Flux Wanderrift's Arc

Chapter 5 of 18

Flux stepped onto the floating vault and their boot hit metal. The doors stood locked, painted with warnings. NO FLUX ALLOWED. FLUX IS CHAOS. The many-headed creature held the seam open behind them, its roots stretched thin. The jester crouched on Flux's shoulder, three eyes darting. But the route to the council's fold was gone. It slept inside the little box, copied into a swarm of fleas Flux had trapped there. To reach the fold, Flux needed the map awake again. And to open the door in front of them, they needed the map too. "One box, two jobs," Flux said. They pulled out the star-covered box with its many tiny chambers. Inside, the flea-swarm drifted, dim and still. The jester swore in its sharp tongue and jabbed a claw at the door's lock. Flux understood the chatter now. The lock read patterns, not keys. The door wanted a dimensional shape drawn against it. The same shape the swarm carried. Flux opened the box. "I need the map," they said. "Show it on the door." The swarm poured out and gathered into a face. This time it didn't copy Flux. It made its own grin, wide and full of tiny teeth, a shifting mirror that mocked and mimicked at once. Mirthfleck, Flux decided to call it. It hovered by the lock and read the metal. Then it hesitated. It buzzed close to Flux's ear and bit. The sting became words. "I draw the map here, I lose it," the swarm said. "The door will eat the pattern. I can't hold both." Flux's stomach dropped. Open the door, or keep the route to the fold. Not both. The jester hissed and pointed at the strained creature. Its roots were slipping again. No time to wait. Flux looked at the loud, angry doors. The council had hidden something here they feared Flux would find. Something worth a whole guarded vault. Maybe worth more than the fold itself. "Draw it," Flux said. "Open the door." The swarm spread across the metal. It laid its small bodies into the exact shape of the map, line by line. The lock read the pattern. Then it drank it. The fleas fell away, empty, the map gone from them. The doors groaned and swung wide. Inside, a rug hung on the far wall. It was woven tight, still, patterned with knots that seemed to watch. Flux stepped closer and saw it. The rug's threads held a map. The council's fold, stitched in wool. A second copy. A backup. Flux laughed and grabbed the rug down. "They kept a spare. For me." The jester chattered a warning. Alarms began to shriek through the vault. The floating doors started to seal. Flux rolled the rug under one arm, scooped up the tired swarm, and ran for the seam. The route was lost from the box. But now it hung in the rug, and the door was open behind them.