Chapter Eight
Not all breakthroughs follow the superhero stereotypes; there are lots of other “supernatural” breakthroughs based on older
myths and stories. Chakra, with her tantric magic, is the perfect blush-inducing example of the Merlin-type (do not talk to her
about the source of her powers!), but there are witches in San Francisco, voodonists in New Orleans, English druids, Italian
strega, Native American medicine men, Appalachian conjure-men, and enough others to fill books. And because their beliefs shaped
their breakthroughs, their magic works.
Astra, Notes From a Life.
* * *
Using my eyes Shelly could see what I saw, and she was right. This was our guy, but not yet, if ever. We could only see his back,
but his long hair was shiny in a bad way and pulled into a ratty tail. His shoulders hunched like he expected the world to smack
him for no reason. He wore an old evening coat, blue so dark it looked black and glinting with light off of dozens, maybe hundreds
of silver pins. All kinds of pins: award pins, logo pins, event pins, even tie and lapel pins as long as they were small and
silver. If the night sky went slumming, it would look like this. Even in a club full of sweaty dancers, I could smell the odor of
too many missed baths on him.
“Astra,” Orb said when I stepped out of the crowd. She held up her hand and a server took my order of a virgin cooler before I
took the unoccupied chair. Her guest was even more unpromising from the front. His dark skin was an unhealthy gray, and the lines
around his veined eyes aged him. I was looking at a longtime crack addict or meth-head.
He looked up from his drink, and tired eyes lit with interest. When he didn’t say anything I extended a gloved hand.
“Dr. Cornelius?”
He grimaced, but we shook. He wore fingerless gloves, and he looked at his hand after letting go.
“I don’t know any Dr. Cornelius,” he said. “Sounds like a hero name.”
“Shit. Let’s go, Hope,” Shelly said beside me. I shook my head, putting on a smile. She was right, but we were here and I wasn
’t going to be rude.
“A friend of mine told me it was yours,” I said. “Or will be in a few years.”
“That would be the impatient one there? Red hair, green eyes, mouthy?”
Shelly squeaked and slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
“How—” I gripped the table, felt it creak. “She’s a virtual-reality projection in my head, not really here! How can you see
her?”
“She’s with you, and you’re here,” he said, his voice too strong and deep for his thin body. “So she’s here, metaphysically.
That’s physical enough for me. Would you like an orange?”
He pulled one, slightly squashed, out of his coat pocket and started peeling.
I shook my head weakly. Orb just smiled and slid a snack bowl under his hands.
“Orb says you need something,” he said, focusing on the fruit.
I looked at Shelly, then plunged in.
“According to a book of contingent prophesy, in two or three years, maybe sooner, you’re going to make a name for yourself as an
occult investigator called Dr. Cornelius. You’ll specialize in hunting supernatural breakthroughs, their projections and
creations.”
“Will I?”
“Yes. And in an interview you’ll speculate about the murder of one of my friends. In the article you’ll say he was likely
killed by a projection, a summons, but that after so much time you can’t prove it.”
“Must be a high-profile killing for me to talk about it. Does the victim have a name?” The orange was half-naked.
I swallowed, nodded.
“Blackstone.”
Orb twitched, and Cornelius stopped peeling. My drink arrived.
“That’s a very interesting book,” he said after the server left.
“It’s more of a time-traveler’s database,” I said. Shelly nodded solemnly.
“You’re trying to change history? That’s taking on a lot.”
“It’s not history yet.” I took a sip of my cooler and explained all about temporal superimposition and the privileged present.
He nodded when I finished, back to peeling the orange.
“So it’s like in Dickens’ Christmas Carol: the shadows of things that might be.”
“Yes. But Blackstone’s d— That’s a pretty solid shadow.”
“That’s tough. Wish I could help you.”
“But you’re— I mean, you can see Shelly. Obviously you’ve had your breakthrough.”
He dropped the last peel in the bowl and split the orange.
“Got it the day of the Event. Been trying to give it back ever since.”
I could only stare. “Why?”
He sighed, tired, and looked at Orb.
“Ten years ago I was a snot-nosed grad student studying metaphysics and getting high in pursuit of chemically-assisted
enlightenment. The Event gave it to me. The world around us? As real as your friend here. It’s a hologram, an image created by
the intersection of thirty-six emanations. Like light. You combine red, yellow, and blue light and you get white light. This world
—”
He slapped the table, making me jump. “Hermetic magicians call it Assiah, and it’s like the orange peels here. Just the skin of
reality. Inside that is Yetzirah, the astral plane, the dream plane, the place our minds are. Inside that is Briah, the iconic
real, home to all the faces of divinity we know and crammed with every afterlife and mythic place we can imagine. Inside that is
Atziluth, the hyperion realm, the home of the Source, the Prime Mover, capital G God. All energy emanates from the Source. When it
reaches Briah it divides into the thirty-six emanations, the decanic energies that mix to continually re-create Assiah, the world
we eat and crap and get high in.
“Me? I saw it all. The Event greased me right through Yetzirah, through Briah, and right into Atziluth where I saw the freakin’
face of God. And He spoke to me. Just three Words, three of the thirty-six Words used to speak the world into being, one for each
decan.”
He popped an orange slice in his mouth, grinning maniacally.
“And you know what? I can’t forget them. Can’t say them, either, not one. Don’t know what would happen if I did—they’re
realer than I am. And I can’t stop seeing the world for what it is. Except when I’m high of course.”
I didn’t know what to say. He shrugged, popping another orange slice.
“Is any of that real except to me? Don’t know, don’t care. Still think I can help the great Blackstone?”
* * *
With no reason to stay in LA, I retrieved my bag from Restormel and flew out. Shelly ghosted alongside me, but we didn’t talk
much. She promised to look some more; maybe she’d missed something, another future lead we could pursue. I only half-listened. I
hadn’t thought the trip through on the flight out—had kept myself from thinking about it, really. But now I detoured south of my
LA-Chicago flight path, heading for the Bear River Mountains and Atlas’ cabin. When Shelly realized my destination she said
goodnight and switched off.
In the middle of the cleanup from the Big One, just before the Whittier Base Attack, Atlas and I spent three nights there. I told
his parents about it after the funeral, and I think it helped, a little, because they gave me the cabin. They had their ranch in
Texas and had never been up there themselves; it had been John’s “Fortress of Solitude.” I’d thanked them, but hadn’t been
able to go back.
Now I descended on the luxury-cabin, tucked in a mountain valley between ridges and surrounded by pine and aspen. Even without a
moon, my super-sight let me see just fine by starlight. Finding the key, I unlocked the front door and dropped my bag in the
entryway.
And took a deep breath. Now what?
“I could replay for you,” Shelly said quietly, popping in beside me.
I shrieked, spun around.
“Don’t do that!”
“Sorry! I just— Your neural implant was up and running by then, so there’s a complete recording of your trip in the Anarchist’
s files. It’s locked, but if you want I can get it. You can see…”
“No.” I covered my eyes, light-headed. I wasn’t going to scream at Shelly. I wasn’t.
“No. That’s…nice, Shel. Maybe in fifty years.”
My breakthrough had forced me to abandon all my adult plans. I was still a college freshman, but I didn’t have time to experience
college life. Instead of club and sorority activities, after-school parties and rooming with the Bees, I trained and patrolled.
But I got Atlas. Trained as his sidekick for three months, fought beside him, fought with him. And made new plans. Until the
attack.
I blinked determinedly.
“I’ll be okay, but thanks for the offer. See you at home?”
She nodded uncertainly and disappeared again.
I took another breath, and realized it didn’t hurt. I’d have to thank Shelly—she’d broken the moment, and now I knew what I’d
come for. I stripped off my mask, gloves, and boots, then found the linen closet and pulled out the horse-blanket we’d used
together the first night. Going back outside, I climbed to the elevated back porch, stripped the cover off the outdoor couch, and
stretched out. The stars were different than the winter stars of January, but just as bright.
I could smell John in the blanket, and it got a little wet, but my dreams were beautiful.