Past and present

As the gate opened, music flowed through, filling the air. The lyres provided a gentle, melodic base, the auloi added a haunting, otherworldly quality, the drums offered a steady, grounding rhythm, and the kithara wove complex, rich melodies through it all. The music seemed to pulse with life, each note and beat a testament to the participants' devotion and the divine presence they sought to invoke—my presence.

Appropriately, the room I was in belonged to the Garage of Gods. The things stored here must conceptually be vehicles, and the litter I was lounging in counted.

The frame was a large, richly carved wooden platform with intricate patterns and symbols inlaid with iron and mercury. The wood was taken from the Twilight Forest, the iron came from Archer, and the quicksilver from me.

It was perfectly comfortable. Although the soft, plush cushions upholstered in deep purple silk, embroidered with golden threads, looked like they belonged in ancient Rome, they were of Aperture make and were perfectly ergonomic.

There was no canopy. This litter had a singular purpose—displaying me was part of it.

Throughout the ages, jewels have been used to enhance presence, power, and beauty, even without magecraft. The gem-imbued amulet that I wore did it much better, though at a cost. The gemstones burned slowly like candles, as the mana eroded them even as it empowered me—making me more beautiful, more regal, more divine.

The musicians came through the gate. They were blindfolded, and their noses and ears were sealed with wax. They wore no clothes but were not naked. Their whole bodies were first covered in a paste made of clay mixed with numbing oil to deaden their touch, and then gold leaves were used for decoration, making them appear like moving golden statues.

Even utterly robbed of their senses, the musicians played the melody by memory alone. They were accompanied by incense brazier carriers and four who had no items. They were to bear my litter.

The complete sensory deprivation was necessary, for this place tended to drive those who were not native insane. I could have avoided bringing any members of the Mystery Cult that Agrippina had started and endorsed as she promised, and Nero joined and took over as high priest. I had done so at the beginning.

Besides the extraordinary experience for those chosen to partake in this ritual, there were other benefits. This realm was blessed by the faith gathered in my name. Those who stepped on it would share the blessing. While in it, and for the day afterwards—it took too far many experiments to precisely determine duration—all their endeavours would go slightly but noticeably better.

The competition to be part of this was fierce, even with high requirements.

All this coordination took a lot of practice and self-control.

And there was a material cost.

The participants paid for that privilege—even with all materials spent, including covering their bodies with gold leaf—the cult still made quite a profit.

At the end of the procession, there was one unlike the others. No blindfold, no wax, no paste—just an elaborate golden mask, more helmet than mere disguise. That was Nero, the young Emperor and high priest of this cult.

The mask was my work. While more mundane solutions, like numbing most of the senses, worked on those not gifted, for psychics it would only help open their third eye, which in this place was unwise.

And Nero was quite gifted. I had tested him myself. He was nearly on par with Numbers, just a shade weaker than Two.

If only I had started his training a few years earlier…

The mask was another refinement in a series that started with the sunglasses I gave to Damien and continued to the goggles I gave to Andrew. Its intricate design was a slight improvement, capable of shielding against what man was not meant to know, while being not too unpleasant to wear.

He was examining the other participants closely, making note of any of their mistakes. Due to their temporary deafness and blindness, he could not correct them now, but he was sure to do so later.

He was efficient in that way. The first attempts at this rite included just bearers, and the rides were rough.

But now, almost a year in, the ceremony proceeded like a well-oiled machine.

Blind, deaf, and numb, the bearers still found their precise locations as if synchronized. Without any possibility of communication, they lifted the litter.

They carried me through the gate into an underground chamber beneath the Palatine Palace in Rome, which was part of the cult's sanctum.

Other chosen members were kneeling, carefully keeping their gaze on the floor. To look beyond the gate with bare eyes was to invite madness. I could fix that, but it would mark them as lacking self-discipline and slow their advancement in the cult.

With a grinding sound, the gate behind me closed. The sound was unnecessary for the gate's function but served as a good warning system for when it was being opened or closed.

The cultists raised their heads, looking at me with undisguised worship. Pretending to be a god was both exhilarating and uncomfortable. There was something thrilling and empowering about being adored, but the divine persona I donned felt like an ill-fitting shoe. It wasn't about lying; I was quite comfortable with untruths.

It was more about responsibility and expectations.

I had tried to be as responsible as I could with the cult teachings I shared, mixing Aristotle's philosophy with content from self-help books. The core was about making a better version of oneself.

There were constraints on what I could do without disturbing the timeline.

Nero shed the mask and greeted me with a warm, friendly smile, with just a touch of flirtation. I suppose saving him from a shapeshifter that stole his face and tried to eat him did garner some goodwill. The gift I gave also helped—it was displayed prominently on his hand, a ring with a ruby.

I tried not to reciprocate, nor to lead him on. By the standards of the Roman Empire, he was of age, but still far too young for me. And in all myths, entanglements between gods and mortals rarely ended well.

I would have returned a smile, but gods have to be detached. So I merely raised my hand in benediction.

"Shatter: Opheim," I murmured the aria, casting the spell that fractured the current moment into many alternates, all linked through me.

In most of these possible moments, I pointed to one of the newest members, calling them to the podium. There, I would lead a series of mental exercises, testing for psionic potential.

It was time-consuming and tedious. GLaDOS had a better method—a specialized test course. The pity was that only she could run it and interpret the results. Simply building one and giving her the results later wouldn't work; there was an element of interaction necessary for it to function properly.

In another alternate, one that would be key since my testing was supposed to be secret, I picked up a harp from the litter. It was my work, made in the same style that used Imladris.

With a delighted laugh, Nero shed his clothes until he stood proudly nude before the audience, displaying his youthful body, well-toned by both athletic exercises and dancing.

As I began playing the music, Nero danced to the melody. Among the Elves, the only respectable way to use illusions was to enhance performances. It was not something I personally agreed with—illusions had so many uses—but it did make quite a spectacle, and I was reasonably skilled in them.

The underground room expanded into a vast expanse of space. Nero danced amidst the majesty of the universe. He moved among the stars, twirled between nebulae, and jumped over burning comets while I played.

The audience was enraptured by the spectacle, which was the point. Testing took time, and all the time in separate timelines needed to be aligned before I ended the spell.

But there was more to this than distraction. It was also training for Nero, specifically in biofeedback and empathic projection.

Dance was useful for both, as it demanded precise physical movement and emotional expression.

Afterwards, I met Nero in a private audience. It was just the two of us, plus Andrew.

Andrew was still trapped in the role of Praetorian Prefect, filling in after the one originally meant for that role had been eaten. History had to be preserved, so he had to play that part until the appointed time—the date when history recorded that the person he was impersonating died.

"No stars, again," Nero commented, idly lounging on one of the couches. He looked around for a serving slave but then remembered that no one save the three of us was allowed, and with a pout, picked a grape himself.

"It is to be expected. Few can walk that path. Finding one among such a limited pool is unlikely. But we must preserve secrecy," I replied. The cult was based on the notion of self-improvement, but that had multiple possible paths to that goal.

Amulets in the shape of a gladius for those seeking physical and martial perfection, ones in the shape of a lyre for those pursuing the arts, mirrors for those mastering themselves and others, laurels for those who sought political power, and so on.

The cult members wore these amulets, made from different materials to show their rank on their path, ranging from tin to gold.

But one path was hidden—a cult within the cult—those specially gifted.

The stars the young emperor spoke of were tiny amulets in the shape of stars that marked those with psychic gifts among the cult. That was why Nero also called gifted members stars.

Popping a grape into his mouth, Nero said, waving his hand dismissively, "I know. But I still hoped. It's like betting on the underdog in a chariot race. You know you will most probably lose, but you still hope."

"Before I start your lesson, I have some letters to deliver first, to both of you," I said, taking out three letters. They were in modern envelopes, on modern paper. "From Britannicus." I handed one to the young emperor.

There was doubt in historical records whether Britannicus had been poisoned by Nero or Agrippina, or if he had died of natural causes. So, I had checked the boy's health, more out of curiosity than anything else. I needed to understand better with whom I was working. Not that the political murder of one boy would have stopped me from working with Nero, but it would help me understand him better.

To my mild surprise, I had found that Nero's stepbrother had a congenital heart defect. That did not mean for certain that he would not be poisoned, but it made it a bit redundant.

It was not beyond my ability to cure—but there was history to consider.

I gave that knowledge to Nero and offered him a choice—do nothing, or give the boy to me, and I would take him beyond the reach of his prescribed fate.

In the end, I had taken Britannicus across the time bridge to the Enrichment Centre. After healing him, of course.

Although he had lost the chance of being co-emperor, the boy was thriving in the future. He had even joined the Boy Scouts. I suppose they were similar enough to the Roman education of his time.

"For you, one from Jane and one from Terry," I said as I handed two envelopes to Andrew. I used Damien as a go-between. After all, Jane and her friends already knew that he was connected. Establishing such contact was a risk, but a necessary one to preserve Andrew's mental health.

Culture shock and long separation were taking their toll, and I needed him functional. And, as a bonus, it also made Jane stop bothering Damien.

Nero chuckled as he read his letter, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "He finished again with 'all historians are gossips and liars.' Well, not that it's untrue, but he should be kinder to our poor departed father."

Claudius had been something of an amateur historian; unfortunately, his work did not survive the march of time. But I had managed to get a copy, here and now. What was the use of time travel if not to retrieve rare books?

Nero had been quite amused by my request and gave me the manuscript with the words, "He would be happy that someone would read it voluntarily—without expecting a reward from the Emperor."

"I had to make Britannicus rewrite that letter twice. He was trying to pass on knowledge that is not meant for you," I said. It was something I had to be careful about. Andrew was less of an issue. The Praetorian armour that he wore was one I had made. It contained numerous enchantments, but two were critical.

One enchantment made everyone believe that he was the person he was pretending to be. Rather than changing his appearance or manners, it altered the observers' perceptions and memories, making them believe that he had always been who he was supposed to be.

The second enchantment was trickier and involved Sorcery rather than mere magecraft. It guided Andrew, with hints and restrictions, to ensure he remained within actions that would lead to the future he came from—a paradox-avoiding guidance system.

"I will write to him about it. I know he believes he needs to warn me about something he has learned, but if there were a way to avoid it, you would have told me. Like the choice you gave to him," Nero said with a sigh. "There's no avoiding fate."

"We are all bound by causality," I said. That was the problem with time travel; it dealt with certainties rather than possibilities, making deviations impossible. Or rather, a deviation would lead to an alternate timeline, which would mean repeating the whole sequence from the beginning, and ironically, I was short on time for that.

"How about you, my pretend praetorian?" Nero continued, turning to Andrew. "Not that I mind. In truth, I am more sure of you than anyone else. After all, having two monumental secrets is one too many for any man. So, any good news?"

"Everything is fine," Andrew replied, but his words came out in English instead of Latin.

"Did you just try to lie?" Nero said, stretching like a kitten that had just seen a fun mouse to play with. "You know you can't do that. Not because I am the Emperor—people lie to me all the time. It's just because you can't." He turned to me, conspiratorially, his eyes alight with mischief. "A fake unable to speak or hear a lie. You've made something worthy of a play. I just don't know if it should be a comedy or a tragedy. It does remind me of 'The Birds' a little."

My lips curved in an amused smile. I didn't see how exactly Aristophanes' comedy about a city in the sky related to the current matter, but it was funny, and Nero was truly better versed in it. "I did not curse him. It is the nature of the amulet he used to translate. It goes to communication that transcends languages, thus it conveys meaning in its pure form. It was made for diplomats."

"That is a peculiar defect for something made for diplomats," the young emperor said, reaching for another grape.

"It was a virtue of their kingdom. They believed that diplomats should not lie," I explained, omitting much. But how could I explain Arnor to him? It lay in another world completely.

"And what happened to such a peculiar kingdom?"

"They were destroyed by their enemies," I simply said.

"Not surprising, if their envoys were forced to tell only the truth," Nero said, popping the grape into his mouth and chewing with a satisfied look on his face.

"It's about my daughter. I'm a bit worried about the young man that has been courting her," Andrew said, this time in Latin. Of course, that was slightly modified, but as I mentioned, the translation amulet dealt in meaning, and there were stark differences in culture. For example, what was considered "young" to marry in 1980s America overlapped slightly with what was considered "too old to be unmarried" around 50 AD in Rome. Moreover, "courting" was a bit too formal to describe Mike and Jane's relationship, but the actual term would be scandalous for ancient Rome and wouldn't properly convey the meaning.

"You could arrange for him to be exiled for a while. It did wonders for Seneca," Nero said casually, with a wicked smirk. "Or if you're that displeased, you could introduce her to me. I would love to meet your mysterious daughter."

"Even if that were possible, you're not the sort of young man I would be comfortable introducing my daughter to," Andrew replied.

"How unlike all other fathers in Rome. But I suppose the Emperor should treasure one person he can be honest with, and who can be honest with him too. After all, it takes literal divine intervention for it to happen," Nero said languidly. "But think about this: if I find her pleasing, I could make her an empress."

"But can you make her happy?" Andrew asked.

"Seneca always said that we should seek happiness within ourselves, not externally," Nero shot back, unconcerned.

"We have digressed. It is time for your lesson, Nero. Andrew, you could use that time to pen the replies."

After his lesson, I was carried back in a similar ceremony with different participants. The more the blessings were spread, the better, since they did not stack.

Across the time bridge, different responsibilities awaited me.

Since this was the first semester of the first year at Aperture University, I only had to teach introductory courses.

There were some transfers, mainly graduates of the high school in the Enrichment Centre who had gone to other colleges because Aperture University had not existed at the time. Now that it was open, they had chosen to avail themselves of the education provided by Aperture.

The courses I taught were both practical and theoretical psionic science. It had been decided to avoid the name parapsychology, both for its connotations and for clarity, as this was a much narrower field.

It was tough, as nowhere else offered these courses, so even transfers could not gain the proper prerequisites for advanced courses.

Well, there was also BDSM Sex Ed, but that was only a half-semester short course.

That meant I started with three classes per week, and now I had to teach two. Adding the time needed to prepare material and time reserved for consultations with students, I still had plenty for my duties as Aperture Science CEO as well as some for research. Not as much as I would like, especially since I had to spend time in ancient Rome too, but it would have to be enough.

It was tempting to reduce the time allotted for relaxation, but maintaining a proper work-life balance was important for optimal efficiency.

I had visited Nero on Sunday, as usual, and I had classes scheduled on Tuesday, for theoretical and Thursday for practical psionic science, plus consultation on Friday. BDSM Sex Ed used to be on Wednesdays and would start again next semester if enough students signed up for it.

The next day, on Monday, I finished my paper— "From Witchcraft to Modern Psionic Science." It was mainly a revision of Grimhilde's Book of Shadows, linking it to modern theories. Though brief, it gave credit to her work and highlighted many discoveries made earlier in history that were officially unacknowledged and lost. I also looked over several other papers where I was the fourth or fifth author. Unlike magecraft, science isn't science unless it's shared.

Then, I had to deal with another conflict with the Boy Scouts of America. The inclusion of a community and youth centre in the design of the Aperture Anomaly Monitoring Station had, as a consequence, brought many children into the facilities. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to organize an Aperture-sponsored Boy Scouts troop. We could have created our own program, but the Boy Scouts already had a popular, patriotic brand that worked well with government-sponsored programs.

They were enthusiastic about more scouts, and we appreciated the good publicity and occupied children.

However, there were some problems. Our experts took one look at their child protection protocols and were quite unimpressed. So, we implemented our own stricter protocols, among them mandatory reporting to the police in case of molestation.

This was the root of the conflict. They preferred fewer scandals, while we preferred fewer paedophiles near the underage children in our responsibility.

Besides the morality of it, it was a matter of long-term strategy. Concealing things now only begged for much greater scandals later. It was best to nip the problem in the bud.

Then there was another meeting about including Aperture University in the closed beta of S.W.O.R.D. While doing so would provide a wider variety of test subjects and allow us to see how it works within higher education, it would also increase the risk of leaking details before we were ready to implement it.

Although there was little chance of competition managing to pre-empt it, and we had already secured most of the patents needed, Apple had managed to surprise us before. Still, they were not as hated as Black Mesa; while their progress hurt our bottom line in some ways, it also helped us progress toward the massive, unreal profits expected from S.W.O.R.D.

In the end, I greenlighted the integration of S.W.O.R.D. at the beginning of the next semester, with the necessary NDAs signed.

Since the Theory of Psionics class was scheduled at 10 AM, I walked to the atrium of Aperture University after breakfast in the cafeteria.

I missed meals made by Archer, but the Enrichment Centre was now an arcology. Communal meals were more than a convenience; they were a necessity. Having each household equipped to prepare food would waste both limited space and resources.

I could have made an exception for myself using my position, but such things set a bad precedent. Corruption begins with small acts, and as they say, a fish rots from the head.

Power demands sacrifices, and this was not an undue one. It wasn't just about taste; it was also a sacrifice of the time spent together, of his enjoyment in making food for me to eat—sacrifices of things we did together.

But as a leader, I had to set an example. And I would have to make it up to him in other ways.

Another drain on my limited pool of time and attention, but one worth it. Relationships need maintenance, and I valued ours too much to leave it to chance.

Being seen and approached informally during meals had its own benefits. There were complaints, suggestions, and ideas that people were uncomfortable voicing in more formal settings, and it was important to keep a pulse on things.

GLaDOS's constant surveillance helped, but cameras could not show what was going on inside people's heads—at least for now. There were some interesting experiments for detecting brainwaves at a distance.

The atrium was one of the largest single rooms in the entire Enrichment Centre, larger even than the drydock that hosted the Borealis—a ship used in teleportation experiments. The ship was successfully teleported, but not to its intended destination. The latest calculations suggest it is somewhere in the Arctic, but our Arctic expeditions suffered misfortune after misfortune. I wish I had time to look into that, but I had more urgent priorities and limited time.

Usually, the walls in this facility were covered using trademarked Aperture Panels, for both convenience and temporary isolation, as well as connections for electrical and utility systems. It was something of a brand hallmark.

The atrium was an exception. Bare rock, with sleek crystal formations, was used as a bold choice of decoration. It was interspersed with vertical gardens, like many places in the Enrichment Centre. Not only did it look pretty, but it also helped reduce CO₂ levels.

These gardens were a verdant oasis, filled with lush, green foliage and vibrant flowers, sustained by an intricate hydroponic system. The gentle hum of water circulating through the system created a soothing background melody, complemented by the occasional chirping of digital birds, adding a touch of natural serenity to the subterranean environment.

It did make for a unique atmosphere, with the pleasant scent carried on an artificial breeze. Mixed with water from pools on the lowest level, it was almost like a garden at the seaside.

"Professor!" a young man's voice called for my attention.

I turned and spotted one of my former students running towards me. "Good morning, Mr. Daniels. Do you need something?"

Daniels was a young man with black hair and soft hazel eyes. He was eighteen but looked more like sixteen—one of those baby faces. He used to be really slender, but after half a year here, regular swimming and some recommended physical activities had filled him out, giving him a swimmer's build. He was dressed in a short-sleeved jumpsuit of Aperture make, but he kept it zipped halfway down, exposing his chest, pierced nipples, and a leather collar around his neck. The lower part of the jumpsuit was modified to be crotchless, proudly displaying the chastity belt he wore.

In many universities, such attire would be completely inappropriate—in fact, the only place it would be appropriate might be a leather club. But Aperture University had no clothing policy—it was actually clothing-optional.

The site was isolated, and the climate completely regulated, allowing young people to wear whatever they wanted—to freely explore their identities.

Even if that meant wearing a bondage outfit or nothing at all.

Now that the novelty had passed for most, nudity was restricted to pools. Streaking was less fun when it wasn't forbidden, and pockets were convenient.

"I just wanted to say thank you," Daniels said, with a wide beaming smile, "I used to feel like such a freak, but your lecture changed my life. For the first time, I feel really comfortable in my own skin."

Daniels had attended my short course in BDSM Sex Ed.

"Thank you, Mr. Daniels. It's wonderful to hear that the lecture helped you feel more comfortable with yourself. The journey to self-acceptance is different for everyone, and it's always rewarding to see someone find their path."

When I first saw him at the beginning of the semester, he wore clothing so conservative it could be mistaken for a youth pastor's attire. He had a guilty, yet hungry look in his eyes. He was shy and barely spoke. But look at him now.

I wasn't sure if his parents would appreciate the change, but he had to live for himself, not for others.

Since he didn't say anything else, I continued, "If that's all, I need to go. There is a class starting, and it would set a poor example if the lecturer is late. It would show that I don't value my students' time."

I made it to the classroom without further interruption. It wasn't just because it was morning—there were morning classes, but not that many, and a lot of students—those not sleeping in—used that time for a refreshing morning swim in the pools.

It was also because, since this was the first semester ever, the facilities were far from full capacity. The planned occupancy was about ten thousand, but we had fewer than two thousand. That included those employees who were using very generous study arrangements. Generous both in terms of time allocation—the study may last longer but with fewer time-consuming responsibilities, managing to fit with their jobs—and in terms of price.

A lot of staff who lacked higher education—mainly janitorial and security personnel—took advantage of it.

Also, some younger artists, especially young actors, were taking on roles in Aperture productions. The work as an actor could even count for some credit.

It also worked on the other side—students, if they wished, could easily find some temporary jobs within the Enrichment Centre, with full support from the administration of Aperture University.

After all, one of the goals of this institution was to create future employees.

The classroom quieted immediately after I entered.

I didn't aim for such firm discipline. It just took a few tries to properly calibrate a mild glare of disapproval.

It was meant to work on Aperture Scientists—the kind of men who, when their latest experiment ripped open a tear in reality from which unspeakable horrors began to pour, just grabbed a flamethrower in one hand and a machete in the other—for taking a few samples—shrugged, and went to deal with the situation.

Students had less nerve.

They would learn—in time.

But calibrating had a few hitches, a few fainting episodes—although that could be just low blood sugar—and that one boy whom security took two days to coax from under his bed. But he really should not have ignored my warning twice.

"First, it should be noted that the phenomena we discuss in this lecture remain largely unproven. Calling them hypotheses is generous; supposing might be more accurate. But that is the nature of our field. Psionic science is in its infancy. We are not even a generation removed from fake psychics playing their tricks at carnivals. But that means there is vast room for new discoveries. As Isaac Newton famously said, 'If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.' You, my students, have the unique opportunity to become those giants—a new Einstein, a new Euclid!"

There, I paused for effect and used the time for a brief glance over the classroom.

It was full to the brim—unlike Practical Application of Psionics, but then this class did not have psychic abilities as a prerequisite.

Damien was sitting in the first row as usual—the only one who attended both courses.

"Earlier in the semester, we discussed the effects of psychic powers, how they manifest, how we can detect latent psychic abilities, and some methods to awaken that latent potential. In the next lecture, we will discuss how to properly formulate experiments and the ethics of such research. We do not want another Dr. Brenner."

This might be a bit unfair to the late Martin Brenner, although even before he ran into the demon I misplaced, he was far from an ethical paragon.

But his infamy made for a sharp lesson.

And in this way, he got to contribute to our field. If he had wanted to contribute more, he should have published more.

"Today, I will introduce some ideas about what psychic powers might be."

Excited murmurs spread among the students. Even Damien leaned forward. The ring I gave him provided knowledge of Brenner and several other scientists who had worked for Brenner before he sacrificed them to the demon.

That allowed me to push a heavily loaded program to Damien—the knowledge needed to be properly integrated to be useful.

But this was new even to him. Brenner had made some progress in utilizing psychic abilities—although he lacked the creativity and flexibility to properly find uses for psionics. And he was hampered by the CIA's objectives.

Before I got into new theories, a short disclaimer was needed.

"As I mentioned, the truth is we don't really know what psychic powers are. We have measured some of their effects, so we know they exist, but we understand them about as well as early humans understood why fire burns."

I paused again, letting the tension build. Some might say such theatrics have little place in higher education, and those people would be fools.

It's not enough to simply convey the message—one has to make the lectures both memorable and interesting to listen to.

Attention is a precious resource. Hard to gain—easy to lose.

And what would it matter if students' bodies were present, but their minds had gone on sabbatical due to dullness?

"To simplify, psychic powers can be thought of as consequences of an unusual—note we do not use the word abnormal—perspective."

The next pause was not solely for the sake of drama.

After such a revelation, I needed to give students a moment to process the startling information I provided.

What did I mean by perspective?

How could that work?

Because I wanted them to think, to analyse—not just regurgitate facts I provided, like vomiting a meal they could not digest.

Then I provided an explanation.

"The psychic observes the universe in a way that is different from non-psychic humans. In many classical sciences, there is the notion that the observer and the event can be decoupled. However, quantum mechanics has largely proven that wrong. For those interested in the details, there are courses on quantum mechanics, so I won't delve into that in this lecture."

This was mainly based on my own research. I did use some theories about psychics popular in the Magus Association, but while there were Magi studying psychics—as there were Magi studying almost any supernatural phenomena—I was not one of them.

My familiarity with prevailing theorems was shallow at best. And placing it in the framework of modern science would require introducing concepts like the Human Order and the highly anthropocentric universe it implied. That was problematic, not only because of the difficulty in verifying such theories but also because Magi were unlikely to share their data.

I did not fully recognize how crippling that was until my scientific work at Aperture.

"While quantum mechanics might provide an explanation for extrasensory powers like remote viewing, telepathy, or psychometry, what about telekinesis? For something like that, we need to consider more esoteric theories, such as the equivalency between information and energy. With such symmetry, telekinesis can be viewed as another variant of ESP."

Another pause there. This was mostly so the students could finish taking notes, and also because my mouth was getting a bit dry from all the talking.

I used the time to quickly survey the students, to see who was bored and who was lost.

Too many of one or the other would require adjusting the speed and complexity of the lecture.

But as Goldilocks would have said—it was just right.

"Where does this perspective come from? Quantum mechanics does provide a possible answer: higher-dimensional space."

To scientists outside Aperture, that may seem like a highly speculative concept. They would say, "How can we be certain that those higher dimensions exist if we can't measure them?"

To them, Aperture gives a simple answer—the portal gun.

"In classical physics, we are accustomed to three spatial dimensions and one temporal dimension. However, theoretical physics suggests the existence of additional dimensions. String theory, for example, posits that there may be as many as ten or eleven dimensions."

This may have proven a bit insufficient number now that we had access to the borderlands of Xen—the Hawkings Anomaly. What we called the laws of physics were markedly different there—universal constants had proven not to be so universal, especially with electromagnetic fields. They behaved strangely there.

For others, we would know more when the small particle accelerator was completed there.

"A psychic's unique perspective might involve an ability to perceive or interact with these higher dimensions. This could explain why their experiences and abilities seem so foreign and unexplainable by our current scientific understanding."

Then I went into more detail, elaborating on how that theory could work, as well as what could be done in the future to formulate experiments that could validate or disprove it.

As usual, I reserved some time at the end for questions. Damien had a few sharp ones, but he was hardly the only inquisitive student.

After class was over, I grabbed some fruit as snacks in the local cafeteria and went to an administrative meeting about the planned New Year's celebration.

1987 was coming to an end, and the population had boomed from previous years, so the plans had to be revised.

All inhabitants of the Enrichment Centre, including students who, for various reasons, did not go home, were invited, as well as Aperture employees from other sites—making this a massive gathering.

A large number of students had signed up, but that was partially due to the quarantine policy.

Aperture University and the Enrichment Centre were closed systems. For that reason, after entering, a thorough medical examination and a short day-to-week quarantine were deemed prudent.

It was inconvenient, but we had no flu epidemics.

Naturally, using portals to travel to other closed systems did not count, like the facility in the Hawkins Anomaly or the ones on the moon.

Otherwise, poor Damien would spend half his time in quarantine.

I had arranged to meet Archer for lunch. When I arrived at the cafeteria, he was already there, looking at his meal with a bit of a despondent look.

"Stop pouting," I said, sitting across from him. "I added you to the list of New Year's party volunteer cooks."

"Thanks, I guess?" he replied, looking at me. "I didn't know we had volunteer cooks for the party. I thought all the food would be made as usual."

"I suggested it. It's not practical for everyone to cook their meals all the time, given our living arrangements," I said, gesturing to encompass the area. "But the New Year is a time of celebration. So we can afford to relax the rules a little, allowing those who would like to contribute by making food for the celebration to do so."

He smiled. It really transformed his face, making him more handsome. "That's very nice of you."

"I didn't do it just for you," I quickly said, feeling my cheeks warm a bit. "There are other people who also like to cook."

"Still, it deserves a reward. If only to encourage you to do it more often," he purred seductively, leaving no doubt what kind of reward he meant.

"Have you cleared your schedule for this afternoon?" I asked, leaning in.

"As we agreed," he confirmed.

"I'm in the mood to paint a little," I said, licking my lips. "Would you be my model again?"

His pupils dilated a little in arousal, but he kept his tone nonchalant as he replied, "I don't mind. But what are you going to do with all the paintings? You've made quite a collection."

"Do?" I asked, surprised. I hadn't really thought about it. "I make them because I enjoy the process. I suppose I could give them away?"

"Have you thought about the implications of giving away pornographic paintings?" he asked in a teasing manner.

"They are art, so they're at least borderline pornographic," I defended myself with mock offence.

"Those paintings are so over the border they have a hacienda in Mexico," he smirked.

He had a point. But who counted? I certainly didn't, and not just because I would be losing.

"Are you worried I might accidentally proposition someone?" I asked, taking a bite. I deliberately licked the fork suggestively, maybe just a bit too suggestively for a public place.

"I am the main subject of most of those paintings," he replied, his eyes fixed on my mouth. "I'm more worried it would seem like an advertisement. Are you thinking of changing your job to that of a pimp? I could get a nice pimp cane."

"If I do, I promise you will always be the main bitch," I joked back, deliberately using the same crude language. "I suppose I could donate them to your charity, and you could auction them."

"Aren't you worried about a scandal?" he said, turning serious. "You did say that's why we kept things private."

"I'm tired of that. Sneaking around has been fun, but it's taking too much effort. It would be nice to have our relationship public. Combine the announcement with my coming out party and a charity auction for the art. And as for the scandal—we really need to coordinate this PR. We could use it to keep Aperture in the spotlight, in preparation for launching S.W.O.R.D. Hate me or love me, as long as they pay attention, I can make a profit off it. Unless you have objections?"

"It would be nice to call you Master in public."

The first stage of painting was preparing the model. Roped as both artistic decoration and to affix in position, for this one I chose suspension, hanging from the ceiling with his legs spread—exposed.

Then came the foundation—to give his skin that nice rose tint. A flogger, meticulous and finishing touches by bare hand. Mixed with sensations—a kiss, a lick, a stroke on other erogenous zones for both facial expression and an aching erection.

The passion, the arousal—it needed to be visible.

Then some touches of special paints. They were made of herbal mixtures that had both bright colours and potent sensations when applied to bare skin: forest green that cooled, fiery red that burned, bright yellow that itched.

When I was done, Archer was an image of desire—ready to be painted. And he would remain in this position while I immortalised the scene on canvas.

I could paint these things from memory, but that would cut his fun short. It was meant to be enjoyable for both of us.

Although I was interested in trying some things from the other side, like spanking, bondage was not one of them. I liked setting the scene—creative work was stimulating in more ways than one. But being bound was too boring for me.

I needed to be moving, doing something.

Archer, on the other hand, found it relaxing.

Watching him made me uncomfortably hard. But arousal would make the painting more vibrant, as I poured emotion into it.

And once we were done, it would make the finish even better for both of us. Delay increased the pleasure.