The Law of Averages - Book 2: Chapter 170: Indolence

On the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, trees burned beneath the shadow of jet fuel. The entire state watched it happen live on television. News crews were parked outside the Madison property, hugging its borders like they were lifelines. Dozens of cameras zoomed in on the cloud of black smoke rising above the horizon. The gleaming tip of an aircraft wing stabbed skyward, the sole piece of wreckage visible beyond the thick foliage.

Senator Madison himself was still in D.C., far from home. Every now and then, the news cast would cut to his distant figure as reporters attempted to ambush him on the street. The man’s security teams put a stop to that rather quickly, but there would be more chances soon. The senator’s public itinerary had been updated, showing him flying home in the evening. Washington National Airport was going to be a shit show.

The aircraft was a mid-sized cargo plane loaded up with several tons of electronics but no passengers. Any investigation of the wreckage, assuming Senator Madison allowed such a thing, would reveal that the internal systems had suffered a cascading series of errors, eventually leading to the plane drifting wildly off course and losing control. The pilot would testify that his console had suddenly and catastrophically failed; he lost the ability to control the plane, call for help, or otherwise salvage the situation. He panicked, and fled. He’d parachuted down to a nearby road, hitched a ride to the closest airport, and reported the situation. By that time, the Madison property was already on fire.

The pilot would likely lose his license. Conveniently, he’d been looking for a change in careers anyways, and would unexpectedly win a large amount of money at a casino some time during the following month. Some time after that, he would be offered a cushy desk job in the state where his family lived, from one of Summerset’s subsidiaries.

Madison’s house was undamaged, as expected. Unfortunately for the senator, whatever he’d done to fireproof the wood, he hadn’t extended to the rest of his land. It was very much aflame, filling the air with a kerosene stench and enough smoke to barbecue a herd of buffalo. The heat was so intense that it had warped the steel table Dan had used as a base for his doorway. He’d scattered a dozen laser microphones across the property, lacing them within the wreckage. They were hardy things; he’d been assured they could take the heat.

It was necessary to get them down quickly. There were too many eyes on the property, now. On the ground and in the sky. Orbital coverage and quality was obscene by his old world’s standards. The resolution on Summerset’s satellites could read the words off a page if the angle was right. Too bad terrorists didn’t often write down their plans and leave them laying around outdoors. It would’ve made things much simpler.

So, the Madison property was seeded with scrap electronics, plane wreckage, fire and smoke. The laser microphones were useless at the moment, but that would change once the fire died down. With any luck, Madison would get home, ensure that his home was still standing and undamaged, then make some phone calls from the safety and privacy of his wooden fortress. With a lot of luck, at least one of those calls would be to Echo.

Dan had also implanted a few wafer-thin trackers inside the spare cufflinks he’d found in Madison’s drawers. Protected by the thin layer of metal, they were the only inorganic things in the house that would regularly accompany the man. Once Madison was home and settled, Dan would also attempt to seed his cell phone, though he was less confident there. Absurdly, Madison had somehow acquired a wooden case. The internals were watertight, and though Dan hadn’t checked, he was willing to bet that it was filled with spores.

There was nothing left to do, but wait.

Dan hated waiting. He was very good at it, though, mostly from extensive practice born of indolence and procrastination. It always felt like tempting fate, any time he sat around, waiting. Like the roots of his old life were hibernating deep inside him, and inaction would revive them. He didn’t want to get used to waiting. He wanted to do something, anything, just to do it.

This was how he found himself in his home gym, with Abby standing beside him, screaming encouragement. Dan regularly exercised, but it had been a while since he’d felt the need to push himself. He was in the best shape of his life, leaner and stronger than anyone he’d known in his old life. Living with an extremely attractive personal trainer had that effect on a man. Now though, he burned. He scoured away thoughts and feelings, worries, lingering anxiety. He let the mechanical pain of repetition settle upon him like a damp cloth.

He moved until he couldn’t anymore, and Abby dragged him upstairs to the shower. He let hot water rain down, mind still perfectly blank, lost in a pleasant haze. The dull ache of a good workout lingered in his body. He felt like a giant bruise, but somehow in a good way. He wouldn’t be able to move for days. Then, the door opened. Abby stepped inside, shucking her own clothes, and Dan found that he could move just fine, after all.

That night, as they lay exhausted in bed, Dan played with portals. The problem, as he saw it, was one of visibility. Light flowed both ways. If he made a tiny door, one too small to see, then it was by necessity too small to see through. He couldn’t use it to peek without risking notice, at least, and an eyeball at worst. Still useful, but not where he wanted it to be. The whole point of the little doorways was to spy on people with his physical senses. Eyes and ears, things that his veil didn’t mimic. But at the moment, he was using the doors mostly as a vehicle for his veil to poke through.

There were two ideas Dan was playing around with to fix this issue. The first was something like a screen, or maybe a one-way mirror. Invisible portals, allowing light in but not out. Or maybe… through? He wanted some way to filter what came in and out of his doorway. That should be well within his capabilities, except he wasn’t entirely sure where to start. He thought, perhaps, a metaphorical mesh screen, the kind of things one used to keep bugs out of windows. Perhaps formed from his veil. Or not. That, Dan mused, might be taking the whole ‘door’ concept a little too far.

He tried it anyway, opening a door between the back of his phone and the ceiling above him. He stared up at himself staring down at himself, and held in a laugh. He felt his veil forming the edges of the door, and gently unspooled a thread. The borders of the portal thinned, but did not fracture. Space did not suddenly invert. A black hole did not spawn in his bedroom ceiling. Buoyed with this success, Dan pulled more threads, teasing them out from the edges and pulling them inward.

The problem quickly became obvious. Even though the door both began and ended on something solid, the space between was… well, empty space. Or rather, it was space filled with air, which was just as useless. His tiny threads muddled through it like they were caught in quicksand. He squinted, and made the door smaller. Less space for the threads to cross. He poured more of reserves into it, thickening the edges. More fuel for his efforts. This time, he was able to connect one thread to another, stretched across the center of the portal. And with one success, came many more. Thousands of little lines, forming an intricate mesh webbing, spanned the two-inch perimeter of his portal.

Success.

…

Now what?

Dan blinked up at the thing, and realized he had no idea how to proceed. He snorted, quietly mocking himself. Now he had a portal with a web of his veil threaded through it. Yippee. Problem was, his veil was invisible to everyone not named Daniel Newman. He accomplished absolutely nothing with this alone.

In truth, Dan suspected he would need an entirely different kind of portal. As it was, he didn’t really control the space between the door, only the door itself. He could open and close it at will, shrink it, move it, but not filter it. What passed through, passed through, and he had very little say in the matter. That attribute was what allowed other people to use them. Even now, with his veil occupying the space in between, he couldn’t stop some random person from sticking a finger through it. Or something more unpleasant.

Oh well. Something to work on.

He started to move on to the next test, attempting to feel the vibration of sound through his veil, but Abby suddenly turned towards him and mumbled, “Go t’sleep,” and wrapped herself around him like a limpet. Suddenly warm and comfortable, breathing in the lavender scent of her shampoo, Dan closed his eyes, and gave in.