Part One

He wandered frequently in the graveyard at night. This had become a sort of ritual for him when his mother died four years ago. At first it had been for comfort, to talk to her, to try to convince himself that she wasn't really gone, but he grew out of that quickly. He knew that when people were dead, they were dead. The neurons stopped firing, the blood quit flowing, and the electrical impulses that carried who we were ceased with finality. Death. But visiting her had become a habit, and as his desire to see her waned, his desire to understand death, to ponder and consider it, had waxed. So he wandered.

He stepped between the mossy head stones, careful not to disturb the sites, because although he didn't believe they would mind, he thought it was best to be respectful. There were a few head stones that still had flowers resting before them from earlier visitations during the week. He was quite used to seeing the wilted flowers on or near the head stones. Thomas, the caretaker of the cemetary, with whom he had developed an odd friendship, told him that he couldn't bring himself to remove the only signs of life in such a desolate place until they, too, were dying or dead. He ran into Thomas a lot because he often fell asleep by one particular tree, and awoke to Thomas nudging him at five in the morning and telling him to go home and wash the dirt from his ass before school. Thomas—never Tom, because he thought all men named Tom were bastards—kept him from getting in trouble during his late night visits. He'd even taken to leaving a spare key under a rock so that the boy wouldn't have to jump the fence. The strange, gangly young man gave Thomas somebody to talk to, and Thomas encouraged him to continue coming, and thus was the nature of their relationship.

James talked to Thomas a lot. After his mom first died, James needed to talk. He couldn't talk to his dad, because he was needed his own time to grieve. His friends didn't understand—they had healthy, lively moms and dads and the only person they'd ever known who died was the old neighbor or sometimes a grandparent. Thomas lived around death his whole life. He'd lost his parents, he'd grown up an in orphanage, he'd known friends that died in 'Nam, he'd lost his wife early to the horror known as cancer; the same way James lost his mom. The caretaker had no children, no real trade, so he worked the cemetary, taking care of the people's last resting places, and occasionally talking to the visitors. The first time James had shown up, he was determined not to cry but was already doing so whether he knew it or not, and Thomas had listened. No condolences, no offering of hope that it would get better because really, it never went away. Sure, it wouldn't hurt so bad, but it would always hurt. Thomas listened and James talked, and James agreed that abbreviated versions of men's names were ugly and turned them into jerks. They were happy that way: an odd couple.

Generally speaking, the graveyard was a quiet place. The people who showed up during the day weren't much in the mood to talk to anybody but the dead, and the dead weren't very talkative either, usually. James plopped down in front of his mom's head stone and brushed away the dirt, putting down an apple, his mom's favorite fruit, and started to talk.

“Hey, mom. I know you can't hear me, but I wanted to tell you I won that award. Dad is never surprised by these things anymore, so I thought maybe I could surprise a reaction out of you. Not that think you're going to hop up and high five me, but you know, I had to try. I was right about the thermodynamic principles and their applications. I know you hated physics, so I won't go on. Nobody really understands this stuff anyway, they're just amazed and nod so they don't look stupid when I talk about it. That's okay, though. I'm sure I got that from you. Dad doesn't get it either, so it must've been you. I also won a scholarship for five thousand dollars. I'll add it to the MIT fund.” He crossed his lanky legs and rested his pointy elbows on his knees. “I'm graduating this year, too. I know what you'd say, you'd tell me I'm not ready for college at my age, but you're wrong. I need to get out of here. I hate this state, and I hate being the smartest person in town. I want to be the normal kid, for once. I'm sure there will be lots of other genius kids at MIT...” he trailed off, knowing that wasn't true entirely. He would stand out there, because he was only sixteen and not a lot of sixteen year olds made it into MIT. Not a lot of anybody made it there. He would stand out no matter where he went. It was his destiny, and his curse.

He had always stood out for as long as he could remember. When he was a baby it was because he was pretty, with thick hair and dark brown eyes. When he started to talk it was because his language skills were far above anybody else his age. When he started to add, it was because he could add four digit numbers when everybody else could add two. He couldn't help standing out, and he figured he'd be used to it by now, but that wasn't the case. He didn't think he'd ever really accept how different he was. He was too busy trying to fight it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a bright flash to his right. He looked up, wondering if there had been a strike of lightning to the west. He waited for a thunder clap and none came, and there was another flash, definitely not lightning. The night air had been cool, with a light breeze, but after the third flash the wind picked up and he heard a loud curse. There was definitely somebody over there. There wasn't supposed to be anybody here and he knew it, and he had half a mind to go tell that person to leave. On the other hand, he wasn't supposed to be there either, so he approached quietly to see what was going on.

A tall, lithe figure stood about ten meters in front of him. She was standing between a circle of stones and had drawn some sort of rune in the grass with chalk, or something similar. She was chanting quietly, and the chanting would illicit a flash, and then a swear when whatever she was trying didn't work. She was entrancing and the boy wanted a better look so he took a few more steps. As if on cue, her head turned and she stared into the dark graveyard, right at him. He knew she couldn't see him unless she made one of those weird flashes again, but he froze and didn't breathe. She grunted and turned back to her strange ritual, and he continued to advance. He stood behind a tree, less than eight feet from her. He could see her clearly in the odd glow of the rune, which he hadn't noticed before. Her features were statuesque and beautiful, her cheekbones round and tilted, her eyes large and glowing eerily in the light. She wore a strange sort of sari in the finest silks he'd ever seen. Her hair was long and fell in thick waves down her narrow frame. She was heavenly.

There was another flash, but no curse followed it. Instead, there was a boom like thunder, and James was knocked off his feet. He expected to hit the ground hard, but his eyes travelled to her angelic figure and he realized that they were both floating. Her float was graceful, with her long legs extended beneath her, her arms held before her with the tips of her delicate fingers just touching. His act of levitation was not nearly so graceful. He was sprawled on his back, his feet above him, his hands waving frantically. He didn't realize that the hum he was hearing was the sound of his own surprised shouting. Her concentration didn't break despite the noise he was making, and another, brighter flash blinded him.

He was aware only of his tailbone cracking as he hit the ground, and then nothing more.

They ran through the store quickly. Their chase had led them to the market where they now pursued the one who sought their princess. There were four of them together, the girl named Isabella, a sect princess who was being hunted. She was only fourteen, but she threatened the next kingdom with her charm and fierce intelligence. There was Gabriel, the young bureau man, brilliant and brash, and very good at what he did. And there was her. This was her operation. A few months ago she had determined that a man from their sector would go after Isabella, and she had led the hunt since then. Finally, there was him, the man who would kidnap the young princess. Nobody knew his name, but the knew his cell and he had a reputation for being merciless with those he captured.

Months had followed the initial investigations with no leads. Isabella was allowed nowhere without her two escorts. They were a comical pair. Gabriel was short and small of build, but muscular. His face was feminine. She was short as well, but strong; a handsome woman, one could say. She had strong cheekbones and large green eyes. She was not delicate, but she was beautiful. The princess loved them and trusted them. Then they had gone for an outting, and all had gone to hell.

They ran down the aisles, her searching for the princess, Gabriel searching for the criminal. The princess had hidden herself in a display of canned goods, wisely. Surrounded by metal, she was unlikely to catch a stray shot. Unfortunately, the woman couldn't find her either. What she did find was the criminal.

She ran to the meat counter and stole a cleaver, brandishing it. He had knocked her weapon away in the first attack. She threw the knife at his head, but he ducked and disappeared again. Crawling behind the counter was a feat, but she managed, and then dragged herself on her belly across the floor along the meat and fish stands, grabbing cutlery. She stood to begin throwing the knives at him but by the time her head popped over the edge of the counter, he was nowhere in sight. She dropped her hands, puzzled, and gasped as she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. She began to fall forward in a faint, but strong hands caught her and dragged her away. The last thing she remembered before her vision faded was hearing a low chuckle.

She opened her eyes, brushing her ebony locks from her face as she tried to stand. She groaned in pain. “What the hell happened?” she mumbled, rubbing at her shoulder and wincing.

“I hit a pressure point,” that deep voice from before said to her, chuckling again. “I wouldn't touch it if I were you, it could put you out again if you rub it just now. It's still a little sensitive.”

“Who are you?” she asked, straining against the dim light in the room. She seemed to be resting on some sort of large cushion on the floor. There were many pillows and blankets on the cushion. There was a lamp switched on beside her, and a pile of books on the floor nearby. The rest of the room was too dim to make out anything except the man's large form.

He stood up and walked toward the light and her. His frame was large, even compared to her not-so-petite frame. She could faintly see his blue eyes shining in the light, and knew that his hair was a sandy brown color even though she couldn't see it. This was the man they had been chasing for months. “Where is Isabella? Did you... kill her?” she asked softly. The little girlchild had become somewhat like a sister to her over the past months. “And Gabriel? Is he...?”

“They're alive and kicking, unless they've met the reaper since I left with you,” he said non chalantly.

“Am I a hostage, then?” she questioned, more resigned than fearful. There was really nothing to be done. She stood up and tried to walk toward him, but found that one arm was cuffed to a length of chain that allowed her to walk within the vicinity of the bed but not much further.

“Not exactly,” he said, looking at her. He knew her well. Name, Olive Halopan, goes by Liv among friends and co-workers. Height: 5'1”, age: 17, eyes: blue, hair: red, marital status: single. He knew that she had never taken a lover. He knew that she was married to her work.

She knew his profile almost as well. Height: 6'5”, age: 26, eyes: green, hair: brown, marital status: single. He had never gone to college, but he had educated himself during the time he spent in prison because of the terrorism he had spurred. His IQ was high. His birth name was Micah Watters, but it had been changed many times.

“Then why am I here?” she questioned. He moved closer to her. She could see his handsome features in the light; the sharp eyes and smooth skin, the graceful arching nose, the white, straight teeth from beneath the smirk on his lips. He stepped closer still, dwarfing her. His hand brushed across her smooth, pale cheek and she attempted to step back, but he caught her wrist.

“Let me go,” she snapped. His hand tightened around her wrist, making the cuff cut into her wrist and she whimpered. “You're hurting me.” She reached with her free hand into her suit pants and found the weapon she usually carried there missing. She cursed and brought her knee forward, aiming for his crotch, but he side stepped and brought his knee up to block, wrapping his foot around her knee and pulling forward. She dropped suddenly and shrieked, but he slowed her descent and laid her gently down on the soft cushion, bringing himself down over her.

She looked up, breathless, green eyes shocked and wide. She brought her foot upward, trying to wrap it over his neck to throw him back, but he ducked down until she gave up and then climbed over her legs, showing his beautiful smile as she panted and struggled.

“Let me go,” she said again, unable to keep the fear from her voice this time. “What do you want with me? Do you want the princess?”

“I never wanted the child,” he said to her. “I wanted to draw you out.”

“Me?” she whispered. “Why?”

“You intrigue me. You have intrigued me for a long time now. Your accomplishments at the academy, your fire and passion, your beauty. I didn't want the child, I wanted you.”

Understanding hit her. All of the covert ops, all of the clues that they had thought they were so clever to find. He had wanted them—her—to find them. She took a shaky breath. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked softly, looking up at him.

In response, he kissed her neck gently, pushing back the collar of her button down shirt. She gasped and pushed him away forcefully, but his large frame didn't budge. He released her hands and continued to kiss her throat and face, unbuttoning the crisp, white button down she wore. She began to quiver violently. “Stop,” she said to him. “I don't want this. This is rape. I'm saying no. I'm refusing,” he voice was steady but her breath came out in short gasps. “I've established my refusal. If you do this it will be a clear cut case of rape.”

“Who says I'm going to let you go?” he responded, looking down at her seriously for a moment. Her eyes widened. “Yes, yes, you don't want it, I get it. Now shut up.”

The woman stared at him, shocked. How could he be so calm about this? How could he force her knowing she had refused? She shook her head and began to struggle again. She tried to bring her finger sharply to the soft spot where his collarbones met but he blocked her, holding her hands down.

“Tisk tisk, don't make me tie you,” he murmured, kissing her face wetly.

She shuddered. “Please, stop. This is disgusting,” she turned her head away from his mouth but he held it to one side and licked her cheek. She made a soft sound of disgust and struggled again. He pulled her shirt off as far as he could around the cuffs, kissing the tops of her breasts delicately before removing her bra—a sturdy, sensible piece of fabric. She struggled and screamed and fought until the bitter end, but he was too powerful.

Later she would get up and break free of her binds. Later she would take his knife and thrust it under his ribs with satisfaction, watching as he looked up at her with shock and amazement. And then she would walk away, moving on, forgetting about him. She smirked and held the knife dripping with blood down its pointed blade, and then a faint chirping caught her attention.

Olive awoke with a start, looking around to confirm her location. She pushed her sweaty red hair out of her eyes roughly and closed her eyes again. She had had that dream often enough, but the ending always surprised her. It was a good dream. It was the way things should have been. He should have suffered for what he did to her. He should have died for hurting her like that. She should have been able to walk away and felt whole and alive. She should have been able to return to her life, but instead she had become pregnant. Instead she had lived for years fearing that he would find her again, and take her son. She turned to her side, kicking her covers to the dirty floor of the ramshackle apartment, and sighed.

Her boy was sleeping a few feet away on another dirty cot. The other officers lived in the barracks, but her? She was given a shitty apartment in the slums and barely enough money to buy food for her son. Life sure sucked.

She got up and went to the little, round communications device on the crappy dresser. A roach walked across her papers and she simply flicked it aside and grabbed a light. She looked at the device. “Report to headquarters,” was all it said. She growled and smashed the next roach she saw angrily. The others mostly scattered, but a few of the big ones looked at her reproachfully and loped on across her belongings again. She knew what that bastard wanted and wasn't happy for it, but there was nothing to do. Olive grabbed her overcoat—what would be the point in getting dressed only to be again undressed?—and swept out into the barren city.

She walked at a brisk pace through the dilapidated corridors of the city, avoiding late night boozers and drug addicts. She passed a group of ugly prosititutes and didn't spare them a glance. It was another five minutes until she reached the good part of town and allowed herself to slow down. This place was well kept and well lit. There were a few kids out loitering, kicking rocks and laughing, but that was about the worst she saw. Two more blocks and then another right turn and she'd be there. She kept on and finally arrived. The building was nondescript. A guard dozed outside the gate and she used her authorization card to get past. The woman entered the compound and climbed the six flights of stairs leading to the officer compound effortlessly. The hallways were adorned only by pictures of previous noted officers, and plaques of honor. The walls were white, the floor was grey, the doors were brown. She walked down one hall and into another until she found the door she wanted and didn't bother knocking.

“It's two in the morning,” she said to to the man inside, frowning. Much to her surprise, he was fully dressed. She frowned. “Why are you dressed?”

“Hapeq has sunk three of our ships this week,” he stated.

“Yes, I know,” she replied tersely. Had he really called her in at two in the morning to tell her something she already knew well enough?

“They sunk another tonight, and their troops have aligned at the borders. We will be at war by sunrise,” the man stated flatly. He came into the light and she looked at him. He was wearing his uniform, though the shirt was unbuttoned halfway down.

“Master Somenson,” she said. “Was it necessary to bring me here at this hour to tell me this?”

“Kiul, please,” he suggested, his tall frame coming toward her. “I hate the formality.”

No, he didn't, she thought to herself, but held her tongue. “Kiul,” she agreed quietly.

He came to her and wrapped his strong arms around her. She sighed softly, rolling her eyes and allowing his hand to rest on her backside. “I was going to ask you to be the chief strategist, but if you feel you would not like to take part in the planning of our attacks...”

“Chief... a promotion, sir, uh, Kiul?” she looked up, her green eyes shocked and barely able to contain their excitement.

He nodded. She allowed herself to look at his rough face. He was fairly ugly, with a large, crooked nose and one small, dark eye. His face was rough and scarred, though his smile was a pleasant sight.

“Yes, I accept,” she said to him.

“I knew you would,” he smirked and tugged her overcoat from her, tossing it to the floor.

She closed her eyes and thought of battle.

James wasn't at first aware that he was in pain. He felt warm sunshine on his face and smiled, thinking he had fallen asleep in the graveyard again. At that realization, he was instantly in motion, pushing himself up in order to hopefully get to school on time. The sharp whipcrack of pain up his spine and down his legs caused him to cry out and stay put.

“Fool,” a hard voice said. It was deep for a woman, but had an obviously feminine pitch to it. He opened his eyes and saw her. In the daylight she was fifty times more beautiful and unearthly. Her skin glowed radiantly, her hair shining like black ice. He sighed and stared at her. It took him a minute to recognize the other not-so-flattering epithats thrown at him.

“What did I do?” he asked, his voice cracking a little. He cleared his throat, looking at her slate grey eyes as if in a trance.

“You caught the tail of my spell,” she snapped as if this was the most obvious piece of information in the world. She muttered again and he realized he was having trouble making her out because she had an odd accent.

“Where am I?” he pushed himself up gingerly, resting forward on his knees to avoid putting pressure on his obviously broken tailbone.

“Huenia,” she responded. “More specifically, the palace medical center. If you hadn't been staring at me, little boy, you wouldn't have ended up here.”

James could have sworn that there was what he could only describe as amused disdain in her voice. “I'm not a little boy,” he pouted slightly. “My name is James.”

She said something, and he wasn't entirely certain what it was. It sounded terribly foreign to his ears. He asked her to repeat. “Jaana,” she said and wrote it in the air for him with her long index finger. It sounded like a combination of the letter j and z, but softer. Almost “Yaana”, but still softer, with a puff of air at the front of it. It was as melodic and breathtaking as her voice, even with his clumsy pronunciation.

“So where exactly is this Huenia place, and how did we get here?” he questioned, feeling a little better now that she didn't look quite so hostile. It was almost as if she had been flustered by his sudden awakening and had become angry to hide it.

“Huenia is on the northwestern side of the Free Lands, which is a vast preserve filled with tribes. As for how you got here... I was not entirely aware of my location and ended up in your world by mistake. That dead land was an access point between this world and yours.”

“This world?” he pounced on the words. “There are no other worlds or dimensions. I must be dreaming.”

“Are the people of your world so small minded?” she laughed mockingly.

“Are you saying that this is another world? Like some sort of mirror?” he tried to wrap his mind around it.

“This is one of many worlds in the multiverse. I find it difficult to imagine leading such a closed existance as yours. Have you never heard of strange occurances where those who don't belong end up in your world?”

He laughed suddenly. “So Roswell must be one of these “access points.” These aliens are all just people who accidentally got here. And bears don't shit in the forest.” His laughing died as she continued to look at him seriously.

“What you call aliens are almost certainly people who misfired their spells, or who simply wanted to land there, though I don't know who would want to.”

“Are you saying, then, that this is another world... in our universe? Perhaps somewhere far away?” This made a little more sense. Perhaps it was a place too far away for even their most powerful instruments to detect? Astronomers had long suspected there was other life...

“Your stupidity astounds me,” Jaana said bluntly and then took a piece of paper from the stand beside the bed and a quill that seemed to re-ink itself automatically. She drew a five pointed star slowly and carefully. “This is our plane. Along any given point on this plane is a universe parallel to ours. It is not necessarily similar, but it rests beside it dimensionally. Now imagine five more such as this all aligned upon an axis, meeting at the center. Perpendicular and at angles in between. In any place where two planes meet, it is possible to jump from one plane to the next. These are called access points or simply a nexus.” She held her hand up at a 30 degree angle to the plane. Your plane runs along this direction. “That graveyard was an access point between those two planes. Your whole world rests on one such point, though some places are easier to access than others. In some places there are three or four planes intersecting. These are more rare and powerful. In reality, your world is actually the access point for three planes. One of them, in any case.”

He looked at her skeptically. “And you can jump between them how?”

“By using the proper methods,” she shrugged.

“And in the center, where all the planes intersect?” he questioned, still not believing, but curious about the theory nontheless. Perhaps he had stumbled upon some strange religious sect?

“The True Nexus.”

“Is it possible to go there?” he found himself intrigued by this prospect.

“No.”

“Why not?” the young man asked, not quite so blinded by her intense beauty now as by this intricate new puzzle.

“Because... It is said that a person will lose their mind in that place, because it is a place of absolute nothingness. Besides, it's impossible to jump to it. Jumping isn't like skipping down the street. It's a complicated process that requires serious magic. To jump to other worlds along the plane and within your own is a simple matter. To jump between planes along the same axis is more difficult. To jump between the outside points of the multiverse is next to impossible. There are only legends of jumping into the True Nexus, and all of them end badly. I would put it out of your mind.”

“Fine... I don't believe any of this, anyway. It's just interesting lore.”

“Yes, well, the imperial healers are away for now, assisting our allies, and you are not worthy of my personal healer, so when they return they will heal you and we will return you to that nexus.”

The beautiful woman swept her long hair away from her face revealing a delicate and stunning head dress briefly, and then she left. James stared at the empty space for a while before closing his eyes and trying to sleep away the pain in his ass.