Thinking about locking ideas away brought his attention to the briefcase. He had put it under the bed, figuring he'd forget about it for a while, but just then he realized that he had some new ideas for unlocking it. He also realized that the only parts he had to experiment with were some batteries he'd taken with him. There were some basic parts stashed away that he could use, but he could wait a few minutes to plan out what he wanted to do.
He wanted to sketch out the idea for an upgraded cylindrical ether battery that incorporated both his crosshatch pattern and a way to vary its output. He also had some notes he wanted to take about Force constructs that he'd thought of during the competition, and when he was at the museum. There were a lot of interesting things in that maintenance room, but it was the personal shield he'd heard the Oberon Guard confiscated which had grabbed his interest. It was such an interesting idea. A shield he could carry with him, one that would cover his body.
How the hell would he even go about designing it? How would he even shape the field? Were there multiple shaped force fields surrounding the user? How did the artisans account for how the user's body moved? The only thing he could think of was that the designers knew of glyphs which he didn't, glyphs with a strange but useful effect on force fields.
While a construct was active, force field shapes couldn't be changed—at least, not that Hunter knew of. This would be big news, unless it was so bleeding-edge that it wouldn't be declassified for another decade or three.
Not that it mattered, anymore. Trey probably had a research team combing over the tech they'd recovered from the abolitionists at that very moment.
He refocused before the unsolved mystery became too much of a lasting distraction.
Sitting on his bed with the briefcase, he tried to recall the tale of the Journeyer. He regretted the fact that he hadn't brought a camera to take his own pictures of the paintings. He was sure he could find some photos if he searched around some libraries. Maybe Trey could help him with that. He almost wished that he had some way to access some publicly available database on demand. It would make his work so much easier.
He figured that would be a huge undertaking, though. What company would want to carry the financial burden of installing all that infrastructure? It was a ridiculous notion, a utopian fantasy. A virtual network of information, free and available to anyone who wanted to use it? All the world's knowledge at the fingertips of everyone, everywhere?
What a silly idea. But who knows? Maybe one day someone would invent something like that, as hard as it was to believe. Wouldn't the ancient Asutnahem think similarly of being able to fly in ships, and leave the world behind them?
He fiddled with the keypad, running his fingers along the alphabet. He did not know how many characters the passcode would require. There was no option for numbers. He'd tried his name, his father's name, the name of his deceased mother, the month he was born, the city he was born, the names of various glyphs. The list went on and on. It was nothing more than a game to him at this point. He'd exhausted all the obvious words, and the world contained many languages. Finding the right word would be like finding a needle in a haystack the size of the Oberon stadium.
Did he want to find that needle? What if the contents weren't what he hoped they were?
The contents of the briefcase were a mystery — he'd guessed that they might be books, or some cash. He'd shaken the briefcase once, and those were the only guess he could come up with.
At first, he'd felt a burning desire to discover what was inside, but over time he'd grown at peace with the ignorance. Coming up with ever-stranger ideas about its contents was almost as much of a game as trying to guess the right word.
The first word he remembered encountering in the Asutnahem exhibition was their symbol for peace. He used the corresponding keys on the lock to type it in. No reaction.
He thought about the statue, and he remembered a mention of the Asutnahem symbol for balance.
The briefcase remained locked.
He made his way through his memories of the paintings, trying various synonyms for self, knowledge, power, truth, discovery, hostility, folly, reflection, eyes, and even tried peace again just in case he spelled it wrong the first time.
Nothing. The briefcase stayed shut.
Then he tried invitation. Still nothing. Flame didn't unlock it, either.
He remembered the last symbol he'd noticed, the symbol for revelation. Hunter sighed, tiring of the game. His mind was drifting towards the workbench at the corner of his room.
Deciding that this would be his last attempt for the day, he typed it in, and the keypad beeped.
The briefcase clicked open.
Hunter froze. For a moment, he had no thoughts. He didn't even breathe. The mansion seemed dead quiet.
He'd done it.
He slowly opened the briefcase, hardly believing what was happening. Small paperback books filled the briefcase. They were journals, all bound in groups. The very first one he saw, which was a single journal on top of all the rest, had a simple title.
For Hunter.
Hunter had only just remembered to breathe, but then his throat constricted. His breath caught.
He was nervous.
That was his father's handwriting. He hadn't seen it for years.
But who had brought left the briefcase in front of his home in the first place? Who had gained access to his father's stuff?
If it wasn't Trey, could it have been Jimmy? He would have said something, right? Unless this was all part of a conspiracy, which he couldn't discount the possibility of.
But, he was smart enough to know that paranoia was paranoia — just because he couldn't discount the possibility, didn't mean he had to believe it. So far, Trey had proven himself to be reliable.
So he took a deep breath and picked up the first journal.
He opened it to the first page.
"My dear son, if you're reading this, it means that I'm gone. My demise is not a surprise to me, and I've hired some reliable people to deliver these to you if I'm not around to do so myself."
Tears hit the pages, and the ink ran. Hunter wiped his eyes and tried to still his shaking hands.
He'd wanted nothing more than to talk with his father one more time, to say goodbye, to tell him how much he loved him. To tell him that no matter what anyone said, he still believed in him.
This wasn't quite the same, but it felt so close. He felt like his father was there with him in that room.
He continued reading.
Ever since you were born, you struggled. I had hoped that your physical handicap would resolve itself as you got older, but it never did. But despite your handicap, you were always so intelligent and driven to learn and create. You remind me of myself when I was young. So curious, so bright eyed and ambitious. When I saw in you the same spark of sensitivity to etherium that I have, I knew you would walk a similar path. I knew you would come to see depths and possibilities in etherium and constructs that no one else can.
But your affinity never rose. Your sadness when your first Affinity Rating results came back broke my heart. But I had hoped that with time, your rating would naturally rise. You're my son after all, and my affinity has risen to heights I hadn't imagined were possible. I was so sure that you would blossom.
Yet your AR remained infantile, but your intellect and your will to create never faltered. I love that about you, Hunter. I'm so proud of you …
…Witnessing your suffering was something I couldn't endure. I resolved to discover a way to help you. No matter what. You may wonder why I've been so absent from your life. My distance might make you resent me, but it wasn't due to not valuing you, nor did I love you less than my work. You were the reason I worked so hard. You inspired me to go deeper than I ever have before.
Hunter remembered the day his father promised he'd help Hunter increase his AR. Hunter had been so ashamed of himself back then, a lot more than he was now. When he was younger, he hadn't known that there was a way forward. He had almost lost hope.
His father's promise had been a balm. It soothed his fears and let him focus on his interests. Soon after, he would see his father a lot less frequently. He would spend days, weeks, and sometimes months in his lab. Hunter grew used to both the isolation and the assistants his father had used as a proxy to keep Hunter's life organized. But he never blamed his father. If anyone understood, it was Hunter. They were the same.
Etherium called to them and spoke to them in a way that it didn't speak to anyone else.
… maybe I went too deep. Maybe I've seen too much. It's my deepest pleasure to pass these journals on to you, Hunter, because they not only detail my work, my theories, my plans, they also reveal the method I've developed to accelerate the growth of affinity …
Hunter was speechless. He'd actually done it?
But it was impossible, right? Hunter had given up that dream so many years ago, even before his father had died.
… I don't foresee any problems with your practicing the Internal Etheric Arts, except perhaps those stemming from my developmental choices …
Hunter choked back tears.
He didn't want to read any further. He set the journal down, but then he felt a sudden urge to continue.
How could he stop reading? He had to know.
… it's in these few fleeing moments of clarity that I can see what I've done, who I've become, and I sometimes regret the decisions that have led me here. But I cannot change the past; my hands are already stained with blood …
There it was. Hunter had never felt so still. His hands still shook, tears still threatened to burst from his eyes. He resisted the urge to throw the journal across the room.
Despite the rage, everything was quiet. Like the Truth itself had descended, formless and permeating everything. There was nowhere to hide from it. Its denial was no longer possible.
… My obsession seems to drive me beyond reason. All those lives taken, yet the faint sense of regret never lasts for long. I'm sorry, Hunter, this isn't how I wanted you to find out. If I had my way, you never would have learned about this. But you have to understand, in order to see you live your life to the fullest, I would do anything, I would stop at nothing…
He regretted ever having gone to that museum.
He regretted ever wanting to feel closer to his father.
He felt weak, unable to wipe away the tears, or avoid the pain in this chest, or the burning in his throat.
Suddenly there was nothing he could do but sit there and cry.
He'd been wrong.
His father hadn't been who he had thought he was. For all those years after his father's death, to everyone who'd ever said anything ill about Gideon Koar, Hunter had defended him. He'd defended a murderer.
Hunter had trusted his father more than anyone, and now that trust meant nothing.
After a few minutes, he calmed down and continued to read. Nothing could ever justify what his father had done, and he felt like an idiot for searching, but maybe he was an idiot.
After all, everyone else had seemed to accept the obvious about his father. Why hadn't he?
Another episode of grief threatened to rise, but he pushed it aside as best he could.
He flipped to the next page of the journal. What followed appeared to be the insane scribblings of a madman.
… I'll spare you the details of what I had to do in order to develop these methods. They aren't relevant. The sacrifices I made were necessary. A few deaths, in exchange for countless lives? For your life? Maybe it's a consequence of the man I've become, but it's a trade that I have made in a heartbeat. I didn't hesitate to do what I had to do. I hope you'll understand…
… I saw something once I passed the first internal threshold. There is a darkness somewhere out there, Hunter. Beyond the world. Once I reached a certain level of development, it called to me. I can feel it within me now. What is the power of an ant before the combined might of the Council? Take that contrast and amplify it a hundred-thousandfold. That is the darkness we face. That is the horror I am trying to save us from. Like ants or dust, this power is like a vast cosmic wind which will sweep us away. It will be the end of everything, Hunter. The end of the world. The end of time. I've seen it. Believe me …
Hunter's life had never been at risk. Had his father thought that he was actually saving lives by killing?
…but maybe you won't. I understand how this sounds. What matters is that the Etheric Arts work. The year I committed myself to this task, my AR was 102. I was among the 99th percentile of humanity.
Hunter had always guessed about what his father's AR was. He'd never been open about it before.
Now he knew, and he found that he hard trouble caring. So what? What good was all of that affinity if it belonged to a madman?
As of this morning, my AR now measures in at 283. Do you see now why I've taken these steps, Hunter?
"283," Hunter whispered. It couldn't be possible. His father was a lunatic, delusional. He ought to close the journal, burn the rest of them, and forget he ever saw them.
But he knew he couldn't. Not yet.
Yes, his father was out of his mind, having spiraled down a moral and psychological hellhole.
But what if?
What if he wasn't wrong about what he'd done? What if his father wasn't delusional about this?
He shook his head.
It didn't matter. What his father had done was wrong. It wasn't worth the possibility. What if the Arts required someone else as a sacrifice?
He closed the journal, put it back in the briefcase, and hid it under his bed.
He'd figure out what to do with it before he left for the academy.