15 — Stepping Through
It was deep into the night. A break in the rain had provided a sensible moment for Daelus to return to his estate, and so both he and Sheam had decided to pause their work until dawn.
The doors to Daelus’ estate clicked shut behind him, muffling the sound of continued rainfall. The pause had been enough to allow Sheam to return home, safe and dry, but Daelus had been caught in it during the walk from the rail line terminus to his front door. He
dripped
.
He was unconcerned. As he hung his heavy overcoat on its rack, droplets spilling onto laminated hardwood below, his mind was still on the work. Keys clattered into a nearby dish. Boots were unlaced. Daelus thought about the artifact.
It had been a month since Johnathan had gotten Daelus in touch with Anthony Carmichael, of the archeological expedition. That initiative had born the promised fruit; an artifact. It had been delivered to the museum this morning.
It was a curious object. It was the shape and size of a small hardbound book, but solid. Its weight made it feel to be made of ceramic, or porcelain; the heft resembled fine dinnerware.
Daelus had identified himself as a specialist on such antiquities, and as the curator of a museum, that white lie was given heft. The artifact was thus loaned to him with a simple request – he work out what the thing
was
.
It hadn't been fully cleaned. Though freed from the sediment that had preserved it for centuries, the surface was covered with a hard, flakey material. It didn’t come off on the fingertips when handled, but was brittle enough so it was possible to scrape it free with a fine tool.
Sheam, working quietly, privately in the museum's underground storage chambers, had begun to do so. She quickly made a discovery — one surface was covered in writing. The language was not of common use, but Sheam found that she could read it. A language she had forgotten suddenly spilled out of the deepest recesses of her mind.
It would be long, arduous work, but the excitement was electric. Hours passed invisibly. The passage of time was only betrayed by the heaviness of two sets of eyelids and the low drum of the rain fading to a halt. Once locking the artifact away in the safest place in the building — the sturdy top drawer of the even sturdier desk in Daelus’ office — the two bodies with one mind departed.
Sheam was soon home, soon in bed, and soon asleep. It was real sleep, only she never dreamed. It was practical. While slumbering, the mental load on Daelus to keep her manifested nonstop was lessened. It had also become necessary. Lately, Daelus had felt her absence to be excruciating. The mental load of
not
having her manifested was by far the worst.
With Sheam asleep, Daelus had easily navigated the elevated rail system to reach home. Still, his thoughts absorbed and overwhelmed him. Distracted, he had nearly bumped into a group of schoolchildren as he boarded the elevated trolley. Thoughts of the artifact absolutely consumed him.
A second pair of doors clicked shut as Daelus retired to his bedchamber. He began to strip out of the remaining layers of clothing, but then something felt
wrong
.
It was that unmistakable smell, the one that was deeper than that, further into the brain — an
entourage
was nearby.
Daelus forced himself to remain still, to not react. A wrong move would be fatal.
He
listened
. Together with the scent, he tried to get a sense of where they were, and how they were moving.
Some delegates could pop their entourage to and fro — teleporting them — but that didn't seem to be happening. They felt and sounded solid;
consistent
. They were moving from room to room, slowly making their way upstairs. Daelus could hear and feel it in the subtle way the floor creaked and vibrated.
Some delegates could project many entourage at once — a swarm. This didn't feel like the case. It was a small number; three at most. Whoever this was, wasn’t doing anything fancy. They were
careful
.
Some delegates knew the layout of Daelus' estate. If so, the entourage could be operating on simple instructions and running like automatons. Otherwise, the delegate could be controlling one or possibly even all three directly.
That would mean that only one could react to new information at a time; the others could be taken by surprise, or slipped past. The issue was it was very hard to tell which entourage the delegate was directly puppeteering without testing their reactivity, at which point the delegate was seconds away from noticing the disturbance. They were like bells on taught strings.
Daelus moved. He had to get out of the building. He wasn't an incompetent fighter, but was certain that these entourage would be. He expected that they would be nothing short of lethal.
The central stairs would be the obvious escape route, and it
creaked
. They’d be on him at once if he tried it.
There was an old dumbwaiter that ran from the upstairs hall to the kitchen, but he wouldn't fit, the platform inside would collapse under his weight, and he wasn’t even sure if it worked.
There was a second stair, intended to be used by staff — Daelus kept none — that a fellow delegate, even one who had visited many times,
likely
wouldn't know about. He went for it.
He paused at the top of the stair. It felt empty. He descended. It led to the kitchen. He froze as he hit a creaky floorboard. They’d be able to hear him walk across the kitchen. The estate was very quiet at night. He liked it that way, but at the moment it was going to be a problem.
He heard something in the hall outside the kitchen. Reacting, he went the other way, to a small hall leading to a utility area with a side door that exited into the back garden. A second too late, he realized that he had assumed that all of the entourage would be moving towards his bedchambers and none would be watching the exits.
Some were watching the exits.
An assassin lunged.
The blade bit. Daelus pushed himself away, knocking his back and head against the far wall of the small utility room. Blood poured from his side, just below the ribs.
The darkly clad and hooded entourage hesitated.
It became clear that the attack was reflexive. The delegate wasn't in direct control of it.
Daelus tried to wrest the knife out of its hands, but its grip was solid. He grabbed a nearby broomstick. The entourage jerked suddenly, its motions taking on a human quality. The delegate looked out of its eyes, staring coldly at Daelus.
Daelus, knuckles white around the broomstick, beat the thing with a vicious determination until it de-manifested. Daelus knew an entourage couldn't be killed, but he knew more than anyone how much they could
feel
— and that pain would be transferred directly to the delegate while they were in full control.
The door to the back garden was meters away, but Daelus had taken too much time and the enemy delegate now knew exactly where he was. He saw a shape moving through the window of the exterior door. Daelus was bleeding from his wound, and feeling light-headed. He’d lose in a footrace. He was forced to retreat, back the way he came, back
upstairs
.
More were in the kitchen now. The way to the staff stair was cut off. He went the other direction, towards the central hall.
As he rushed, abandoning stealth, he could hear the floors creak throughout the manor. They all knew exactly where he was, and were coming for him. As he turned the corner, he could see them emerging from various directions; black clad, hooded, nearly featureless but apparently identical, approaching systematically to cut off all escape routes.
Daelus raced up the central stair, and pushed clumsily back into his chambers. No sooner than having shut and locked it, he could hear the three bodies push against the door, but then go quiet.
He struggled to move a heavy piece of furniture to block the door. He had lost too much blood. His head was spinning.
Daelus thought about using the window to escape, but knew that the drop would hurt enough to keep him from getting too far, if it didn’t knock him out cold completely.
He could try to manifest an entourage, a brand new one, to fight them off. But then—
What about Sheam?
I sat up bolt upright in my bed. I was safe in my apartment, alone, secure. I could see that the door was still deadbolted shut. I was safe. They weren’t after
me
, Sheam. They were after me,
Daelus
.
The stillness at the bedchamber door ended. There was a pounding, and groaning of wood. They were using a wedge and a hammer to pry the door open. They would be inside in seconds.
Daelus was afraid. He could feel his resolve giving way to terror and panic. He could feel the pain in his side, and his vision going dark. Blood splattered the floor.
I knew what to do. It was my only option.
I didn't want it to be like
this
. I wanted to wait until I was
ready
. I wanted to feel
safe
when I tried it. I didn't want it to be a matter of survival. That choice had been taken from me in an instant.
It wasn't supposed to be possible.
I decided it
was
possible. And I'd do it.
Right now
.
I filled my mind with
surety
that this was going to happen. I formed a clear and precise understanding of my goal. I filled myself, my real self, with the intentionality to complete the act. I didn't
need
to empty myself of doubt. Doubt was no longer
conceivable
. This was simply real.
Daelus emptied himself of being. He put it all into Sheam. As he did so, he found there was nothing to give. She already had all that he was. She already
was
all that he was. She wasn't the entourage and he wasn't the delegate. He
wasn't at all.
The he that he
wasn't
didn't feel his body waste away. He wasn't there to feel it, because he was not there at all. The act was so absolute that it almost stretched backwards in time, retroactively unmaking him.
He was gone.
When the assassins broke the door free, they found a pile of clothes. There was
something
in them; a matter that could have
maybe
been a body at some point — a
residue
. Whatever the material was, it had never been Daelus, because this entire time he had always been—
SHEAM
part 1
a step,
long
overdue in the taking
by
Dana Nightingale
— I felt the world pop around me as if there was somehow
more
world in the universe and the fabric of reality didn't quite know yet how to make it
fit
.
It definitely
wasn't
my imagination.
My bed, that I had been sitting up in,
shattered
. All of the matter surrounding me became bits and shreds and tatters that embedded themselves into the now cracked and cratered architecture.
Reality curmudgeonly objected to this addition, but slowly settled down.
I fell.
I hit the broken floorboards. It
hurt
.
I stood, shaking, wobbling, unsteady.
Reality shuddered one more time, groaning —
angry
. It wasn't quite ready to accept what I had done to it. I froze, half expecting the air around me to suddenly become solid and crush me to dust.
Nothing more happened.
“Are we
good
?” I asked the air. I asked the physical reality around me. I asked the
fucking
universe.
No reply came.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
I paused. I felt the sense of danger pass. My emotions rolled through me as if very offended that I dared make them wait their turn. It came as a chill that rattled through my frame violently.
There was nothing left of him. I couldn't even remember how it
felt
to be him.
He was gone
.
I was only me.
I collapsed, curled into myself, the intensity swirling up from my insides vomiting out as a
sob
.
But then, I was
laughing
.
And then I was
screaming with joy.
I bounded off the floor and found the mirror in my washroom. It was cracked. I didn't care. I saw myself. Wide eyes, wild, raw, true, beautiful —
myself
.
I looked
different
. An entourage was never as
imperfect
as a real human being always was. I was fleshy. I was flawed. I looked like I had
been living
. I was real. I was the most real thing I had ever seen in my life. It made me love what I saw even more.
I ran my shaking hands over my face. My heart still pounded in my ears. I rubbed and pulled and tugged at my skin all over my body, discovering it, all while daring reality to intervene and take this from me.
It didn't
dare
.
I jumped. I danced. I screamed and cried some more.
Finally, I returned to the mirror.
There I was, just me, just Sheam, as if was now the most
normal
thing in the world.