Synch Date: 2776, V-Time 1527…

The translation, while not quite as disorienting as the jaunt into the Sub-Time Network, still managed to knock the wind out of Jacob. Or, at least, gave him the mental sensation he had long ago learned to associate with breathlessness. His heart pounded in his chest, and a sympathetic boom sounded within his skull, pulsating and thumping in hot, dizzying waves washing over the muffled sounds around him. Soon, the sensation abated, and he saw Silandra stood next to him, waiting patiently for him to recover. The look on her face indicated her lack of patience for having to wait for him to recover after every contact with future technology, and after every meta-transport.

“Are you better now?” She asked him in an absent-minded way, clearly focusing her attentions elsewhere. Jacob followed her gaze, and saw that he was inside the TCHQ – more specifically, the Transport Hub. Jacob could tell, because it was emblazoned in tall, thick writing upon the far wall, glowing an iridescent blue.

The two of them exited the small booth that had transported them across the virtual realm of the Sub-Time Network. As Jacob looked behind him, he saw that there was a line of the contraptions; looking every part like the phone booths he had known back in his own time – back in real time, he corrected himself. Watching intently, he saw others emerging from the transport booths, similarly attired in the metallic, skin-tight outfits. Jacob wondered how a metallic material could possibly be so flexible as to be used as clothing, then remembered this wasn’t technically ‘real’.

“So, Silandra…” Jacob began, as they started to march across the semi-translucent floor, “I’ve been trying to place your accent, but I just can’t. Where are you even from?” They passed a group of people clustered in the middle of the square, babbling and mumbling about various scientific concepts. Had Jacob been in a better frame of mind, he’d have been astonished by the complexity of the subjects being discussed. Sadly, he was three dimensions away from home with no clear way of getting back.

“I’m from Aberdeen. I suppose it’s hard to tell, because I’ve had to train some of the drawl out of my speech,” she replied, still looking dead ahead at the far wall.

“Oh, you’re from Scotland?”

“What? No, it’s a moon orbiting Britannia,” Silandra mumbled, still staring at the far wall.

Jacob could just make out faint tubes, with pill-shaped objects shooting upwards, downwards and even sideways. Elevators, he thought, and suddenly remembered Silandra’s comment. “Britain has moons?” Gasped Jacob, unable to comprehend the idea of an island with satellites.

“Not Britain. Britannia. A small, fertile world in the Novum system. The fourth planet from the star of Novum. The weather is largely mild, much like the Britain of Earth, and most settlements span the equator due to the extreme tundra surrounding the poles,” explained Silandra. They were closer to the pill-shaped elevators now, and Jacob was growing nervous of the extreme acceleration exhibited by them so far. Silandra continued, “Aberdeen was named for the Scottish city, yes, but is one of five moons orbiting the planet of Britannia. The largest of them is, predictably, named London. The remaining three are Cardiff, Dublin and Cromwell.”

“Cromwell? I know of Oliver Cromwell, but I’ve never heard of any city named as such.”

“I suppose the Commonwealth ran out of suitable city names that could also name celestial objects,” mused Silandra, as they entered a pill-lift. “Don’t worry,” she comforted Jacob, noticing his fear, “there is no true inertia in the physics of the Sub-Time Network.”

“Then why was I so dizzy after that… Flinging?”

“A side-effect of the mind re-adjusting and re-building its physical presence within the virtual construct.”

“So, ascertaining where I am, as opposed to where I used to be?”

“Yes. It confuses the mind for a brief moment. After a few meta-transports, the body and mind grow accustomed to the jolts.” She closed the door of the pod, and tapped a button, the label of which Jacob couldn’t quite make out. The pod hummed for a second then took off vertically, without so much as a shudder.

“By the way, where is this ‘Novum’ system? I haven’t heard of such a place, and astrology is a big hobby of mine.”

“It was previously undiscovered. It’s a relatively new star – on a universal time-scale at least. The light of it simply hadn’t reached Earth in your time.”

“But less than seven hundred years later, it did? That sounds convenient.” The pod slowed down with less urgency than it accelerated, but after a couple of seconds reached a full stop, at which point, the door opened with a hiss.

“It was very convenient. It appeared in the night sky in August 2162. It was a fortuitous occasion, as debates on the merits of interstellar travel were still ongoing, as they were in your time,” she began, and beckoned for Jacob to exit the pod, following afterwards, “religious leaders pointed to the new star as sign from God – the world of Earth was becoming polluted and overcrowded – and for once were agreed that a planet in the vicinity of this star was to be our new home. The power of the combined religious institutions around the world predicted that, within the next hundred years, a planet in the Novum system was to be colonised. And they were right. In 2199, after a 150 year hiatus from advanced space travel, the United Space Agency developed the Wake Drive, allowing speeds 100 times faster than light. Construction of colony ships began immediately, and finished in 2205. In 2231, after a 26 year journey, humanity broke ground on its new home – two and a half thousand light years away.”

“And they named it Britannia?” Jacob asked, honestly, following her through the maze of corridors, wondering where he was being lead. Some doors had nameplates on, while others were bare ‘steel’, as inviting as a crossbow.

“No,” replied Silandra with a smile, “they named it Ardour, in recognition of the tenacity and passion of the human spirit.”

***

Year of the Zealous Griffin, Era IX, Epoch IV…

Owain DuCante, Dark Sorcerer and Challenger of the Light, approached the first door upon his left, balking at the protests of his companion, Saaltantha LaGarde the huntress. Her profession led her to many dangers, some magical, but none occult. Her quarry was more often than not of the beastly persuasion, and she had slain claw, talon and fang; though not once had she encountered a conjuration or enchantment. The door, the indomitable portal before them, whispered in tongues as they drew nearer, but DuCante was undeterred.

“But of course the door forebodes, my dear. Are not all doors built for precisely the purpose of hiding their contents?” Declared DuCante, confident in the knowledge that whatever lay beyond, he could defeat or even harness the evil.

Saaltantha was not so bold; her dress rose and fell quickly with her breathing, her glowing eyes, surrounded in her cowl by darkness, fluttering with fear. “Alas, Wise One, this does not necessitate the opening of the door. Perhaps the contents were hidden from us for reasons which were prescient?” She trembled with the fear of the unknown, the dreadful anticipation of the dark, uncertain terror of ignorance.

“You speak of prophecy, do you not?” Inquired DuCante, inspecting the wrinkled planks of the door, discovering them to be inlaid with writings of an archaic and deceased tongue.

“Indubitably,” Saaltantha shivered.

“The prophecy of the late Kanthaal the Wizen?” Owain laughed, deciphering the inscriptions upon the face of the door, referring to a large grimoire held tightly in his hand. His eyes glowed inside his cowl with jovial good-naturedness for his companion, tinged with a hint of derision for her timidity concerning the task. “Kanthaal’s visions and delusions were long ago abolished as heresy. His lunacy has long stricken our glorious land, and it pains me to hear you referring to such babblings.”

“But, Owain-“ She ventured, but was quickly silenced as he turned to face her.

“You shall call me by my title, young one. Only my closest friends and those of my equal may utter my forename. You, sadly, do not rank as either.” Saaltantha gasped at the affront, her visage of cowardice melting away with the insult.

“May I remind you who slew the fearsome beast of Loradell? Whose keen eye and quick wits drew us to this very place? You may be wise, DuCante, but I am strong,” raged Saaltantha, her wicked red eyes glowing with impotent fury.

DuCante smiled. “Precisely, my good lady. The strength of your spirit, and the resolve of your character may lead us through even harsher times. Now,” he turned to face the oppressive doorway, “this door must be opened with care.” He continued the translation of the inscriptions, scribbling in his book as he went, his finger tracing the lines along the woodwork.

Saaltantha peered up and down the musty hallway. To her left was a dead end, where there once was a doorway – the doorway that had led them to this place. To her right, the corridor seemed to stretch on forever, evenly dotted every five metres or so with doors similar to the one DuCante was now attempting to translate the writings of. After a short while, DuCante seemed to be satisfied with the result, and tapped the book with victory. “Aha!” He exclaimed, apparently ecstatic with his discovery.

“What is it?” Saaltantha demanded. “What does it say?”

“Oh, little one,” he turned to face her, “so eager to learn!” He beamed with his gleaming eyes.

“Do not patronise me, old man! What is written upon the door?” Her fury showed in her stance. The embarrassment of her previous fright still lingered, and her resentment of the sorcerer grew with each word he uttered. The regret of accompanying the magician flowed within her; though the payment offered upon completion of the task dulled the flames of her impatience.

DuCante faced the doorway once more. “Ah, of course, of course,” he muttered, his cowl moving side to side with his amusement. “It is but an old poem. The fable of Reigh’Tun.”

“The very fable we are introduced to in our youth?” Saaltantha asked, shocked.

“The very same. Although it is, of course, an even older version of the fable. Some phrases are less… Infantile than those you may remember.”

“Read it aloud, Wise One. I wish to hear it.”

“If you insist, my child. My translation is not exact, for some of the words in the inscription are unknown to me, though I trust the general intent of the fable is preserved.

“In times of dark, the men of nature

Threw away their keys

Though lingered they, the men of war,

To smite the men of trees

If but the ones of war should know

The secrets to the lands,

The truth would out and strike thee down

With just and mighty hands

So in their final days of mercy

The men of trees did plot

Their final venture undertaken

To be one lost, forgot

When time had come and gone again,

The men of trees did flee

And so the men of war lament,

The loss of man of tree.”

With the final word uttered, the mysterious door’s latch clicked, and the door swung outwards without a creak or groan. Birds could be heard, tweeting their loving melodies and chittering amongst themselves. Light poured in from outside the door, as Saaltantha and DuCante looked on, blinded by the brightness. DuCante stepped forth, hesitantly, and laid his right foot upon the grass a little lower than the floor inside the corridor. Wind played across his cloak, billowing and buffeting it like a sail, and his glowing eyes blinked in fascination.

Saaltantha, almost unable to control herself, walked on through behind him. Turning to the left and right, no evidence of any wall could be found surrounding the doorway. The frame simply hung in the air half a foot above the grass, alone and inexplicable, but unmistakable. The corridor could be seen inside the doorway, though behind the frame itself was nothing but open meadow.

“Impossible!” Saaltantha gasped, thrusting her arm through the doorway, and watching with equal measures of curiosity and horror as it seemed to vanish when viewed from the side of the doorway.

“The doorway was a true portal. A bridge between lands,” DuCante explained, hiding his surprise behind a veil of confidence, “the fable of Reigh’Tun seemed to activate it.” Without warning, the door slammed shut, and Saaltantha was almost unable to extricate her arm from the opening before the portal closed again, once and for all, and with a shimmer, vanished.

Where the frame once hung, there was now only air.