A Prison of Worlds (The Chained Worlds Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Nowadays
the love of my life isn't all that helpful.  Psionics are great for mind over
matter, controlling minds, healing, short distance teleportation, and many
other tricks, but I have yet to see a psionic bridge the dimensions with the
power of his mind alone.  For that, you need magic.  Even my digging into my ancestral
memories didn't hint at future skills in this direction.  My inherent ability
to move between the gaps between the dimensions had been stifled by whatever
rune the ancient dragon had placed on my chest, and my only hope to get back or
even leave this dimension was to learn magic myself or find a friendly mage.

The
problem I was having was that as far as I could tell this dimension didn't know
squat about magic.  The place that I had called home before I got stuck here
was what this world would consider a post-apocalyptic wasteland.   The particular
town I came from was a little stunted when it came to science; however, it was
crawling with magic users of a multitude of varieties.  In that tiny corner of
the scorched earth, the people and whatever assorted riffraff that had fallen
through the cracks in reality had rediscovered magic and used it to pick up
civilization by its bootstraps and trudge onward. 

I
looked once more at the book in disgust.  Here everything I had found was
cloaked in religious nonsense and generally useless.  I had avoided magic in my
old home for the most part, but the part of me that made my race what we are
just knew what was real magic and what was fiction.  I was tempted to throw the
book to the ground but lacked the emotional energy.  I simply sighed, and dropped
it back to the reject pile and pulled another from the larger stack.  Tomorrow
I would go to the antiquities bookstore on my way about the city and give these
away.  Books were rare enough in this new world that I would feel guilty to
remove one from existence.  Even if it was just a piece of crap.

I
was just settling down for another long read when a pounding came from my front
door.  Dropping the book on a nearby table and getting up from the comfortable overstuffed
chair I had situated myself in, I trudged to the door and opened it.  Squinting
a little at the rising sun, I looked at my visitor and was a little surprised
to see a thin, twenty-something young man with mousy brown hair peering down at
me from a few inches of advantage, swaying on his feet and looking like he was
about to collapse any minute. 

Frowning
in concern, I moved forward to support him and led him into my home, noting in
passing that he was dripping blood on my carpet.  Oh well, I keep all my nice
things in my other apartment.  I kept telling myself that as I avoided looking
at my carpet being ruined.

“Jeremy...
I wish you' be more careful.” I shook my head sadly.  I had Jeremy on an
ongoing contract.  In my opinion, he was the best private eye in the city, and
he liked dressing the part.  He wore an old baggy trench coat and a wrinkled off-white
dress shirt.  Unfortunately, he had a bad habit of playing the hero; I think his
clothes were in better shape than he was.  He was also a good friend despite
his lack of fashion sense.

“Hey,
the job’s dangerous, jealous boyfriends and all that.”  He gave a small breathy
laugh that quickly turned into a groan.  “Sorry to wake you.”

By
this time we had reached the kitchen, the hardwood floor guaranteed that no
more of my rug would be damaged, and I casually tore the coat he was wearing
off to expose a bloody gunshot wound.  A slight resistance told me it was
actually an armored cloth.  Probably resistant to heat and stiffened on impact
to dissipate kinetic energy.  It was likely why he was still alive and not
spending the night being resuscitated in the local hospital.

“Hey,
that was my favorite coat,” Jeremy jokingly whined.  It looked out of place on
his six-foot-four wiry frame and rugged features.  How he got here with that
wound boggled my mind; it's not as if we're close neighbors.  He lived at the edge
of the bad part of town, nicknamed the Blight by those that knew of it and
couldn't avoid thinking about it, whereas this house was in a middle class suburban
area of Arch.  “Turn on the damn light.  It feels like a tomb in here.”

“Yeah,
well you obviously haven’t spent much quality time in a tomb if you think
that.  You can have my old coat.”   I turned the light on and then ripped his
shirt open to expose the wound.  “And shirt.  Now hush, this takes some
concentration.”

Taking
a deep breath, I opened my inner eye to examine the damage.  Within a few
minutes, I knew exactly what was wrong with him.  “You need to stop smoking,
that's going to kill you sooner that some punk's gun,” I quipped, only half
joking.  He didn't have cancer or anything; these days no one did, but he did
smoke.  Humans are pretty fragile and they really shouldn't tempt fate.  They
may have to regrow his lungs someday if he ignores it.

“Then
I'll die free.”

“The
way cigarettes are taxed?  Dream on.”  During our banter, I was readying my
hand over his wound, and when I thought he was distracted I slipped it in, my
hand passing through his skin as if I was a ghost. 

“You
know, if you took my offer you could heal this yourself,” I muttered as my hand
found the bullet.  At my touch, it too became insubstantial and I lifted it out
if his body with no resistance.  As my hand pulled out, I could see the wound
closing up.  “Okay, psychic surgery complete. I hope your insurance covers this.” 
The tiny slug was completely flat.  The coat must have almost completely stopped
its momentum, unless Jeremy’s hide was a lot tougher than I thought.

“No
way, I have enough on my table as a PI,” he said as his fingers ran down the
side where the wound had been.  “Good work as usual, Professor.”

“Stop
calling me that,” I snapped.  “I hate nicknames.  If you cracked a book
occasionally, it wouldn't be such a shock that someone actually wants to look
at one.” These days the ‘old tech’ was a holographic display, and everyone
looked at you as if you were a human anachronism if you didn’t have a neural
interface.  My entire home was a museum.

“Ah,
come on, I heard someone calling you that already.”  I winced at hearing that. 
Too late to discourage it I guess.  Probably some smartass bookstore owner.  I
hate smartasses... other than me, I mean.  “Besides you play it down, but you
have some serious powers.”

“Well,
I play it down because the fewer people know what I can do the fewer idiots I
will have after my head.”  I waive a finger at him condescendingly, only half
teasing.  “Besides, there's always someone stronger than you.”

“Voice
of experience?”

“I
really don't want to talk about it.  You saw the aftermath yourself.”

Jeremy
was one of the people that found me some time after I had been thrown out of my
world.  Apparently, I was quite a sight at the time.

“I
thought you just got caught in a mugging.” I grimaced at the thought.  What the
hell did he think could have done that to me?  A delinquent velociraptor
looking for a score?  To be fair, at the time he had no clue of my less than
mundane state. 

“Oh
no, it was... er... I guess you would call it a demon.” How do you describe an
ancient dragon and a magic portal to a guy whose only frame of reference was the
contemporary 2090 AD urban landscape and perhaps a few fantasy and science
fiction books?  Well, and old movies.   “Anyway, I don't really want to talk
about it.”

 “Damn,
should have known that you had a story behind it,” Jeremy offered.  Now I knew
he was fishing.  I was only slightly annoyed, he's a PI, being nosey is his
life.  Fortunately, he handled me not talking about things gracefully.

“Oh,
come on, I've known you for almost a year.”  Okay, maybe not always that gracefully.

“Maybe
I'll tell you later, now shut up,” I grunted.  This world was weird.  I had
heard things could be different in the various dimensions.  Back home the
ambient magic was so great that my very structure oozed with it, fortifying me
and my abilities and psionics. So much so that I could take a small nuclear
bomb at ground zero and get up again if I was near a node or a ley line.  Here,
I had all my abilities sans the ones that the runes repressed, but I wasn't
nearly as tough as I once was. 

“So
who is it that's calling me 'Professor'?” I tacitly changed the subject.

Jeremy
wasn't fooled, but he let it drop.  “You know people in the bad parts.  If you're
going to take on the muggers, you better expect people to talk.”

“Crud,”
I grumbled.  I have been using the same shape and face to visit the poorer
parts of town to get my books.  I guess people were finally starting to notice
that if they try to mug that guy he's going to hand you your ass.  I could
change faces, but then I would have to deal with the additional mugging
attempts.  Yeah, some parts of town were so bad you knew you were guaranteed to
get jumped.  For a city that was named to be the pinnacle of the modern concept
of a megalopolis, Arch had some pretty crappy places.  Some of them are pretty
darn close to the upscale places.

“Oh
well, how bad could it be?” I asked philosophically.

“I
heard some rumors,” Jeremy offered quietly, as he walked over to the sink and
started using a wet cloth to get the caked blood off his skin.  Great, another
thing I need to buy.  I hate shopping.

“The
mayor is thinking of forming a new police force using supernaturals,” Jeremy
said, while frowning at the stains on his pants.

I
am not sure if it contributed at all to parts of the city sucking so hugely or
it was just natural for a city this large, but people have been saying that ever
since the vampires and the various shifters came out of the shadows, and
somehow got civil rights, the city has gone to hell and the police can't
control them.  Both are almost immune to normal weapons, so who can say they
are wrong.

“Well,
that sounds like a good idea.”  I looked at him closer.  He didn't seem
pleased.  “Okay, I give up.  Why isn't it a good idea? This city is hell on
earth in some areas.  Just because I don't want to play hero doesn't mean it's
not a good thing if someone else does.”

“There's
talk about him cracking down on freelancers and vigilantes.”

“Okay,
that is going to suck for some of the other more hated vigilantes but I still
don't see how it's that bad.  If anything it'll burden the police even more. 
It will probably go back to normal in a few weeks after enough police drop
dead.”  Jeremy gave me flat look.   I shrugged; if mortals want to make stupid
decisions then by their god, Darwin, they will be weeded out.

“Yeah,
it's going to be bad for everyone, but I think you should be worried about
yourself... Professor.”

I
was momentarily distracted by thoughts of the bloodbath.  It was then that his
words finally reached my brain.

“Profess...
wait a damn minute here,” I exclaimed hotly.  “I am not a hero or vigilante.  I
have work to do!  I don't have time to waste.”  My words faded away as I saw Jeremy
raise an eyebrow.  “Okay, it's not a waste, but I have other things on my plate.
I don't have time to spend chasing after supernatural genetic waste.”

“So
you say, but you have had your share of heroic actions since you got here.”

“That
was all self-defense.  They were in my way,” I complained.  I think there might
have been a hint of a whine in my tone.  I hated that.  I may be young for my
race, but I am still manly.  “Let the police hire a few werewolves they trust. 
That should balance the system a bit.”

“And
Kingston,” Jeremy asked as he moved into the living room and put his feet up on
my table.  Damn, he is such a slob.  If he tried to light up, I was going to
toss him out on his butt.  Then I froze.  Kingston?  He knew about Kingston?  I
knew Jeremy was good, but how did that happen.

“You're
guessing,” I accused.

“I
was until you responded,” he grinned smugly.

Kingston
had been a fairly successful mob boss that had disappeared off the crime scene
about six months ago.  That was when I had come into a very significant amount
of cash.  Okay, I suppose it really wasn't that big a stretch when someone goes
from living out of the YMCA and the government provided housing, to owning
several properties and placing Jeremy on permanent commission. 

What
had actually happened was less than glorious justice.  I had knocked out one of
the lower level thugs, checked his mental health, and then merged my mind with
his.  After that, I had shape changed into his form and walked into Kingston’s hideout. 
I had to work my way up the ladder a little, but they really didn't have any
defenses against a psychic shape shifter. 

The
only really hard part was the actual mind merge.  This is a grueling mental talent
where you and the target actually share all your memories with one another. 
For the next few hours you know everything that your target does.  It's also incredibly
dangerous.  If you bond to someone that is insane, it is very likely you will
come away suffering from the same mental illness.  If he is nuts enough and
your unlucky enough, he may just put you in a coma.  I had to be very careful
picking my targets. 

The
other down side is that the bonding is a full exchange.  For several hours they
know everything about you too.  I had to force my ‘donors’ into a temporary
coma.  When it wore off in a week they didn't remember a thing about me.