(no subject)

August 19, 2519, 6:11 PM, Dyton Colony, New Vanderbilt: The CEO of Blue Sun Enterprises and the eleven members of his board of directors are assembled here, in the board room on the top floor of the Blue Sun Tower.

At the center of their polished mahogany table is a small podium of crushed velvet, and sitting on that podium is a glass ball. It's about a foot wide, composed apparently of dark blue glass.

They're here for a meeting with their corporate liason from another 'verse, Rasputin Fung. They're expecting his... call... any minute ago.

There's three new board members here, newly initiated in the mysteries of the upper management; the eye tattos on their ankles are still tingling. They're excited and edgy; those who have seen this before are more than that. They're jittery, twitching, junkies in line for a fix, waiting for the moment when this ball awakes, the heirloom that gives authority to the CEO of their massive multiworld corporation, the good luck charm and talisman of the founder of Blue Sun, Elias McCarthy. And the reason for its name; because when this slick ball achieves its function and rolls like the eye of some enormous monster, showing visions of some other world, it glows.

It glows like a tiny sun.

6:12

As elsewhere, the Academy becomes an new accretion disk for the barren planet Illyria, their sun lights up--goes suddenly, catastrophically dark, a sucking, draining darkness. Low moans and weeping suffuse the atmosphere; the doors began to rattle, as Security guards and personal assistants realize something has gone terribly wrong.

The frost forming on the doors was a hint.

6:13

On the street below the Tower, Gerrard Blum is selling souvenirs; he does this, since he was laid off. If you've been blacklisted by Blue Sun in Dyton Colony, your options are limited.

"'Ere y'go, guv, 'alf a credit, lovely craftsmanshi--"

The windows on the top floor of the Tower shatter, and shooting stars begin to fall; enormous, wealthy meteors, screaming to the pavement. The CEO and the Board of Directors have leapt into retirement, and forgot their golden parachutes.

They set themselves on fire first.

September 1:

Ephram Mallory, the new CEO of Blue Sun corp, is still working his way through the mountains of reading material that was bestowed on him; the massive shake-up in Blue Sun's corporate architecture has moved a lot of knowless men into the top echelons, and it's disturbing how deep this particular rabbithole goes.

In an iron box just over a foot square, his grisly inheritance pulses at him hungrily.

"Qu ni ma de," he whispers, watching it warily.

He lays down a datareader and reaches for a pen. The memo he prepares is strictly 'burn before reading' classified.

Upon completing my review of the corporate strategy recently adopted by
my predecessors on behalf of Blue Sun, it is clearly apparent to me
that we have lost sight of our mission statement, our purpose, and our
agenda – not only in our contracts with Parliament on behalf of the
Alliance, but also and perhaps more disturbingly, in the recent
negotiations with Rasputin Fung and the interests he represents.

Based on the emergency transmission sent by the late Dr. Tuin, it
appears that those extra-universal interests may not have been fully
satisfied by the assets and resources that we had arranged for
interspace transit. Considering Mr. Fung’s previous demonstrations of
capability, the possibility that the destruction which swept the
Academy and a significant number of other key populated areas was a
reflection of such discontent is far too dangerous for us to ignore.

In addition, we are in noncompliance regarding our contract with
Parliament, and our previous assurances that our agents would resolve
the issue to their satisfaction have only made the present situation
more difficult. The previous loyalty, albeit questionable, of the Blue
Hands is now nonexistent; in addition, their dissatisfaction with our
performance has led to the removal of the Tam matter from our purview.

If we intend to retain our preeminent business status and avoid certain
strictures, it is essential that we demonstrate a show of good
faith—particularly considering how our influence in particular sectors
has been negated due to the high death toll of certain
previously-amenable senators and planetary governors in the aftermath
of the Saranac event, along with all other members of the alleged ‘Cult
of the Blue Sun.’

Although it is possible to trace much of Blue Sun’s current prosperity
to our association with Los’ Hong and Rasputin Fung, in light of recent
developments it is clearly apparent that continuation of this
relationship would no longer be profitable. Therefore, it is my
recommendation to this Board, supported by experimental analysis
obtained from our Technical Research Center here in Dyton, that we
should shut the door on all further contact with other universes and
the worlds beyond them, for the foreseeable future.

I have therefore authorized the Dyton TRC to utilize all necessary
corporate assets, including the Blue Sun itself, in order to carry out
my instructions to completion. As a result, all portals between this
universe and any other will be permanently sealed.

Project Ri Wang is hereby terminated.

(no subject)

October 14, 2519, Blue Sun Technical Research Center, Dyton Colony, New Vanderbilt:

The Blue Sun TRC is a pleasant, airy building, a white dome with a large visible Blue Sun logo on the side. The armed guards (no blue gloves or screamers, ordinary humans with ordinary guns on the gate and we all say xiexie) and spiked gates are just a courtesy detail. As it were.

Inside, Ephram Mallory is meeting with his project director, Sun-Yat Lawrence. They're standing together, an incogruous pair, looking into a tangled welter of machinery. Something blue and glowing pulses at the center.

Mallory is a tiny man, just over five feet, with sleek dark hair; Dr. Lawrence is a balding man with a walrus moustache and a build to match. "Now, you probably know the original purpose of this device was to block out reader activity, which it still does. That's why the da ren have always kept their headquarters here on New Vanderbilt rather than moving into the Core when things took off."

Mallory nods. "That's what I found in the literature, yes. And then I saw the report that, theoretically, the same technology could block portals between 'verses. How did your team make that finding?"

"Well," the scientist quacks, "what nobody out there," he jerks a thumb to indicate 'outside,' a place he hasn't seen in seven years, "realizes is that we were right in the path of that dimensional crossrip. But it stopped, just outside our lunar orbit; picked up again on the other side. All that was, was an incompletely articulated portal, and all that's special about us was the Psionic Blocker. We're not sure what the underlying relationship is, because we don't understand portal technology fully."

"I was," Mallory hesitates, "under the impression that such portals are... well, magical."

"Magic!" Lawrence explodes. "There's no such thing. Sir. Just technology beyond what we can grasp. Now, the Blocker's purpose is to put out, essentially, psionic white noise. Apparently, that also strengthens the fabric of our 'verse and blocks portals. The only problem was range, and the blue ball solved that one. Unfortunately, the psionic component doesn't scale; the 'static', so to speak, gets too diffuse to cause any serious interference." Lawrence's eyes stray to the pulsing blue light. "I'd give a whole gorram lot to know what that thing does, I'll admit, sir. To know how it was made, and how it works." His high-pitched quacking voice grows slower, hungrier.

Mallory looks apprehensive--and more than a little jealous. "It's a wicked thing, doctor. I wouldn't let it prey on your mind."

"No. No, of course not." He blinks rapidly, looks away. "Anyway, sir, things are on schedule. We'll be ready to activate the device in a matter of days. I expect everything to progress smoothly."

And despite an interruption that occurs when Doctor Lawrence is found nude and painted with mysterious symbols, kneeling and chanting before the god he created, staring blindly into its single, flaming blue eye... things do, by and large, progress smoothly.

That is to say, every portal in the 'verse--every portal--closes.

Milliways, the End of Space and Time, 515 years PS (Post Servete):

Prior Fell and Andronicus Crowley sigh, and with regret set aside their wine glasses. "It's been lovely, my dear, but I fear I'll be needed on Haven soon."

Crowley nods. "I know, angel. Better head down to the garage and pick up that old Firefly, myself. Good luck." They exchange a brief kiss and the angel quirks a smile.

"Walk me out?"

Crowley reaches for the door.

It doesn't open.

Aziraphael blinks. "It's... never done that before."