London

1972. November.

Straightening his tie and tightening it into his collar, Petr took a deep breath then let it out slowly as he stared into the mirror. It was a cold morning, the frigid air finding its way into the bedroom through the ill-fitting window frame. Not long until they’d be able to move and leave the narrow, terraced house behind, with its peeling wallpaper which no longer covered up the cracks in the wall, the dark watermarks on the ceilings where pipes had frozen and leaked in previous winters, the boiler that never worked for more than a month.

His suit was a sign of things to come. Smart, sharp, beautifully tailored. It was impressive for Earth craftsmanship - still nothing compared to the intricate work of a skilled micrologist back home, of course, but then what was? It was an unfair comparison. Back home. He still thought of it in those terms, after all those years. London would never be his true home, even if it was where he had raised his son. Exile wasn’t conducive to a sense of belonging, especially when you had no funds with which to escape the daily slog of Great Britain’s most polluted city. It was hard even to imagine the waters of Blue Towers, it had been so long.

Checking his cuffs one last time, making a couple of minor adjustments mostly out of habit, he straightened his back, then turned on his heel and left the bedroom, practically skipping down the stairs.

“Want another coffee?” Jhena’s voice called from the kitchen, always calm, always looking for a silver lining.

“No thank you,” Petr said. “I’m going to head out early, get started. Important meetings today.”

“That new boss is pushing you too hard,” she said, “I’ll have to have a word with him if he doesn’t ease off a little.”

There was a squeal of excitement as Zdan ran from the kitchen and barrelled into Petr’s chest, his skinny arms wrapping around his father. “Have a good day, dad. When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure,” Petr said, “but it’ll be before bedtime.”

“Will you read with me?”

Petr looked scandalised. “What, you don’t think I’m going to miss the next chapter, do you? I need to know what happens. I’ll be there. Looking forward to it already.”

“Love you, dad.”

He bent down and kissed his son on the top of his head. “Love you, too. Have a good day at school. Do what your mother says.”

“I will.” Zdan leaned closer. “You going to ‘the office’?” He raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“Maybe,” Petr replied. He took one of his suitcases from the hall table and opened the front door. “I’ll see you later.”

*

The derelict gym was part of the crumbling fabric of the neighbourhood. This part of Hackney and its inhabitants were abandoned and ignored by the rest of the city, with buildings that had previously been hubs for the community unused and left to disintegrate. The nearest two pubs were shuttered and boarded up. The trams didn’t even come this far, forcing anyone who worked in the city to walk a mile to find any transport.

Petr had straightened the fence posts, pulled the chain-link back into place and had cleaned the KEEP OUT signs just enough to be legible. It had to look official, without looking like someone was frequenting the place. He ducked through the window then pulled the wooden board back into place. He could already feel the thrumming energy from the tear. When Zdan had told him about the discovery he could scarcely believe it: a portal fragment on their own street! It was too good to be true, yet there it was, black and empty and permanent. A gap in the air, floating next to the crumpled boxing ring. Tears had been reported for decades, though information was sketchy at best. They’d probably been occurring right from the start, from the original Joining, but they’d tried to keep them hushed up. They were rare, of course, appearing seemingly at random somewhere within the vicinity of a major portal. The authorities in Addis were more forthcoming, as they always were, though getting clear reports from Africa was easier said than done: foreign news was not a major import of the Kingdom of Great Britain. Anything that happened beyond the Empire may as well have not happened.

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As far as Petr understood it, tears had been found as far as fifteen miles away from the major portals. Once one was formally identified the area was sealed off and locked away. Portals couldn’t be closed or deactivated, even tiny ones like the tears, so the only option was to box them up and pretend nothing was there. Each one in turn became a monument to its own existence, visible but inaccessible. The Joint Council wanted control over portal travel and access, granting a reward for reporting the discovery of a new tear. Undisclosed use of a tear had been made illegal in the fifties.

That was why Petr had to keep this one secret. Zdan would say nothing, he was a good boy. They had not told Jhena - better to keep her out of it, so that she wouldn’t feel conflicted. Besides, as an aen’fa she wouldn’t truly understand what it meant. The tear was tiny, of course, barely wide enough for Petr to insert his hand, but that was nevertheless enough. It was a conduit back to the homeworld, back to Palinor. He didn’t know what was on the other side - he had moved his arm around, as if rummaging around beneath a kitchen cabinet, but had found nothing to touch. The lack of anything physical did not matter, though: by placing his hand through the hole, Petr became reconnected to Palinor.

The first time he’d been terrified. What if he had felt nothing? It was a fear immediately quashed, as soon as his fingers entered the tear. The sudden rush of awareness, of power, or connectedness, was overwhelming; an orgasmic rush that nearly caused him to pass unconscious. It was like waking when you hadn’t even realised you had been asleep.

Standing before the tear, he steadied himself. He’d been doing this for weeks now and could control his reaction, though it still hit him like a shot of whisky to the back of the throat. Placing the briefcase on the floor, he pulled his suit jacket and shirt sleeve back a little, then thrust his arm into the black tear. Magic flowed from his finger tips, back through the portal, and into all of his body. He felt it in his head, in his stomach and hips and feet, rushing like a wave into every part of him.

Petr was a visualiser. It was why he’d had to leave Blue Towers, back during the purge. He had not been welcome, and so he had fled with Jhena to Mid-Earth, and London, and Hackney. He still remembered acutely the wrench of passing through the portal, arriving at the London portal station feeling as if a part of him had been torn away, a limb chopped off. The sudden dulling of his senses, as if a veil had been drawn across the world.

He pulled a lighter from his pocket, lifted the lid and flicked the flint with his thumb. The flame flickered into being and he began to slowly, carefully, gently draw from it, converting its energy, wielding it into a spell form which he cast back onto himself. His skin flickered and stretched, warping into a new form, changing colour and shape. It took a while, as the tear was only small, and the light was weak, but after twenty minutes he had it.

Petr was no longer Petr. He was a different man, a little older with deep-set eyes and a thick moustache. The suit was real - it kept the spell as simple as it could be, requiring him only to focus on facial and hand animation. To any living observer, he was a different person. The mental illusion was simple, and flimsy - on Palinor it would be detected immediately by any even half-skilled wielder. In London that would not be a problem, as long as he didn’t try to wear it for more than a day. It would be entirely convincing for about eight hours before beginning to degrade.

It was time to go to work.