Per aspera ad astra, p.17
Per Aspera Ad Astra, page 17
“Yes, that’s what he told us,” said Mark.
Alan gazed at their new acquaintance, a troubling thought on his mind. “He didn’t tell us he’d asked your lot to send anyone,” he said with a subtle but significant air. “Or that he was in contact.”
From the noncommittal yet curious look on the newcomer’s face, it became clear to the Marketts this man had no idea what he’d been thrust into. He thus required an explanation, one they’d trained all their lives to avoid having to give. Either someone had messed up badly, or the situation was so dire that minders were being called upon to support what was, up to that point, purely wizards’ work. As Alan contemplated how best to proceed, similar thoughts percolated in Mark and Maggie’s minds. From the looks on their faces, he knew they were as unhappy at the prospect as he.
“Not wishing to be rude or anything,” Mark began, “but did your superiors happen to tell you anything you might otherwise consider out of the ordinary? I mean, aside from space aliens and otherworldly objects.”
Unsure of the question’s nature, Paul steadied himself with a deep breath. “I did get a short memo before leaving,” he admitted. “The sender was redacted, so I can only assume it’s from some spook. As for what it said, well, it told me to relay the following phrase: ‘Minders aren’t blind, they choose not to see.’” He paused, sighed again, then shrugged helplessly. “Look, I’m just a NASA analyst who studied space rocks, before they dragged me into the USSF back in January. So if this was some wiseguy screwing around with code phrases, I have no idea what, if anything, it means.”
Alan fixed the American with a sympathetic look, drawing a folder from a nearby filing cabinet. “I think I know what’s going on,” he said, handing it over. “Have a look at our findings, slim as they are, and you might better understand the one before we tell you the other.”
“It’s also getting late,” Mark pointed out. “If you’ve only just got here, I can imagine how tired you’re feeling.”
“Perhaps,” Paul agreed, furtively snatching looks at Maggie as she leaned against the wall in high dudgeon. Her sapphire eyes peering from beneath curly red hair bound at the neck, she seemed to regard him with equal parts disdain, acrimony and, oddly, frank curiosity. “It wasn’t a bad flight from D.C., but I had to fly there from Florida. They set me up at a nearby inn; Uncle Sam’s paying for everything, and they haven’t exactly given me a time limit.”
“Small wonder,” Alan observed wryly. “Since I don’t think there’s much else we can do this evening, what say we knock off and get something to eat? Personally, I’m starving.”
“Sure,” Paul agreed. “If anything, it’ll give me a chance to review your data and conclusions. There’s one thing I’d suggest before we leave.”
“What’s that?” Maggie said testily.
“You might want to consider putting the sample on ice,” Paul said, utterly unperturbed. “If nothing else, it’ll prevent contamination.”
The three siblings exchanged glances. “It’s worth considering,” Alan said with a shrug. “I’ll take care of it.”
“No,” Maggie interjected. “This is my lab and my sample, therefore it’s my responsibility. I’ll catch you up once I’ve finished.”
Alan shrugged, marveling at how stubborn his sister could be. “If that’s the way you want it,” he said. “We’ll be at the usual place.”
Once her brothers retrieved their coats and cases while the newcomer took a handful of photographs with his phone, they led him out of the lab, exchanging idle chatter. Once alone, Maggie found herself staring after Paul’s retreating form. She was well aware her attitude toward him wasn’t at all fair, and furtively hoped he wasn’t put off by it. Regardless, it wasn’t long before she had the probe sealed in a hastily-constructed reinforced isolation unit, using her powers to quickly cool the inside. By the time she’d finished, barely fifteen minutes had passed, and she realized to her great surprise she couldn’t wait to speak with the American again—though under less formal circumstances.
Shutting down the lab, Maggie failed to notice the probe as it began to slowly re-inflate, as the temperature within the Plexiglas tank plummeted well past freezing.
Frowning, Paul closed the folder and handed it to Alan, unsure what exactly he’d seen. “Organic chemistry isn’t really my field,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “While your data seems plausible, I’d have to run my own tests to be certain, and I don’t know what tests you’ve done.”
A gum-chewing server in her mid-thirties, looking quite bored, began setting baskets of chicken wings before them. Having studied the Marketts’ data and analysis in the pub’s rustic, poorly-lit atmosphere, Paul eagerly tore into his. The place reminded him of a cross between a dive bar he’d frequented in Florida, and a tavern from a Renaissance period piece, but with all the wrong music—at least the food was tasty. The folder’s contents were rather sparse, taking up less than seven double-sided pages of printed and handwritten notes, figures and diagrams. He had no clue for how long they’d examined the probe, but if it was more than a few days, that certainly explained the shared frustration he’d felt, wafting about the lab. Now he’d finished perusing their findings, he could only wonder how they’d produced them. He had a good idea what experiments he wanted to try.
“We’re happy to demonstrate,” Mark replied, his siblings nodding. “You’ll find them quite interesting, I’m sure.”
“Before we can,” Alan said, tucking the folder into his briefcase, “there’s the matter of our nature to discuss. Maggie, Mark and I aren’t quite what you might consider ‘normal.’”
Paul’s brow rose as he finished another wing, irritation washing over him while he fought to maintain his carefully controlled composure. Since starting graduate school after nearly making mincemeat of his undergrad studies, he’d resolved to abandon the hedonistic ways of his youth and clean his metaphorical room. This, combined with a rekindled love of scientific conjecture, resulted in his transformation from an intelligent party animal to a talented and respected analyst and engineer with a promising career ahead of him. It’d taken rigorous self-discipline and the projection of steady confidence, which he’d since realized came in handy when dealing with superiors and co-workers alike. In truth, he was secretly ecstatic to be assigned to the Space Force, even as a mere civilian. Such a post at least implied a potential shortcut to fulfilling his greatest boyhood dream: the chance to go into space.
Ultimately, the source of his irritation wasn’t the subtle slipping of his outward calm, but the fact he’d been pulled away from his previous project. He was helping to design what would, hopefully, become the world’s first manned reusable space plane, armed and fully capable of combat. Though he was no pilot himself, he found the idea captivating—much more so than testing meteorites and other cosmic debris—since it not only allowed him to work with classified bleeding-edge equipment and technology, but it’d ultimately represent the first real toehold in humanity’s quest to reach beyond the confines of its home planet. While the project wasn’t expected to bear fruit for another five years or so, at least beyond ruling out what wouldn’t work, it was a heady experience. It would’ve remained so if he wasn’t plucked from his admittedly cushy job and sent off to Scotland with barely enough notice to pack a bag. On top of that, the quite average trio of siblings, sitting at a table in the dim corner of a pub near the university, were quite insistent he believe there was, in fact, something about them that wasn’t perfectly normal.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, eyeing another wing. “If you’re right and we’re dealing with hard evidence of E.T.—thus far, I’m inclined to believe you—then the way you three are acting is downright mundane.”
The look the Marketts shared was significant, and Paul knew they weren’t looking forward to sharing whatever they needed to discuss. As the silence began to spiral, Maggie elbowed Alan. “Go on, get on with it,” she hissed. “We haven’t got all night.”
Alan coughed meaningfully. “Yes, well,” he began, his gaze flicking to his siblings once more. “Appearances can be deceiving, and for good reason.” He paused, looked into his lap, then locked eyes with their guest. “You see, we’re of a rare breed. So rare, I doubt you’d ever see or hear of our kind, were you not sent here.”
“Okay,” Paul muttered, his expression neutral while he waited for the other shoe to drop. “What sort of ‘breed’ are you?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” Maggie spat, drawing what looked like a wooden dowel, ten inches long, carved and richly polished, from her bag and setting it on the table. “We’re sorcerers,” she continued, swiftly yet softly, covertly scanning the room for potential eavesdroppers. The general volume was loud enough that Paul doubted anyone could possibly listen; he was having trouble hearing them himself. “Our whole extended family are sorcerers, apart from our parents and grandfather. We’ve got our own suspicions about him, and our father’s an interesting case as well.”
Paul grimaced, suppressing the urge to burst out laughing at what he was being told, to say nothing of the absurdly furtive behavior of the Marketts. It was easily the biggest line of bullshit he’d ever heard, apart from the ravings of flat earthers and Creationists. Sorcerers, as in witches and wizards? he thought. Who the hell do these Britbongs think I am?
“I don’t think he believes you,” Mark said under his breath. Alan nodded in reluctant agreement.
“Let him believe what he wants,” Maggie shot back, retrieving the dowel and pointing it at the table. “Tell me, Mr. Morrison, what’s your favorite metal or alloy? Be creative.”
Allowing himself a small half-smile, Paul thought for a moment. “Can’t beat iridium. It’s rare, and even more dense than your average politician.”
“It isn’t that rare,” Maggie said with a cocky grin. “It’s just most of it sank to the Earth’s core billions of years ago. On the other hand…”
She closed her eyes. A heartbeat later, there was a muted flash of blue-green light. On the empty bit of table where the piece of wood was pointed, there now rested a small sphere of metal. The size of a large marble, it reflected the low light of the pub with a yellowish cast. Utterly baffled and lost for words, Paul hesitantly snatched the ball as it rolled toward the edge, taken aback at just how heavy it was. The self-evident density, and the platinum-like luster—he’d worked with it before—made it clear this was in fact iridium, as pure as anything. And if he hadn't taken sudden leave of his senses, it’d been produced from thin air.
“You can keep that if you like,” Maggie continued, her tone businesslike as she noted Paul’s dumbfounded reaction. He seemed to be taking this news, and her little parlor trick, well—for a minder. “Ordinarily I’d want to vanish it and move on with our chat, to keep the balance. However, you strike me as the sensible sort who’d want to bring that to your superiors as proof of what we are and what we can do, should that ultimately prove necessary.”
“I…don’t think that alone will work,” Paul said. Completely flabbergasted, he was desperate to regain some measure of control over the conversation that was flying beyond credulity at hypersonic speeds. Heeding Maggie’s words, he slipped the marble into his pocket.
“Have them examine its shape,” she suggested. “A more perfect sphere cannot yet be made by non-magical means.”
“That’s right, magic,” Alan said. “But we only call it that for lack of a better term. Even the wisest of us don’t fully understand the source of our abilities, only that they’re consistent and reproducible to such a degree, we’re confident of finding a scientific explanation eventually.”
“And…you can…do more than make metal?” Paul ventured.
“Indeed,” Mark said, glad to finally get past the sensitive bit. “It’s a very practical range of powers, though some have more aptitude in certain fields than others. I’m a sort of universalist myself, with no particular strengths, but I know at least a little about quite a lot. Alan has an affinity for living things and organic materials, and Maggie loves her minerals. Our grandmother’s used it for decades to heal, and Auntie Clara learned to do the same for those with mental afflictions and wounds. Furthermore, no sorcerer—whatever title you wish will do—nor their companions, will ever go wanting for food and drink.”
Though unwilling yet to concede the validity of their claims, the sincerity of his hosts didn't escape Paul’s notice. His analytical mind was frantically hunting for any inconsistencies. Now the ice was broken, they appeared eager to do whatever it took to convince him, starting with Maggie’s ad-lib practical demonstration. “Are there any…rituals…you have to do?”
“Rituals?” Maggie blurted, giggling warmly, and Paul felt his cheeks blaze. “There’s no bloody rituals, God-awful chants, shouted incantations or whatever bollocks they put in books these days. We train at it, certainly, from a young age, but in our case that’s all done with family and friends. Ours is a fairly insular world, of necessity.”
The most obvious question finally popped into Paul’s mind. “Why are you telling me this?” he said, betraying his anxiety for the first time. Nothing was certain any more, not even the basic laws of physics. “I never really liked fantasy, so I don’t have a frame of reference. I have to ask, if your society has set itself apart from ‘normal’ humans, why drop this on me?”
“Not you, specifically,” Alan said bracingly. “We would’ve told anyone your government might’ve sent. That phrase you relayed, well, it confirmed you’re what we call a ‘minder’—people content to mind their own business—but also that you’re trustworthy and will keep our secret. Like us, the sender was a sorcerer, and he or she understands the risks involved as well as the importance of what you’ve been sent to investigate.”
“After all,” Mark put in, “the data you saw was obtained by mostly magical means. We’ll explain tomorrow, once we’re in the lab. Then you can tell us where we’ve been going wrong all this time.”
“As for why we keep to ourselves,” Alan continued, producing a similar-looking rod, “that ought to be obvious. If we went public, any tin-pot dictator or jumped-up Johnny would love to try coercing one of us into using our power for their own ends. Emphasis on try, because we’re not harmless.”
Mark pulled a third instrument and pointed it at the table. With another dull flash, he crafted a powerful-looking pistol. Without a word, he picked up the weapon and pressed a lever, catching a falling magazine; Paul could see it was loaded with fat, copper-jacketed rounds. Nodding at the point he’d made, Mark reloaded the gun and, setting it on the table, pointed his dowel at it. One last flare wiped it from existence.
“We can do these things, and more besides, without wands, but we’d rather not,” Maggie said, her eyes meeting Paul’s as he carefully eyed the objects they held. “What we call ‘magic’ is a force that comes from within, but it helps to have a conduit for the energy we draw upon. A sorcerer who uses it without one will tire more easily, and start to lose feeling in their fingers. Eventually this results in the tips burning away, and it only gets worse from there.”
“Surely you’ve heard of a magic wand?” Mark said, an impish look creeping onto his visage. Paul nodded meekly. “Once we’re taught how, we can fashion one from just about anything. But there are advantages to various kinds of wood, and of course the longer we own and use one, the more efficient it becomes at channeling our energies.”
Paul could only sit there, ideas, hypotheses and theories whirling through his mind with all the bluster of a tornado. If I ever meet the asshole who roped me into this, he thought, I’ll beat him to within an inch of his miserable life.
“I think our guest has endured quite enough,” Maggie said at last. The pub was growing more boisterous, as a veritable horde of rowdy students descended on the place like a herd of wildebeests. The look in her eyes was far more friendly and welcoming than when they’d first met, and Paul felt his shoulders slump with fatigue as his pale gaze locked onto those deep blue orbs. He was struck by just how pretty she was, without her lab coat and safety goggles, dressed in a tasteful yet practical ensemble. “Have you had a chance to settle into your room, Mr. Morrison?”
Startled out of his reverie by the question, Paul shook his head fractionally. “No, I only checked in this afternoon,” he said, blinking furiously to clear his head. “I’m not even sure how to get there from here.”
Maggie’s smile was warm and sympathetic, distracting him from the gentle tap of her wand on his hand, resting on the tabletop. Before he could register what she’d done, a gentle current flowed from the spot, spreading through his entire body. As the sensation faded, Paul felt inexplicably refreshed.
“Please accept my apologies for the way I treated you earlier,” she said, withdrawing her wand and putting it away. “It was very rude and quite unfair, and you didn’t deserve it.”
Paul sat there for a few moments, reviewing what he’d experienced and been told in their company. His orders were clear: learn all you can about this supposed extraterrestrial object, and report your findings and analyses. At no point did they mention forwarding anything regarding the people he worked with, and for that he was profoundly grateful. The complete reversal of Maggie’s attitude was a bonus.
“It’s alright,” he said with a sigh. “I showed up to your lab unannounced, and you could’ve cut the tension with a knife, so I can relate to your irritation.” Paul frowned, trying to ignore the loud prattle of the other patrons. “I’ll admit, all this ‘magic’ stuff is more than a little hard to swallow.”
The Marketts nodded, the brothers putting their wands away as well. “That being the case,” Maggie said as she rose from her chair, in a tone that brooked no argument, “I’ll escort you to your room. The energy I’ve lent should put you out by the time you make yourself at home, and you’ll wake up from the best sleep you’ve had in years.”
