sits down by the bubble, Laura standing far back-

Liz: Zaresi and Evan have worked out a ritual to pierce the veil that keeps magic hidden from non-Magicians.

Morgan: …She can do that?

Liz: The veil is itself a ritual. A very powerful one, but a ritual nonetheless. With enough magic, it can be broken…and Novju’s combined power is more than up to the task.

Morgan: So what happens then?

Liz: Simple. Zaresi announces herself ruler, and takes control of the entire planet, just as she said she would.

Morgan: But—

Liz: No buts. It’s done.

-Liz waves a hand, and the bubble vanishes. Morgan immediately lunges at her, and Liz casually snatches her out of the air-

Liz: I’m sorry this couldn’t end better for you.

-cut to a prison cell somewhere. Morgan is thrown in. She doesn’t bother standing-

-cut to about a week later-

-Morgan is still lying in her cell, when a soft white light spills out from her hood--

Morgan: What?

-and forms into the erstwhile Poltergeist, now only a vague human shape-

Morgan: Oh. You’re here.

-the Spirit shifts in an affirmative way-

Morgan: I mean, sure, you couldn’t save my sister.

-no response-

Morgan: And you couldn’t stop Zaresi from killing Novju when it really counted.

-still nothing-

Morgan: But hey. At least you showed up to keep me company before I die.

-the Spirit shakes its head-

Morgan: What?

Spirit: I’m not going to let you die.

Morgan: Right, because it’s your permission that matters. I’m a few hours from execution, and you’re a fog machine.

Spirit: Not if I have anything to say about it.

-the Spirit shifts, solidifying slightly-

Morgan: My apologies. I’m a few hours from execution, and you’re half a person.

Spirit: Maybe, but at least I’ve got some fight left in me.

Morgan: Why? What’s the point anymore?

Spirit: How about protecting what’s left to us?

Morgan: I don’t know if we’re watching the same things happen, Poltergeist, but there isn’t anything left. My sister is dead. My friends are dead. Novju’s dead, and Zaresi has her power. We aren’t just being screwed, we were already screwed a long time ago, and now we’re just waiting to see how bad it is. So just let me mourn in peace for the last few hours of my life, okay?

-beat-

Spirit: Sorry, but no.

Morgan: Ugh. Can’t you just go back to hiding in my coat?

Spirit: Well, I can’t exactly haunt you into a better person if I do that, can I?

Morgan: Pretty soon, I’m going to be haunting you, okay? So just leave me in peace and we can spend eternity together later.

Spirit: But then you’d be a Reaper, not you. And I like your face.

Morgan: Flattering.

Spirit: No…it’s more than that.

Morgan: Is this really the time?

Spirit: You’re important to me. Everything else I knew is gone, and you’re still here…

-the Spirit jerks suddenly-

Morgan: What now?

Spirit: Morgan, I remember your face.

Morgan: Of course you do. We’ve been in each other’s company since I met you in Novju’s garage.

Spirit: No, it’s not that I know your face. I remember your face.

-Morgan blinks-

Spirit: I remember.

-Morgan’s eyes widen-

-the Spirit’s form starts to shift-

-the white light is suffused with pink-

-Morgan stares-

-and Quinn is standing over Morgan-

Quinn: Come on, Morgan. Let’s win this war together.

#This Show Sponsored by Death!#writing

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rhetoricandlogic · 7 years

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The Death of Me - Jonathan L. Howard

Johannes Cabal, a necromancer of some little infamy, has this much in common with Emily Dickinson; because he could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for him. Well, perhaps not that kindly.

This novelette was acquired and edited for Tor.com by editor Peter Joseph.

Johannes Cabal didn’t enjoy his little trips into town.

The town had a name, but he didn’t tend to use it, in much the same way that he didn’t tend to refer to the local village by any other name but “the village” and the nearest city as “the city” on those rare occasions when he had cause to mention them at all.

His strange house—tall and soot stained as if torn from the middle of a terrace and placed, brick-perfect, in the valley where nobody else cared to live (once, at any rate, he had turned up) and where no chapel bells could ever be heard no matter what the prevailing wind—his strange house provided him with privacy.

It could not, however, provide him with food. For this he required the shops of the village. There had been that early attempt to poison him but, after the trouble the village had experienced filling the vacancy for grocer, no further trouble had come from that direction. Nor could it provide him with certain supplies more esoteric than Assam tea and crumpets. If he required, for example, a particularly tortuous retort replacing after yet another small disturbance in his laboratory, then there were certain glassblowers in the city who could create it without asking more questions than were absolutely necessary. The city was a faceless place, uncaring and uninterested in the foibles—often unspeakably foul foibles—of its visitors and denizens, a great shuddering ennui that city dwellers call being “cosmopolitan” and believe a virtue. Such are the delusions and madness of crowds.

Cabal enjoyed the anonymity of the city, but was always mindful to keep his visits short. With enough provocation, even the most urbane sophisticate seemed able to lay hands upon a pitchfork and burning torch at very short notice.

This left the town, useful for the intermediate requirements. It is in the nature of towns, however, to throw up the occasional surprise, small hints to their greater metropolitan ambitions. The local town, for example, contained a hatmaker called Jones. While this fact is not so remarkable in itself, this particular hatter maintained a sideline of such startling occultness that the very method by which Cabal discovered it would be a lengthy account in itself. It would not, however, be an engaging one so we must be satisfied that Jones had a sideline, Cabal had an interest, and they both had a financial understanding.

Twice a year Cabal would make his way to town and enter the hattery through the grimy alley backing it. They would meet in the storeroom and, with no pleasantries, Cabal would gives Jones a sum of money, Jones would give Cabal several small paper packages, Cabal would arrange the date of his next visit as he carefully stored the packages in his Gladstone bag, and then he would leave the way he had come, again without pleasantries.

Cabal didn’t enjoy these visits for a variety of reasons. He didn’t enjoy the trip; while the majority was aboard a suburban train, the stretch between his house and the village was four miles along a country road, muddy half the year and dust for the rest. He would have taken his bicycle, but for the fact that the last time he had left it at the station, he had returned to find its spokes kicked out and its tyres slashed. It appeared that the respect the villagers held for him—“respect” here used as a synonym for “fear”—did not extend to his bicycle. He had not yet got around to identifying and formulating a punishment for the malefactor, but when he did he would be sure to make it more than sufficient to prevent any further interference with his property.

Nor did he like the town itself very much. Caught in the sticky patch between a collapse in local light industry and whatever was going to come along to replace it, the place was coasting along on its municipal laurels, if one can imagine such a thing. The streets were swept rarely and with little conviction, the shop windows collected dead flies, and past dignitaries, struck in dramatic poses to exhort a missing populace to greater things, looked down upon an empty town square. But these long dead orators gathered no crowds now, only pigeon guano. Jones insisted that Cabal approach the shop by the alley backing it, an exasperating insistence given the infrequency of passersby on the high street to the front.

Paranoia was the third of the reasons Cabal disliked his visits to Jones’s shop. Not his own; it is not paranoia when one believes people are out to “get” one and one happens to be a necromancer—it is a certainty. No, Cabal harboured suspicions of Jones’s state of mind. On his last visit, Jones had spent almost the entire time at the window, peering through the dusty blinds into the street, impatiently gesturing Cabal to leave the money, impatiently gesturing Cabal to take the packages.

Cabal didn’t take well to being impatiently gestured at and prolonged his stay.

“Why so eager to see me go, Herr Jones?” Cabal had asked, stowing the paper packages into his bag with exaggerated care.

Jones had looked at him, slightly shocked, and Cabal had realised that he wasn’t aware of how obvious his behaviour was.

“The . . . things I get for you, Mr Cabal, the materials. I . . . you appreciate their rarity?”

“This wouldn’t be an opening to a conversation about rising prices, would it?”

“No! No, but . . . there is great danger. The things I have to do! Terrible crimes against the Fay! The Seelie and the Unseelie, they have long memories.”

Cabal had joined him at the window and they had looked out together into the withered town. “Not a good location for faerie rings, is it? I daresay the civic fathers overlooked the inclusion of sylvan glades and shady bowers in their municipal planning, too.” He had gone back to packing his bag, this time working quickly, the sooner to be quit of that place. “You worry too much, Jones. I’ve had run-ins with them in the past and they’re all twinkle-dust and no trousers. The Fay, that is—not the civic fathers. The Fay’s powers are on the wane—places like this are crushing the life from them. You’d be wiser to focus your energies upon keeping your customers happy. In both of your lines.”

In hindsight, perhaps Jones had taken that as a threat, and Cabal now regretted his choice of words. He suspected his next visit would be all the less pleasant because of it.

And now, that time had arrived. He stepped out onto his doorstep, checked that the door was locked, picked up his Gladstone bag, and set off.

As he walked down his garden path, he was very aware of countless small eyes watching him from the concealment of the flower beds. The things in the garden were, by strict dictionary definition, fairies themselves, but would have as soon doused themselves in holy water as worn a bluebell for a hat or any of the other mimsy nonsense usually associated with their kith. He didn’t see them often, but the last one he’d caught a glimpse of had been wearing a rat skull as a cap over its sharp little face.

If they had been useful as a source of the specialist materials that Jones supplied, Cabal would have been quite happy—possibly even delighted—to cull the whole snickering mob of them. They were, however, of the basest kind, and any strange essences he might be able to wring from them would be polluted and likely to cause problems with Cabal’s current line of research. All things considered, Cabal was quite happy to let Jones do all the hard work of traipsing around faerie mounds with butterfly net and mangle. Besides, the things in his garden had their uses. Not many salesmen ever reached his door, and the ones who did never made it back to the gate.

Today there were none of the usual tiny good-natured jeers from the things of the garden about his parentage, personal habits, and appearance; perhaps they sensed his business. He closed the garden gate behind him and set off towards the village station.

Walking helped him to think and, today, he was thinking what an unpleasant day it was to be walking. The air hung humid and still and he was disagreeably aware that he was sweating. Cabal regarded sweating as one of Nature’s more subtle revenges upon humanity and its pretensions to Prime Species. It is hard to regard oneself as civilised when one oozes in warm weather. Cabal was doubly cursed by his wardrobe: a black suit and hat—a snap-brimmed thing of American lineage he had bought in a moment of madness at Jones’s shop—black shoes, socks, and thin cravat. It soaked up the sun and Cabal perspired, his habitually bad mood sinking from the dreadful towards the foul.

If the coach hadn’t been such a surprise, he would have been glad for the shade it abruptly cast upon him. As it was, he whirled as the daylight was blotted out and stepped back, causing the sun to fall once again upon his face. Through his blue-tinted glass spectacles, the coach body was black and without detail, a sudden phenomena as unexpected as a rain of fish. He looked up and down the road. How had he not heard its approach? Why was there no dust in the air to mark its passage? He moved off to one side, the better to examine it.

The coach was a well-appointed landau in the Sefton style, sitting motionless on its helically sprung suspension. In the traces were two huge, black stallions. Belgian blacks, unless Cabal was mistaken, a breed often used for drawing hearses.

Black as the horses, black as the livery, was the look the coachman was giving him. There was nothing individually disreputable or malevolent in the man’s clothing—the road coat and cape, the thick scarf over his lower face, the diminished top hat of the Müller sort, all as black as a banker’s soul. But the way they hung on him, gathered on him like crows on a gibbet, was almost unnerving. Cabal felt ill-matched to the weather in a suit, but this man was wearing a coat and scarf. They regarded each other for a long moment, Cabal’s eyes guarded behind blue glass, the coachman’s invisible behind heavy goggles. There was no inkling of intent or attitude in his posture until, finally, he turned away to gaze moodily or philosophically—it was impossible to tell—at the horses’ arses arrayed before him. Cabal felt he should have been insulted, yet somehow, as he looked at the coachman’s hunched shoulders, it seemed like a waste of energy, like taking offence at a weather cock for swinging away.

Actually, now that he looked more closely at those hunched shoulders, he had a momentary impression of movement beneath the cloth, from the shoulders down, under the obscuring mass of coat. As if, fancifully enough, the man had wings.

Not fanciful by nature, Cabal immediately turned his attention to the coach itself. As he did so, the door opened. He noted that it had done so without the door handle moving, which seemed ill-mannered. Inside there was little but gloom, shadows of the bright day. Feeling his usual state of irritation with the world and most of the things in it settle upon him like a cloud of lice, Cabal took off his sunglasses, the better to see within.

The woman was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. She was white and red and black: her skin; her hair and lips; her dress. And her eyes were dark too, and as soulless as a waxwork. To look into them was to look into space. Despite the warmth of the day and the sweat that dampened his shirt, he felt a strange chilling frisson that, while not entirely unpleasant, was still some way short of pleasant. They looked at each other for a long moment, she in her widow’s weeds, he in his disgruntlement.

“If you’re looking for the cemetery,” he said finally, “you’re on entirely the wrong road.” He made a mental note to check the recent burials for likely experimental material.

“Get in,” she said, ignoring the comment. “You and I, we are travelling the same road, at least for a little way.”

As it happened, this was self-evidently true. But Cabal did not care to jump into the carriages of strangers. That way lay a sack over the head, a cosh to the skull, and, if he was lucky, a shallow grave in scrubland. “I’ll walk,” he said, turned, took a step, and found himself sitting down opposite the woman. The door swung shut and the carriage rattled on. Cabal looked about in consternation. At no point had he decided to place his foot upon the step, hoist himself into the carriage, and take the seat. No matter. He would just leave. It would not be the first time he’d jumped from a moving carriage.

He reached for the handle and discovered that there wasn’t one. He paused for a furious moment. He could search for one, but this was all looking very much like a fait accompli. Scrabbling around at the door would probably just make him appear an idiot, even more than an idiot who enters a carriage without meaning to. Instead, he sat back and looked at the woman steadily. There was an element of glaring in the look, but he couldn’t help that.

“Thank you for your offer. If you’d be so kind as to drop me off at the railway station, I should be most obliged.”

They travelled in silence for all of two minutes before the women spoke, her voice quiet and musical. “This is a lonely road you travel, Mr Cabal.”

Ah, thought Cabal. So begins the double talk. I shall have none of it.

“You clearly know who I am. I don’t believe that you simply happened to be passing, and I do not believe that I could have made such a mess of the simple act of avoiding joining you in here without assistance. I am a busy man”—he saw no evidence of a wedding ring beneath the black lace of her gloves and ventured a—“fräulein. I would ask of you that you dispense with your attempts at tact, disingenuity, and abstruse conversation. If you have something to say, say it.”

To his great and rising irritation, she was not at all put out but only smiled sweetly, as at a small child who has made an imperfect attempt upon a three-syllable word.

They travelled in silence for a further two minutes.

Finally the women spoke again, her voice quiet and musical. “This is a lonely road you travel, Mr Cabal.”

Cabal was assailed by a strong sense of déjà vu, not simply from the repetition of the words but also from the small hillock, topped by an old elm, that he could see out the window. He was sure he had been looking at that exact tree when she had spoken the last time. He began to understand the rules of this game and, having no desire to spend the rest of the day seeing the same elm on the same hillock, he decided that he would play, albeit not in the most sporting frame of mind.

“I prefer to travel alone.”

Infuriatingly, her smile deepened. “But was that always the way? In your dreams, is that the way still? Or do you wish to go back a ways? To twist a thread whole that cruel Atropos . . .”

Cabal’s lips grew thin, his colour pallid. “You, madam, are on dangerous ground . . .” he said, so quietly that it was lost in the hoofbeats and creaking of wood.

Yet, she seemed to hear him, and yet, she didn’t care.

“. . . that cruel Atropos cut so short.” Her eyes shined as she spoke, harsh icy crystals of something like cruelty in every syllable.

“Shut up!” Cabal was suddenly furious, his tightly reined anger breaking loose. “Shut your verdammt mouth! You think you can just kidnap me in this fashion and I don’t know who you are?” He fumbled in his pocket and took out a small piece of pitted metal that he placed with venomous swiftness on her pale flesh between cuff and glove. She watched him with amused eyes as he, face white with fury, breath shuddering, pressed the metal harder onto her skin.

“What do you expect to happen?” she asked, politely interested.

Cabal’s fury left him as quickly as it had materialised. He looked at the piece of metal, her wrist, the metal again, and finally dropped it into his pocket. He swept back his short blond hair as he regained his composure. “I’m sorry, fräulein. Your questions were too impertinent to tolerate but, still . . .” His loss of control had frightened him far more than it had her.

“What was that?” she murmured calmly, pointing vaguely at his pocket.

“Meteoric cold iron. I . . . forgive me . . . I assumed that you were of the Fay. It would have burned you if you were. I was obviously mistaken.” He coughed, embarrassed. “My current line of experimentation, I almost expect reprisals.”

The elm tree on its hillock went by again.

“You are right in one respect, Mr Cabal. Time is short. Perhaps shorter than you realise. We have touched, briefly if not briefly enough, upon your past, and you speak of your present endeavours. But I . . .” She reached to the side of the carriage and drew down a folding tabletop until it lay across her lap. Then, nonchalantly and without affectation, she produced a deck of cards from thin air and spread them facedown. Taking the last card, she slid it beneath the end of the spread and flipped it over. The cards obediently flowed onto their backs in a wave, showing their faces. Cabal winced slightly. Tarot cards. “I deal with people’s futures. Or”—she held up the card she was holding so Cabal could see its face—“the lack of same.”

It was the thirteenth card. Death. Unusually, Death was not represented by a skeleton with a scythe. Instead, the card showed a carriage upon a lonely road. From its window, a woman in black and red and white looked out.

“Ah,” said Cabal.

She did him the courtesy of looking down as she gathered up the cards, affecting to ignore his confusion and dismay. “You and I are not enemies, Johannes.” She looked up and smiled brightly at him. “You don’t mind if I call you ‘Johannes,’ do you?” Cabal, finding diplomacy and self-preservation might well be the same thing at that moment, did not. “We are not enemies, no matter how much you might believe that. Your enemy is time.” She gestured out of the window, where the elm was just going by again.

“A nicety.” Cabal was recovering his composure.

“Not at all. A fundamental point.” She held out the cards to him. Lips pursed, he cut the deck. She smiled pleasantly and started to lay them out. “Nobody knows when your time is up.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.” She finished laying out the cards into a fortune-teller’s spread. She saw his raised eyebrow. “No. I don’t. But when the time comes, it’s clear enough. There are always indicators. Of past” —she tapped the cards as she spoke—“present, and, my abiding interest, the future.” She flipped the card over.

Cabal craned his neck to look. “Card X. The Wheel. That’s good, I believe.”

“For most people who don’t do what you do, it is. Do you believe in karma?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame, because this card does.” She started to gather up the cards again. “I think we need to exercise some alternative technique.”

He stopped her. “Please. Humour my curiosity.” He turned the card marking his past.

“The Lovers, Johannes. My, my, my,” she remarked mildly.

He sniffed and turned the card marking his present. “Card I. The Conjuror. Ha!”

She took the card and looked at it for a moment before turning its face towards him. “Are you sure?” Cabal looked again. Card 0. The Fool.

She slid the card back into the deck and shuffled it. “I always get them mixed up myself.”

Cabal watched her for a moment before asking, “Why this concern? There are many within my profession, such as it is. Well, a few, at any rate. Do they all receive visitations such as this?”

“No, Johannes. They do not. You are a special case.”

“Special?” That sounded dangerous. “In what way?”

But the woman wasn’t listening. Before returning the card marking Cabal’s past to the deck, she had flipped it in her hand and was looking intently at it. “Just special,” she said distractedly. She returned it to the deck and gave Cabal a look he couldn’t decipher at all. “Give me your hand,” she said tonelessly, unsmiling.

With mild trepidation, Cabal held out his right hand. She took off her gloves before taking his hand in hers. Her skin was smooth and cool; Cabal found himself thinking of the statue of a medieval lady, buried by her husband in a church crypt that he had once visited, lady-size in marble. If the woman noticed the faint shudder that ran through him, she didn’t show it.

“A long middle finger. Strong thumb.”

Cabal was interested despite himself. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that you’re probably very good at flicking things.” Her smile returned, more mischievous than before. “Oh, and some other things, but they’re not relevant.” She turned his hand palm upwards and the smile vanished. She looked at him very seriously. “All of which brings us to my interest in you, Johannes Cabal.”

“Yes, your interest in me,” replied Cabal evenly, while wondering how far he would get if he flung himself out of the carriage window. He had a depressing sense that the glass wouldn’t shatter.

She turned his hand so he could see the palm and indicated an area from the web between the thumb and forefinger down in an arc to the middle of the wrist. “Do you know what’s missing from here?”

“You know, the Gypsy Petulengro neglected to mention any . . .”

She stopped him. “I’ve heard about your brand of wit. Keep it to yourself.” She indicated his palm again. “You’re walking around without a life line, Johannes. That simply isn’t done.”

“Life line?” Baffled, he took his hand back and studied his palm. Now that she mentioned it, it didn’t look nearly as cluttered as perhaps it should. He had memories of a line running just as she had shown him, running around the base of the thenar eminence. Now, there was nothing but the expected fine geography of minute peaks and troughs. He looked up at her suspiciously. “A freakish happenstance, nothing more. Why your interest?”

“Not just a freakish happenstance, Johannes. It’s against the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“Mine. And I tend to have the last word in disputes. Now, how did you happen to lose your life line? Think carefully now.” The smile was back. Cabal had a sense of a cat trifling with a mouse, or vole, or some other small rodent, and he didn’t care for it at all, no matter who she was.

“I dislike being toyed with,” he said sharply.

“I know you do,” she replied, as if speaking to a four-year-old. She dropped the demeanour like a mask, but kept a colder incarnation of the smile. “I know a great deal about you. I know you think you can cheat me.”

“I have cheated you. I died. I got over it.”

“You managed it once. Don’t get all cocky and think you can manage it again. You haven’t cheated anything at all. Only postponed the inevitable. Which brings us back”—she took his hand again and levered it over so she could see his palm. She did it with such unexpected strength that Cabal gasped involuntarily—“to this.” She smiled, without a shred of humour. “What shall we do to make things right again, Johannes?”

She wasn’t releasing her grip and Cabal found the pain was escalating. It was hard to accept that the young—if only in appearance—lady sitting opposite him was applying the sort of pressure more usually associated with bull gorillas with something to prove. He was past pain now, tending into the foothills of agony.

“Are you open to suggestions?” he managed without sobbing.

“No. On this occasion, I think I already have the solution.”

She placed the tip of her free thumb gently on the skin between the bases of his thumb and forefinger. Then, with a sudden vicious push, she drove her nail into the flesh.

Cabal’s agony rocketed from the merely very unpleasant to the incandescent in a heartbeat. He couldn’t draw breath to scream, his feet scrabbled helplessly on the carriage floor, his free hand grabbed the edge of the seat, and his fingers dug into the upholstery. He could feel the bones crushing together within her grip, could feel them breaking and breaking again. He wanted to collapse, but she held his hand as effortlessly immobile as if she really were that marble statue, held his hand free from the slightest quiver as she drew her nail across his palm, skirting the thenar eminence, slowly and deliberately cutting his hand open. The flesh peeled back beneath her nail, sharper than any scalpel, peeled back the subcutaneous layer, the flesh beneath, musculature, blood vessels parting, down to the white bone in its red setting. Blood sluiced down his wrist, soaking his shirtsleeve.

Suddenly he was in the road, rolling facedown in the dust. His bag landed with a thump beside his head. As he blinked away tears of pain, as he hugged and cosseted his maimed hand to his chest, he heard her say, “Remember, Cabal. You haven’t cheated anything at all. Only postponed the inevitable. Those are the rules.”

He rolled over, spitting foul invectives in three dead languages. And found he was cursing a milestone. Of the carriage, the horses, the coachman, and the passenger, there was no sign at all.

He was past being surprised. It didn’t surprise him that the milestone showed that his lengthy ride in the carriage had carried him less than half a mile. It didn’t surprise him that, on turning, he found himself facing a small hillock topped with an old elm. It didn’t surprise him when he risked a glance at his crushed and slashed hand that . . . .

He blinked. No, he concluded, actually this was quite surprising. His hand seemed unmarked, undamaged. No mangled fingers, no bloody rivulet trailing from his grip, no red-soaked sleeve, nothing at all. Except… He angled his hand to examine the palm more closely in the sunlight. Except that now he had a life line. It looked like it had always been there; it looked as if it belonged. Apart from the slight itching tingle that travelled through the skin, there was nothing to tell it apart from any other line upon his hand.

He frowned. All this trouble for a crease in the skin? The attention of a higher power for this? He rubbed experimentally at it, but it remained.

Cabal took out his pocket watch. His capacity to accept the inexplicable that morning had been raised to such a high mark that he hardly registered more surprise than warranted a slight sniff when he discovered that a little less than two minutes had passed since he last checked it, moments before the carriage had appeared. He still had time to get to the station. But, he would still have to walk. Picking up his bag, Johannes Cabal started along the road once more.

After he had been let into the storeroom to the rear of the hatter’s shop, Cabal dropped his bag heavily on an old worktable and leaned there, both palms upon the tabletop, while he marshalled himself.

“I have experienced a very bad day thus far, Mr Jones. I hope you are not going to add to my sorrows.”

When he received no reply, he turned his head to look at the nervous hatter. Jones hardly seemed to be listening. He was at his habitual place at the window, twitching the blinds. Cabal bit back his frustration with the man’s lack of focus. It had taken a long time to cultivate Jones, to make him trust Cabal enough to use his peculiar talents to supply Cabal’s needs. As it was, Cabal was coming to the conclusion that the whole line of investigation might be fundamentally flawed and that he would be bringing it to a halt soon enough anyway. Still, it was worth the extinction of a few dozen more fluttering woodland types to be sure. When Cabal had read Peter Pan as a boy, he had found himself thinking, Yes, I do believe in fairies. But I still want you to die.

“Well, enough of the pleasantries,” said Cabal when he still had no reply. “Have you gathered my supplies, Herr Jones?”

Jones still did not reply. “What precisely are you looking at?” Cabal asked, joining him at the window. They gazed down into the dusty, uninteresting street. It looked uninteresting, but for the dustiness. Cabal felt unilluminated and strangely out of sorts. He’d felt unpleasantly detached from the full experience of reality ever since that nonsense in the carriage with . . . .

He looked down at his life line. He hadn’t even noticed that it had gone. When he had—for the lack of a better term—died that time, the state of his palm print on returning from that Dark Vale of—ironically enough—No Return had not been of much concern. Now, he couldn’t stop sneaking faux-casual glances at his palm.

“I fear death, Mr Cabal,” said Jones quietly, his eyes still upon the empty street.

The words so closely matched Cabal’s own thoughts that he was hardly aware that they had been spoken at all. “I was dead once,” said Cabal distractedly, his attention upon his hand. He didn’t see Jones’s sudden, frightened glance at him. “Years ago. An experiment. I suspended my vital signs for nine minutes and forty-four seconds. I was looking for inspiration, an understanding.” The sight of his restored life line fascinated him. “I didn’t find one. The laboratory grew dark, and then I awoke. Only my instruments assured me that I hadn’t simply fallen asleep.”

“Did . . . did you see anything?” Jones was terrified to ask, terrified not to.

“No. Nothing at all. No afterlife. Although . . . There is a Hell.”

“Hell? How do . . . ?”

“I’ve seen it. Visited. I was alive on that occasion. It wasn’t a pleasant day trip. It wasn’t a pleasant year.” He frowned. This was a conundrum. “I wonder how it was that I didn’t see anything? I would have certainly . . . Oh. Of course.” He smiled to himself, how had he forgotten that small detail. “I had no soul.”

It was a small omission. If he had continued the sentence a little further to include “but I have one now,” things might have turned out differently. Cabal realised that later when he analysed the day’s events, but—right then—it seemed an unimportant point. A tiny bit of happenstance that, for scientific reasons, he had seen fit to sell away his soul and that later, for scientific reasons, he had seen fit to recover it.

He certainly didn’t appreciate its significance at the time, when it might have done some good. The sight of Jones going quite mad with fear unduly distracted him from that conclusion.

“You!” said Jones, backing away. “It’s you!”

“Of course it’s me,” replied Cabal.

This, he was later to realise, was exactly the wrong thing to say at that juncture.

Jones spoke, but it was in such a paroxysm of dread and terror that the words fell over one another and became shrill, sobbing gibberish. Cabal watched him, utterly nonplussed. What had got into the man?

Perhaps, Cabal conjectured with a growing sense of threat, Jones’s paranoia had gone too far. Perhaps he, Cabal, had asked Jones to risk his neck once too often. Perhaps Jones had been keeping himself busy between excursions and the rare occasions when anybody actually wanted a hat by constructing an imaginary world of menace and conspiracy—a world that Cabal had accidentally tapped into with his apparently ill-omened comment.

What happened next happened quickly and Cabal was hardly aware of the chain of events even as they occurred. He simply responded to stimuli, reasoned rapidly and without reflection, and acted upon that reasoning.

Jones continued to move away from him until he reached the end of the table. His eyes flickered down and he reached for the handle of one of the table’s drawers. Cabal watched him with cautious curiosity, but no real sense of danger.

Then the pain began.

It was the living echo of the agony he had felt earlier that same day, burning across his hand as if the flesh was being laid open with a blade of frozen vitriol. He gasped with its suddenness and gripped the stricken hand with the other as he looked down at the open palm. What he saw first confused, then horrified him. His life line was shortening before his eyes, burning like a fast fuse across the skin. He could see the crease vanishing in a bead of boiling blood, leaving nothing but smooth skin behind it.

He looked up: Jones had the drawer open, looking furtively at Cabal as he searched in it.

Cabal reached for his bag, undid its strap and buckle in two fast twitches, shook it open.

Jones had found what he was looking for, closed his hand around it.

Cabal reached into the bag with his right hand, ignoring the pain. When his hand closed around the butt of his Webley, the cool wood and metal seemed to ease the burning. He let the bag fall, lifting the gun and thumb cocking its hammer at the same time.

Jones had a knife, an ugly, large thing made of some crudely refined metal and placed in a lightly coloured wooden handle. The expression of panicked hope in his face dissolved as he saw the gun. He whimpered and Cabal shot him.

The shot was placed to kill instantly and it could hardly miss at that range. Jones was dead before he even started to fall. By the time his head cracked against the floor, Cabal was already preparing his departure.

He gathered up the particular materials he had come to buy, wrapped them in a large square of butcher’s paper, and packed them into his bag, placing the revolver upon the top of it in case it was needed in a hurry again. He strapped the bag shut and made as if to leave. Instead, he paused and looked back at Jones. Poor, paranoid, very dead Jones.

At least, he assumed Jones was dead. He’d never heard of anybody surviving a Boxer .577 round delivered at close range to the interorbital space, but that wasn’t to say he should take it as a given. He stood over Jones and looked at the damage. On examination, it appeared very much like one could take death by Boxer .577 round delivered at close range to the interorbital space as a given. Cabal sighed. He disliked killing, doubly so when it represented a nuisance to him quite apart from the judicial ramifications. He was quite adept at running away from the police and bribing the few that lasted the course. The loss of Jones, however, made gathering the specialist materials Jones had been supplying quite difficult. Speaking of which.

Cabal knelt and picked up the unwieldy knife Jones had made to attack him with. The blade was of some form of barely refined metal, certainly not steel. Iron? he wondered. But why? It wouldn’t hold an edge for long, it would rust easily, and it simply didn’t make much sense for anybody to . . . .

Suddenly reaching a conclusion can bring a bolt of pleasure or a stab of dismay. This was definitely the latter. Cabal reached into his pocket and found the small piece of meteoric iron he kept with him and held it alongside the blade. While not the most thorough of metallurgical tests, there was still an undeniable similarity.

With a sinking heart, Cabal looked at his right palm. There was his life line, just as it had always been there. Of course it was.

Cabal stood, placed the metal in his pocket, put the knife into his bag to lie alongside his revolver, and left Jones’s hat shop for the last time. He had killed once today in self-defence. He strongly suspected that he would kill again before the day was out, but this time it would be in revenge.

As anticipated, the train trip passed without incident. Also as anticipated, the walk home didn’t. As he walked past a small hillock topped by an old elm, he suddenly found himself in shadow. He turned expecting to find the black landau, the black horses, the black-clad coachman sitting and waiting. Thus, Cabal was not disappointed in most of his expectations. The coachman, however, was far more proactive than at their last meeting. As Cabal turned, the coachman grabbed his wrist, tore his Gladstone bag from his hand, and tossed it to the verge of the road as if it were dripping pus. Before Cabal could protest, the coachman had opened the landau’s door, picked Cabal up by the scruff of his jacket, and thrown him in. The adjective unceremonious occurred to him as he landed face-first on the carriage’s floor. Disconcerting as his first entrance to the carriage had been, it seemed greatly preferable to the second. He heard the door slam shut.

“Are you all right down there?” she asked.

“Oh, good,” he replied as he climbed into the seat facing her. “Insult to injury. Why no legerdemain this time? Run out of pixie dust or just couldn’t be bothered? After all, you’ve won your little game, haven’t you?”

She looked at him, silent and serious, for several seconds. “Not a game, Mr Cabal. No game at all.”

“No game,” said Cabal in a low, dangerous voice. “No game? You have . . . manipulated me right from the moment I first saw you. Induced me to draw false inferences. I should have thought something was wrong. The black landau, the black horses, the silent coachman, the widow’s weeds—it was all so much more . . . banal than I would have expected.”

“Then why did you believe?”

“Because . . . because supernatural entities insist on melodrama. I’ve met Satan. Did you know that? He is such a drama . . . What is the phrase?”

“Queen?” She seemed amused.

“Yes, just so. Brimstone, devils, fiery depths, cribbage. It is all so theatrical.” He considered. “Well, perhaps not the cribbage. I think that’s more of a hobby. But the point is that when a mysterious funereal black carriage materialises out of thin air, abducts me, alters the passage of time, and its occupant lectures me on fate and life expectations, I apply Occam’s Razor and arrive at the obvious solution.”

“Which was . . . ?”

“Which was that you are Death.”

“I never said it,” she said, serious again.

“You didn’t. You just implied it with sledgehammer subtlety and I accepted it, based on the evidence. There was only one other alternative, and that I proved was not the case. At least”—he took the piece of cold iron from his pocket and held it up—“I thought I’d proved it.” He watched her. She seemed calm, but her eyes never wavered from the small bit of metal. “You are of the Fay, aren’t you? I admit, you still have me at a loss to explain the lack of reaction. The metal should have burned you.”

“You have a reputation for great deductive powers, Mr Cabal. I shan’t insult you by offering a solution.”

He hardly heard her. The threads were finally coming together. “Unless, of course, you are not of pure blood. Your mortal heritage would prevent the worst physical effects.”

She nodded. “Your reputation is well-earned.”

“I would thank you not to patronise me, fräulein. I have killed on your behalf. I am not happy about it.”

“Jones was a murderer, and you were his employer, Cabal. You should be thankful that you are not sharing his fate.”

“I should kill you.”

“You should not. You would surely die in the attempt, especially without Jones’s filthy knife.” She saw Cabal’s expression. “Oh, with Jones dead, the defences he’d placed upon his shop collapsed. It was searched as soon as you had skulked out of the door.” Cabal began to protest that he did notskulk, but she talked over him. “I would have been far more surprised if you had not taken the knife with you.”

Cabal weighed the piece of metal in his hand. It seemed altogether too feeble an ace to do him any good at this juncture. He slid it back into his pocket. “This all seems very calculated.”

“It has been planned for a long time. You should be flattered, Cabal. Both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts cooperated in this. It takes a great deal to make them sit down together.”

“But you . . . you planned this for them. I have had dealings with the Fay before. They lack the detachment shown here. It would have all been hellhounds and ogres if left to them. The piece of theatre with the life line”—he paused to look at his palm— “very cunning. You made me aware of my own mortality and the mechanism to make me fear for it all at the same time. How did you prime Jones? His paranoia was quite evident. What did you use? A few anonymous letters? Some carefully ambiguous evidence that I was planning to betray him to the Fay? No wonder he was so fascinated about what comes after life. No wonder he startled so violently when I mentioned that, once, I had no soul. Proof positive to his terrified little mind that I am as you. I might have been able to calm him except, thanks to this verdammten line you placed on my palm starting to disappear, I was convinced that I was going to die within seconds, apparently at Jones’s hand. And while we were both . . .”

“Panicking?”

“Distracted from rational thought, we attacked each other. How could you be sure Jones would be dead at the end of it all, though.”

“You had a gun, he had a knife. It was the probability.”

“But, if I’d not been able to reach my gun in time . . . ?”

“He would have killed his only client. He would have had no reason to carry on harvesting us. Either way, we win. There were plenty who hoped that you would kill each other.”

“And you? I can’t help wondering why you have bothered to intercept me now the deed is done. The only conclusion I can reach is that you intend to kill me too. Perhaps crow a little of how clever you have been, but kill me nonetheless.”

“I’m not the crowing type,” she said, and Cabal was more sorry than he had been at any point since entering the carriage that he did not have Jones’s cold iron blade. “Nor am I a killer. I researched you very carefully before arriving at this stratagem, Cabal. I have no need to kill you, or even the desire. My father was a poet, my mother Leanan-sidhe.”

“A vampire, then.”

“A muse. I understand the human soul, even one as ill-used, as lost-and-found as yours. That is why I am going to let you go. One day you may understand why.”

“Deferred gratification. The story of my life.” He opened the door. She had promised him his life but she was, after all, a woman. The fact that she was half-Fay didn’t help her reliability.

As he made to step down, he paused. “A moment,” he said over his shoulder. She raised an eyebrow. “You say that you are half-mortal, half-Sidhe?”

“I hope you don’t intend your parting comment to be something spiteful about mongrels, Mr Cabal?”

“Not at all. It occurs to me, though, that even if cold iron does not burn you, its touch should have still been agonising. Yet, you did not flinch.”

“And what does that tell you?”

He stepped down, closed the door, and doffed his hat. “Auf Wiedersehen, fräulein. Most respectfully, I hope and trust that we don’t meet again.”

“And yet you say ‘Auf Wiedershen.’”

He ignored her evident amusement. “May I know your name? Just so I can add you to my lengthy list of people to avoid.”

“Myghin,” she replied, her humour undiminished. She pronounced it May-xuhn. “I have a title, too, but I’m not a one to stand upon ceremony. Slane lhiat, Mr Cabal. May we never meet again, for the best of reasons.”

She sat back and the coachman, acting on an unheard signal, drove on. Cabal watched the black coach travel down the dusty road until it was lost in a moment of heat haze. He was unsurprised when it failed to reappear.

It took him almost a hundred minutes to complete the walk home. He paused in his front garden and looked at the shrubs he knew sheltered small, villainous fairies. “Have you been talking to strange ladies?” he asked, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. He unlocked the door and went in.

After a cool bath, he retired to the parlour with a simple supper of cold meat, bread, and a pot of tea. As he ate, he started to transfer notes from his daybook to the permanent record book, but gave up after a few minutes. His heart really was not in it. He sighed and went to the window to watch the shadows cast into the valley by the low sun. It had been, he concluded, a strange day. Even by his standards.

Finally he walked to the shelves and took down a book he hadn’t read in years. He settled himself back at the table, took a sip of tea, and started to read.

“To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman.”

#Jonathan L. Howard #The Death of Me #short story

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watchilove · 4 years

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MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome – three worlds first:

First-ever collaboration between legends Eric Coudray and Kari Voutilainen.

Proprietary new ‘TriAx’ mechanism features 3 axes revolving at different speeds and on different planes, in record-breaking 8 seconds, 12 seconds and 20 seconds.

Unique combination of Potter escapement, hemispherical balance and helical hairspring.

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What if you could harness the raw power and spectacle of a thunderbolt within a watch?

Meteorological science tells us that when cold and warm currents meet, all manner of dramatic weather ensues. Storms, freak atmospheric conditions and even tornadoes have been known to follow. So when two very different master watchmakers come together – one a legendary innovator from the Vallée de Joux known for his unorthodox, jaw-dropping complications, the other a famed perfectionist and acclaimed pillar of traditional craft based in Môtiers – look out for lightning on the horizon.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

Presenting the Legacy Machine Thunderdome, jointly signed by Eric Coudray and Kari Voutilainen.

Rising above a sea of blue guillochage is a rotating spherical mass of gears, pinions and cages. Somehow, from this chaos of motion, order is extracted. Time is indicated on an inclined dial of stretched lacquer, proving that even the wildest horological whirlwinds can be tamed into the logic of hours and minutes.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

MB&F founder Maximilian Büsser says, “One of the many things that makes me incredibly happy about this piece is that we got to bring together two people I adore in this industry; who are incredibly talented, have completely different styles and personalities, and have never had the chance to work with each other”.

Once taken, such chances can reshape entire landscapes. MB&F’s only directive to Eric Coudray initially was to “make the craziest, most cinematic three-axis tourbillon ever.” Having been given free rein to create, Coudray built something that was entirely new in his experience: a mechanism that goes beyond the tourbillon, the proprietary new MB&F ‘TriAx’.

The new TriAx mechanism, as showcased in Legacy Machine Thunderdome, fulfils MB&F’s directive to Eric Coudray in spectacular fashion. The triple-axis rotating escapement has a stripped-down construction that transgresses both tradition and modern convention. Instead of the rational (and cumbersome) system that associates one cage with each rotational axis, the TriAx defies logic with a three-axis, two-cage configuration that allows for unprecedented visibility of the Thunderdome’s beating, whirling heart.

In a second stroke of whirlwind audacity from Coudray – whose name is practically synonymous with audacious watchmaking in the 21st century – the TriAx mechanism of LM Thunderdome uproots our most familiar notions of watchmaking escapements. Controlling the rate at which energy escapes from the barrel is the unusual Potter escapement, which utilises a fixed escape wheel in place of the mobile escape wheels seen in virtually every type of modern rotating escapement. The fixed escape wheel of the Potter escapement – named for 19th-century watchmaker and inventor Albert H. Potter – allows for higher rotational speeds in such a mechanism.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

Integrating a fixed escape wheel within a tri-axial rotating mechanism is something that has never been done before, but LM Thunderdome achieves this, and for good reason. The high-speed rotation consumes energy voraciously, with the innermost structure completing one turn in 8 seconds, the intermediate cage rotating once every 12 seconds, and the outermost cage making one full rotation every 20 seconds.

An additional advantage of the Potter escapement is that it frees up more space for the balance and hairspring, allowing to better admire another completely novel development: the balance of LM Thunderdome takes a hemispherical form, wrapping around the helical hairspring for an unprecedented configuration of regulating organ in both modern and classical watchmaking.

Even for a seasoned watch connoisseur, deeply familiar with multi-axis tourbillons over the 15 years since this type of mechanism debuted on the horological scene, Legacy Machine Thunderdome is an eye-opener. Not only is it faster, its components whirring past at dizzying speeds – it is larger, thanks to the offset axis of the outermost cage that increases the overall displacement of the balance, and it is showcased like no other. The pronounced arch of the sapphire crystal dome allows Eric Coudray’s opus to sit fully above the dial plate, visible from all sides.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

As difficult as it may be to tear your eyes from the dial-side spectacle, the reverse of the LM Thunderdome engine is equally rewarding. The manual-winding, triple-barrel movement may have been technically conceived by Eric Coudray, but its aesthetics are fully Kari Voutilainen.

Countless sessions passed between the two watchmakers until the untrammelled dynamism of Coudray’s engine design took on classically elegant forms. Smoothly rounded bridges, incorporating sharp hand-bevelled internal angles and mirrored curves suggest a deep, unyielding calm that anchors the turbulent maelstrom on the other side. For the first time in an MB&F creation, Kari Voutilainen has applied his proprietary style of finish onto the ratchet wheels. This technique imparts a serpentine shimmer to the circular surface, catching the light in sigmoid waves. This technique is a closely guarded secret in the Voutilainen workshops, requiring years of experience and special tools to execute.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

The LM Thunderdome is launched in two limited editions:

– 33 pieces in platinum 950, with a light-blue guilloché dial plate;

– 10 pieces in tantalum commemorating the 40th anniversary of the Asia-Pacific retail group The Hour Glass, with five pieces bearing a dark-blue guilloché dial and five pieces with an inlaid aventurine dial.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Blue

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Aventurine

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome in detail

About the LM Thunderdome engine

The MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome is the culmination of four years of development, an unprecedented collaboration between two of the most admired horological minds today, Eric Coudray and Kari Voutilainen. While the technical construction originated with Coudray, it was Voutilainen who translated the mechanism into the aesthetically refined movement that inhabits LM Thunderdome.

Though the latter task may seem straightforward compared to technical development, it actually entails a far greater level of difficulty than is implied. The complex and delicate relationship between the 413 components of the LM Thunderdome engine makes every micro-adjustment an extended exercise in mechanical reconfiguration. With a movement diameter of only 35mm, proportionate design is exponentially emphasised and there is far less margin for error. A bridge that is even one single millimetre too wide, or a pinion moved just a few micrometres to either side, would immediately stand out, glaringly out of place.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

Says Voutilainen, “In such a complex project, with so many different considerations, I chose the traditional method of hand-drawing the movement rather than working with computer software. It allowed me to have a much better feel for the proportions and the choices that needed to be made about aesthetics and function.”

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

Appearing to hover above the dial plate of Legacy Machine Thunderdome is the ‘TriAx’, a highly sophisticated multi-axis rotating escapement that is completely novel even in Eric Coudray’s unmatched oeuvre of similar mechanisms.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

There are three axes rotating at different speeds and on different planes, starting with the innermost axis that makes one complete turn in 8 seconds. The next axis of rotation is canted at right angles to the first, and makes one complete turn in 12 seconds. The outermost axis of rotation is canted at right angles to the second, and makes one complete turn in 20 seconds. This gives LM Thunderdome the distinction of possessing the fastest combined rotation in the category of multi-axis regulating mechanisms.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

Additionally, the last axis of rotation is excentric relative to the other two, such that the final motion of the balance wheel, when viewed in isolation, is most precisely described as an orbital tri-axial rotation.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

In chronometric context, this means the LM Thunderdome engine has the largest range and fastest rate of balance positional displacement known throughout the history of watchmaking. In a rather more accessible context, this means that LM Thunderdome offers a visual spectacle that the horological world has never seen before.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

Existing terminology does not adequately cover the rotating mechanism of LM Thunderdome. The current separation of rotating escapements into tourbillon or karrusel categories does not work here, as Coudray’s creation incorporates key elements of both, such as the split-train energy transmission of the karrusel, and the fixed wheel of the tourbillon. Even so, these elements are configured in ways that are unfamiliar to our conventional definitions of tourbillon and karrusel. Mechanically speaking, Thunderdome stands alone.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Aventurine

Driving this cinematic feat of horology, which weighs close to 1g, is a manual-winding three-barrel movement with 45 hours of power reserve.

Complete TriAx assembly

More about TriAx: a three-dimensional balance and a rare escapement

For the first time in any micro-mechanical work of horology, a hemispherical balance is used to provide inertia in the regulating organ. This completely innovative custom solution allows for the largest possible balance when combined with a cylindrical hairspring, while still maintaining a relatively compact cage (or compound cages, as the case might be).

Complete TriAx assembly

Cylindrical hairsprings have been used throughout history for timepieces that prioritised isochronism and overall timekeeping performance, since the highly uniform breathing of a cylindrical hairspring is less likely to cause timekeeping anomalies even in a wide range of disruptive environmental conditions.

Tourbillon cages

Pioneering a three-dimensional balance might be considered by even the most ambitious watchmakers as enough of a challenge, without the extra step of planting it in the middle of a multi-axis rotating mechanism. How does one adjust a balance that takes a different position in all three dimensions every second?

Tourbillon cages

Even state-of-the-art laser measuring instruments were baffled by the continuously shifting balance and its enclosing rotating cages. MB&F furthered the known applications of this laser technology by shifting the beam frequency entirely into the infra-red range (thus avoiding any misreadings caused by the visible range of the beam interacting with the polished components) and developing a system of taking discrete readings at specific intervals over a period of time. This, in addition to the combined experience and skill of Eric Coudray and the MB&F watchmakers, allowed the LM Thunderdome balance to be adjusted with efficiency and precision.

Tourbillon cages 1 and 2

The key to the high-speed rotation of TriAx at the heart of LM Thunderdome is a little-known variant of escapement, first proposed by 19th-century American watchmaker and inventor Albert H. (not Harry) Potter as a tourbillon modification. Instead of driving the escape wheel, via its pinion, around a fixed fourth wheel, he made the escape wheel the fixed wheel, and altered the geometry of the escape lever accordingly. This, he correctly theorised, would allow blindingly fast tourbillon rotational speeds.

Cages 1 and 2 with balance

In the TriAx mechanism of LM Thunderdome, the Potter escapement is modified yet further. Instead of a fixed escape wheel with externally-oriented teeth, co-axial to the balance, Thunderdome uses a fixed escape wheel with inverted teeth, co-planar to the lever fork. Only once has this configuration been seen in modern horology, and only in a single-axis tourbillon, never before in a multi-axis mechanism. There was no rulebook or established precedent, so TriAx created its own.

Cage 1

These are all firsts for MB&F, and more significantly, they are firsts in the horological world.

Cage 3

Exceptional finish

Because an exceptional movement deserves exceptional levels of finish, Kari Voutilainen consented — for the first time in an MB&F creation — to apply his own proprietary finishing technique on the ratchet wheels. This finish imparts a sheen that appears almost uniformly sandblasted, but reflects direct light in deeply curved sigmoid waves.

LM Thunderdome Assembly

“Not even someone with years and years of finishing experience could replicate this finish,” says Voutilainen. “Not without specific training, specific tools and specific techniques.” Needless to say, these specific things will remain unspecified by Voutilainen, save for highly favoured and trusted finishing experts in his workshop.

LM Thunderdome Assembly

The rest of the Legacy Machine Thunderdome engine features superlative hand finishing throughout, at the highest level of 19th-century style. Sharp internal angles, unachievable by machines, are bevelled and polished by hand. The softly luminous Geneva waves characteristic of Voutilainen are applied by hand, as are the frosting and engraving on the power-reserve indication.

LM Thunderdome Assembly

Surrounding the multi-axis rotating escapement is a guilloché dial plate, which is also created by Kari Voutilainen in Comblémine, his dial factory.

LM Thunderdome Assembly

MB&F and The Hour Glass

The core philosophy of MB&F is contained entirely within its name — Maximilian Büsser & Friends. Independent watchmaking was in its infancy when Max Büsser founded his own company 15 years ago, and support from key retail partners such as The Hour Glass was essential for survival.

Büsser says, “The early days of MB&F were a personal and professional challenge the likes of which I had never faced before. If not for Michael Tay of The Hour Glass and his belief in this crazy dream of mine, it’s possible that Horological Machine Nº1 might have never existed.”

Founded four decades ago in the world’s most sophisticated and concentrated watch market, Singapore, The Hour Glass retail group is acknowledged to be a driving force within the Asia-Pacific horological scene. Its operations span the region and its boutiques are frequently at the centre of the local watch community.

Says Michael Tay, Group Managing Director of The Hour Glass, “I first met Max in Singapore in November 1998 and it is one of those rare relationships in my life where what started as a professional partnership has, over the past two decades, transformed into one of a lifelong friendship. I value Max because he is one of the few visionaries in the universe of contemporary horology and – of more significance to me – is both reliable and consistent in his approach to his brand and business. We’re extremely proud to have this opportunity to launch with MB&F this commemorative edition. This was a project that was first discussed with both Max and Eric Coudray as far back as 2012 and has taken the better part of 7 years to realise. It is definitely one for the history books.”

More about Eric Coudray and Kari Voutilainen

Eric Coudray is descended from a long line of watchmakers. Although he distinguished himself in his early professional years by restoring antique timepieces, his name first came to global prominence while he was employed by legendary watch brand Jaeger-LeCoultre, where he led prestigious projects such as the first modern minute repeater from the manufacture, housed in their iconic Reverso.

Eric Coudray

He developed the Jaeger-LeCoultre Gyrotoubillon, one of the world’s first multi-axis tourbillons, which was hailed a milestone of modern horology when it debuted in 2004. His follow-up work on the Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso Gyrotourbillon II incorporated a helical hairspring for improved chronometry. The watch was subsequently awarded second prize at the 2009 Concours International de Chronométrie (with the first prize also taken by Jaeger-LeCoultre). His experience with this visually stunning mechanism brought him to independent watch brand Cabestan, where he further expanded his repertoire of multi-axis rotating escapements. Coudray is currently part of a specialist team at TEC Ebauches, a high-complication thinktank and movement supplier based in the Vallée de Joux.

Part of the fascination that Coudray and his creations induce in watch enthusiasts stems from his unorthodox approach to his métier and unique personal style. Such is Coudray’s stature amongst the international cognoscenti of horology that members of this community frequently approach Coudray at industry expositions and trade fairs to express admiration for his work.

Equal in repute, though opposite in approach, is Finnish watchmaker Kari Voutilainen, whose company is based in the small Swiss village of Môtiers. Like Coudray, Voutilainen’s early career was characterised by restoration work. It was while he was employed in the restoration department of Fleurier watch company Parmigiani that Voutilainen became known for his outstanding talent and was involved in the restoration of some of the world’s rarest examples of haute horlogerie.

Later, when he established his watch company, Voutilainen was able to draw on this experience to create his own timepieces. His watches, notably the highly successful Vingt-8, are just as acclaimed for their extreme aesthetic refinement as they are for their interpretation of Breguet’s natural escapement. Voutilainen has lent his much sought-after expertise to selected companies, and his name is inextricably associated with the MB&F Legacy Machine collection, which has carried his signature since its debut in 2011.

Unmatched levels of hand-finishing are the hallmark of a Voutilainen watch, with a distinctive softness and luminosity to the final effect which sets them apart from the sharper, brighter finishes that define the industry standard. Voutilainen’s passion for decorative techniques has led him to create some of the most beautiful unique timepieces seen in recent years, in conjunction with independent artisanal craftsmen. Recognition has come in the form of several industry accolades, including multiple awards from the Grand Prix d’Horlogerie de Genève

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Blue

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Aventurine

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Technical Specifications

Two Limited Editions :

Limited edition of 33 pieces in platinum 950, with light-blue guilloché dial – CHF 270,000 + VAT (USD 280,000 + tax)

Limited edition of 10 pieces in tantalum for The Hour Glass (5 pieces with an aventurine dial and 5 pieces with a dark-blue guilloché dial).

Engine

Movement developed for MB&F by Eric Coudray and Kari Voutilainen.

Regulating mechanism featuring 3 fast rotation axes revolving at different speeds and on different planes. The rotation speeds of the axes starting from the centre are respectively 8 seconds, 12 seconds and 20 seconds. The combined weight of the multi-axis mechanism is nearly 1g.

Manual winding with three mainspring barrels.

Bespoke hemispherical 10mm balance wheel with traditional regulating screws and helical hairspring, visible on top of the movement.

Superlative hand finishing throughout respecting 19th-century style; bevelled internal angles highlighting hand craft; polished bevels; Geneva waves; hand-made engravings.

Power reserve: 45 hours

Balance frequency: 3 Hz / 21,600bph

Number of components: 413

Number of jewels: 63

Functions & indications

Hours and minutes displayed on a 58° vertically tilted dial

Power reserve indicator on the back of the movement

Case

Material: launch edition in platinum 950 and The Hour Glass editions in tantalum

Dimensions: 44mm x 22.2 mm

Number of components: 20

Water resistance: 30m / 90′ / 3ATM

Sapphire crystals

Sapphire crystals on top and display back treated with anti-reflective coating on both faces.

Strap & buckle

Blue hand-stitched alligator strap with platinum or tantalum folding buckle matching the case.

‘FRIENDS’ RESPONSIBLE FOR LM THUNDERDOME

Concept: Maximilian Büsser / MB&F

Maximilian Busser

Product design: Eric Giroud / Through the Looking Glass

Technical and production management: Serge Kriknoff / MB&F

Movement development: Eric Coudray and Arnaud Faivre / TEC Ebauches and MB&F

Movement design and finish specifications: Kari Voutilainen

R&D: Ruben Martinez, Simon Brette and Thomas Lorenzato / MB&F

Decoration of the guilloché dial plate / ratchet / crown’s wheels: Kari Voutilainen

PVD-treatment: Pierre-Albert Steinmann / Positive Coating

Aventurine dial (Limited edition for The Hour Glass): LM Cadrans

Case: Riccardo Pescante / Les Artisans boitiers and for the limited edition for The Hour Glass: Aurélien Bouchet / AB PRODUCT

Movement assemblage: Didier Dumas, Georges Veisy, Anne Guiter, Emmanuel Maître, and Henri Porteboeuf / MB&F

After-sales service: Thomas Imberti / MB&F

Quality control: Cyril Fallet / MB&F

Dial – ébauche: Hassan Chaïba and Virginie Duval / Les Ateliers d’Hermès Horloger

Buckle: Nathalie Guilbaud / Cendres et Métaux Lux and G&F Châtelain

Hands: Pierre Chillier and Isabelle Chillier / Fiedler

Strap: Multicuirs

Presentation box: Olivier Berthon / Soixante et onze

Production logistics: David Lamy, Isabel Ortega/ MB&F

Marketing & Communication: Charris Yadigaroglou, Virginie Toral, Juliette Duru and Arnaud Légeret / MB&F

Sales: Thibault Verdonckt, Anna Rouveure, Virginie Marchon and Jean-Marc Bories / MB&F

Design graphique: Samuel Pasquier / MB&F, Adrien Schulz and Gilles Bondallaz / Z+Z

Photographies du produit: Maarten van der Ende, Laurent Xavier Moulin and Alex Teuscher / Alex Stephen Teuscher photography

Portrait Photographies: Régis Golay / Federal

Webmasters: Stéphane Balet / Nord Magnétique, Victor Rodriguez and Mathias Muntz / Nimeo

Film: Marc-André Deschoux / MAD LUX

Texts: Suzanne Wong / Worldtempus

MB&F – Genesis of a Concept Laboratory

2019 marked the 14th year of hyper-creativity for MB&F, the world’s first-ever horological concept laboratory. With 17 remarkable calibres forming the base of the critically acclaimed Horological and Legacy Machines, MB&F is continuing to follow Founder and Creative Director Maximilan Büsser’s vision of creating 3-D kinetic art by deconstructing traditional watchmaking.

After 15 years managing prestigious watch brands, Maximilian Büsser resigned from his Managing Director position at Harry Winston in 2005 to create MB&F – Maximilian Büsser & Friends. MB&F is an artistic and micro-engineering laboratory dedicated to designing and crafting small series of radical concept watches by bringing together talented horological professionals that Büsser both respects and enjoys working with.

In 2007, MB&F unveiled its first Horological Machine, HM1. HM1’s sculptured, three-dimensional case and beautifully finished engine (movement) set the standard for the idiosyncratic Horological Machines that have followed – all Machines that tell the time, rather than Machines to tell the time. The Horological Machines have explored space (HM2, HM3, HM6), the sky (HM4, HM9), the road (HM5, HMX, HM8) and water (HM7).

In 2011, MB&F launched its round-cased Legacy Machine collection. These more classical pieces – classical for MB&F, that is – pay tribute to nineteenth-century watchmaking excellence by reinterpreting complications from the great horological innovators of yesteryear to create contemporary objets d’art. LM1 and LM2 were followed by LM101, the first MB&F Machine to feature a movement developed entirely in-house. LM Perpetual, LM Split Escapement and LM Thunderdome broadened the collection further. 2019 marked a turning point with the creation of the first MB&F Machine dedicated to women: LM FlyingT. MB&F generally alternates between launching contemporary, resolutely unconventional Horological Machines and historically inspired Legacy Machines.

As the F stands for Friends, it was only natural for MB&F to develop collaborations with artists, watchmakers, designers and manufacturers they admire.

This brought about two new categories: Performance Art and Co-creations. While Performance Art pieces are MB&F machines revisited by external creative talent, Co-creations are not wristwatches but other types of machines, engineered and crafted by unique Swiss Manufactures from MB&F ideas and designs. Many of these Co-creations, such as the clocks created with L’Epée 1839, tell the time while collaborations with Reuge and Caran d’Ache generated other forms of mechanical art.

To give all these machines an appropriate platform, Büsser had the idea of placing them in an art gallery alongside various forms of mechanical art created by other artists, rather than in a traditional storefront. This brought about the creation of the first MB&F M.A.D.Gallery (M.A.D. stands for Mechanical Art Devices) in Geneva, which would later be followed by M.A.D.Galleries in Taipei, Dubai and Hong Kong.

There have been distinguished accolades reminding us of the innovative nature of MB&F’s journey so far. To name a few, there have been no less than 5 Grand Prix awards from the famous Grand Prix d’Horlogerie de Genève: in 2019, the prize for Best Ladies Complication went to the LM FlyingT, in 2016, LM Perpetual won the Grand Prix for Best Calendar Watch; in 2012, Legacy Machine No.1 was awarded both the Public Prize (voted for by horology fans) and the Best Men’s Watch Prize (voted for by the professional jury). In 2010, MB&F won Best Concept and Design Watch for the HM4 Thunderbolt. In 2015 MB&F received a Red Dot: Best of the Best award – the top prize at the international Red Dot Awards – for the HM6 Space Pirate.

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Blue

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Aventurine

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Tantalum Aventurine

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome Platinum

LM Thunderdome Assembly 1

LM Thunderdome Assembly 2

LM Thunderdome Assembly 3

Complete TriAx assembly

LM Thunderdome Assembly

Cage 3

Cage 1

Cages 1 and 2 with balance

Tourbillon cages 1 and 2

Tourbillon cages

Complete TriAx assembly

Eric Coudray

MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome - three worlds first: First-ever collaboration between legends Eric Coudray and Kari Voutilainen.

#Eric Coudray #Kari Voutilainen #Legacy Machine Thunderdome #LM Thunderdome #MB&F #MB&F Legacy Machine #MB&F Legacy Machine Thunderdome #MB&F LM #MB&F LM Thunderdome #news #Press release #Thunderdome

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