Pathspace: The Space of Paths

Pathspace

The Space of
Paths

Volume 1 of

The Metaspace
Chronicles

Copyright © 2014 by Matthew R.
Kennedy

All rights reserved.

.
A Smashwords
version.

For Renee

Acknowledgements

Rare is the book that emerges from a
vacuum. Most books have multiple inputs, and this one is no
exception. I would like to thank the following people who made it
possible.

Chapter title quotes are
generally from T.S. Eliot's
The Waste Land
and Other Poems
.

Beta readers and proofreaders Jan,
James, Susan, and William.

Artist Irina Pechkareva for the cover
image: “fractal-galaxy-spiral” at
publicdomainpictures.net.

Thank you all.

• Prologue
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Chapter 43
  
• Chapter 44
  
• Chapter 45
  
• Chapter 46
  
• Chapter 47
  
• Chapter 48
  
• Chapter 49
  
• Chapter 50
  
• Chapter 51
  
• Chapter 52
  
• Chapter 53
  
• Chapter 54
  
• Chapter 55
  
• Chapter 56
  
• Chapter 57
  
• Chapter 58
  
• Chapter 59
  
• Chapter 60
  
• Chapter 61
  
• Chapter 62
  
• Chapter 63
  
• Chapter 64
  
• Chapter 65
  
• Chapter 66
  
• Chapter 67
  
• Chapter 68
  
• Chapter 69
  
• Chapter 70
  
• Chapter 71
  
• Chapter 72
  
• Chapter 73
  
• Chapter 74
  
• Chapter 75
  
• Chapter 76
  
• Chapter 77
  
• Chapter 78
  
• Chapter 79
  
• Chapter 80
  
• Chapter 81
  
• Chapter 82
  
• Chapter 83
  
• Chapter 84
  
• Chapter 85
  
• Chapter 86
  
• Chapter 87
  
• Chapter 88
  
• Chapter 89
  
• Chapter 90
  
• Chapter 91
  
• Chapter 92
  
• Chapter 93
  
• Chapter 94
  
• Chapter 95
  
• Spinspace Preview
  
  • Prologue
    
  • Chapter 1
    
  • Chapter 2
    
  • Chapter 3
    
  • Chapter 4
    
  • Chapter 5
    
• Appendix I: Pathspace
  

To satisfy the rational and enlightened
mind, I shall not claim that the aliens who visited Earth in 2083
deliberately wrecked our civilization. The Gifts they gave us
seemed almost miraculous, and fixed so many problems, problems that
were poisoning our world. All they asked in return was to catalog
our world's DNA in case it held medical or other advantages they
could use or trade at other worlds.

The problem was, the Gifts of the Tourists
were perfect examples of Clarke's Law – any sufficiently developed
technology is indistinguishable from magic. Though we thought of
them as game-changing technology, the Gifts were magic as far as we
were concerned.

The thing about magic is, you need magicians
to maintain it. And that was the whole problem. We were too far
behind, and they left us with no tech support. After they left
their Gifts began to fail, wrecking the systems we had incorporated
them into. Civilization fell, and nations splintered into kingdoms
and city-states. Things got bad, and could only improve by one of
two ways. We could struggle back up the technological mountain by
recreating the earlier technology, and say goodbye to the failing
magic.

Or some of us could learn to be wizards.

“You're late.” Gerrold shoved the sack of
oats at him. “What were you wasting time with this time? Off ogling
the smith's daughter again?”

Lester flushed, and not from the heat of the
late afternoon. “I had to fetch Ma some more carrots for the stew.”
He didn't mention that the smithy was on the way back from Granny's
vegetable patch. “We should plant our own garden.”

Gerrold turned his head and spat used
tobacco, managing to miss the edge of the watering trough. “We're
not having that argument again. Make yourself useful for a change.
Take this back to the stable and fill the bin.”

Lester accepted the sack from him. “Why
isn't Drew helping you?”

“Your brother's getting the rooms ready for
guests. Almost time for the evening coach from Denver. The sacks
are too heavy for your brother. You know that.”

Half brother,
thought Lester,
trudging around the front of the inn to the stable. But he didn't
say it. Life was hard enough without stirring all that up again. It
wasn't Ma's fault that his real father had been foolish enough to
complain when the army marching through had appropriated his crops.
He supposed he should be grateful that Gerrold had taken them in
after the ugliness that followed.

He passed his mother on the way to the
stable. The weariness on her face made him set down the sack and
take over the task of pumping the water from their well. That, and
the guilt that came from knowing he should have been home earlier.
She had enough to do preparing dinner before the inevitable
travelers arrived. “I'm sorry,” he said, pulling out the first
bucket and sliding the next one under the spigot. “I didn't realize
it was so late.”

She just smiled and shook her head. “She
is
pretty, isn't she?” she said, watching him pump the
second bucket full. “But I heard from Cora that Burton's already
asked her to the harvest dance,” she said, when he didn't answer.
“You might have better luck with one of the Arnham sisters. Did you
get those carrots?”

“Left them by the front door,” he replied,
pushing the second bucket to one side and reaching for the third.
He finished pumping in an awkward silence broken only by the
squeaking of the old pump handle. Carolyn was pretty all right. But
he had about as much of a chance with her as these buckets were
likely to fill themselves. “Smith said in the old days water used
to come into houses all by itself,” he said, making
conversation.

She just smiled wanly. “That would have been
something to see,” she said. “Did the carrots cut themselves up for
stew back then, too?”

He shrugged. When the third bucket was full
he picked up two of them while she managed the remaining one, and
followed her into the inn.

Drew was in the kitchen when they got there,
dropping off his broom and dustpan. “You're late,” the ten-year-old
told him. “Dad was looking for you an hour ago.” He made no move to
help Lester pour water into the inn's cauldron. Just stood there
brushing back his stringy black hair from his forehead. “You're in
trouble.”

Lester frowned but said nothing. It was
lucky for Drew that Gerrold also had red hair, so different from
their mother's own blonde tresses. One day, he'd have to tell Drew
why they didn't look like brothers, but the story was sad enough
without inflicting it on him in anger. Sad...but also necessary.
One day Drew might have to know not to stand up to armed soldiers
when he had an attractive wife in his house. If their mother's
first husband had just let the soldiers take what they wanted from
the fields and burn the rest, they would still have a farm, and
Drew's hair would be lighter.

All water under the bridge, and no way to
call it back. Lester had been only eight himself at the time. He
closed his eyes, remembering how ashamed he'd been to obey his
mother and hide in the cellar while the soldiers did what soldiers
often do in such situations.

Mary had more smarts than her late husband.
The men from Texas had let her and Lester live when they were
finished with her. Afterwards, while he was helping her bury his
father, Lester had promised himself he'd find those men someday and
kill them all. As if he had any chance of that. He shook his head,
but he couldn't shake out the sight of their leader, a tall redhead
with a cruel smile and a small scar over his left eyebrow.
I'll
remember you, at least.

“Yes you are too” Drew insisted,
misinterpreting the head shake. “Dad said – “

“Shut up! I already talked to him.”
He's
not my Dad. Not yours, either. You don't know how lucky you are not
knowing that yet.
Then he remembered the oats and turned and
left the kitchen.

Life could be worse, he told himself,
lifting the sack and trudging back to the stable. The town council
hadn't let her keep the farm, not with only herself and a child to
work it, but at least Gerrold had taken them in. The widowed
innkeeper had been only too happy to have the extra help, and
appeared to genuinely care for their mother. Pain faded, but
memories remained.

Gerrold was in the stable when he brought
the oats in. “What happened to you?” his stepfather growled. “No,
don't tell me. I don't want to hear another excuse. If you were any
lazier, you'd suffocate from not bothering to breathe. Now hurry up
and get back out front. You're lucky the coach is late today.”

He heard the horses by the time he was
halfway to the front of the inn. Clem, the regular driver, was just
pulling up as he got there. The older man waved at him affably from
his seat.

“How's it going, Les?” Clem coughed as the
dust from behind caught up with him, while his horses clattered to
a stop in front of the watering trough.

“As fun as ever. Any news from Denver?”

Clem shrugged. “The usual. More rumors of
war with Texas again. You know how it is. Things never change.” He
swung down from his seat and opened the door of the coach.
“Inverness! Ten minutes to stretch yer legs, if yer going on to the
next stop.”

First out of the coach was Preacher Jones,
mumbling thoughtfully as he strolled to the inn, Bible clutched
under his arm in lieu of baggage. Behind him came Nellie Sanders,
no doubt come from the capitol with a fresh army of rumors and
scandalous whispers. Burton Tolbert reared his truculent snicker of
a face behind her. His eyes said he had heard some of her stories
on the way down from Denver. The dull glass marbles passed over
Lester dismissively, erasing him from existence like a squirrel at
sunset as Clem grunted Nellie's suitcase down from the roof of the
vehicle.