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  Observer Kaluzax heard the first thump a few seconds after clearing the bottom of the cloud layer and emerging once more over the planewide metropolis. The sound wasn’t loud, and a quick check of his instruments showed he was still on course. Probably just a surprised flock of aquatic birds migrating to a new sky reservoir, he reasoned. Nothing for him to worry about.

  Then again, no sky reservoirs were on his naviglass or his well-studied mental map of the plane.

  “Speaking of mangy Gruul …” he muttered.

  He took hold of the twin steering rods and spun the observosphere cockpit module, which floated on magnetomanic fields inside the secondary invizomizzium hull. This let Kaluzax see where he’d just been through the transparent viewplate on the inner sphere. The gyroscopic cockpit’s globe-within-a-globe design allowed the flame-pods to fire in one direction while the pilot looked in any direction he pleased, but it took experience to handle it well. One-shots usually became one-shots when they hit the cockpit release before they were ready for the dizzying sensation of spinning in midair without leaving the flight path.

  Kaluzax had not struck a flock of aquatic birds, though his pursuers were indeed winged creatures. At least, some of them were. The others rode the ones with the wings. Three humanoid figures atop reptilian pterros were catching up to the slowing observosphere. The scaly, bat-winged mounts strained against the air currents. They bore strange, organic markings on their leathery flight membranes that Kaluzax recognized as the tribal brands of the Utvar Gruul. So far, they only seemed to be following him, but that didn’t explain the thumps. They were falling behind but wouldn’t be for long—the belly-bursters were slowing the ’sphere at a considerable rate.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a wild zeppelid feeding on the upper reaches of a smoggy cloud. There was little the pursuers could do to the observosphere no matter how much they thumped, but a high-speed run-in with the giant lizard’s gas-bladders could ruin visibility. With no visibility, an observer observed nothing but failure. With a nauseating whirl, he swung the cockpit around to face front once more.

  “Dragonfire Base, it looks like the scouts were right,” Observer Kaluzax said. “I’ve got Gruul in pursuit. No damage so far and none anticipated. I don’t think they’re looking forward to the experiment. From the look of it, their mounts might give out before they catch up.”

  “Let them follow,” came the reply. “The more test subjects, the better, the magelord says.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Kaluzax said. “Do you suppose many stayed behind on the ground?”

  “Not even the Gruul are that stupid.”

  “Yes,” Kaluzax said, “but they might be that stubborn. Who knows how these primitives really think?”

  “Looking for a job in neuristics? Don’t worry about what they think, 9477. Just worry about how they die,” his boss said.

  Another series of thumps struck the rear of the goblin’s craft, this time shaking the ’sphere enough that he actually had manually to correct a slight drift ten degrees to the east. The last one was accompanied by a high-pitched ping that reverberated on the hull. A series of numbers began to flash from red to blue and back again in midair before his eyes.

  “Base, the warning light shows I’ve got a small power loss in flame-pod six. Can you track what they’re hitting me with? Should I be concerned?”

  “Negative, 9477. Stay on course,” said Chief Observer Vazozav, “but feel free to burn off a little extra pyromana at your discretion. The magelord grants you leave to kill them if you wish. Further analysis supports a little leeway to teach ignorant savages to stay out of Izzet business. We can afford it.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with those Orzhov accountants,” Observer Kaluzax said. “Remember, ‘The study of mathematics is but the first step to understanding the macrocosmic.’”

  “Save the proverbs, 9477. Burn something.”

  “With pleasure, Dragonfire.”

  To the casual eye, or the primitive one, an observosphere appeared to be unarmed, and technically Kaluzax supposed that was true in the case of the Peripatetic Eye of Niv-Mizzet 9477. But he had ways to fight if need be. His innards wrenched violently upward, then down, as he rolled 180 degrees back to again face his ill-advised pursuers. At this altitude, the long-nosed, batlike reptiles were already showing the stress of hard, prolonged flight. Kaluzax adjusted the flame output to slow the observosphere even more, drawing the trio of pterro riders close enough that he could make out the species of the three humanoids. Two were viashino, a race of bipedal lizards that took to flight as naturally as a goblin took to burrowing. The third—the leader, or at least the point of the riders’ arrowhead formation—was a broad-shouldered human with dark, reddish skin covered by ritual scarring that matched the pattern on the wings of his mount. The human raised what looked like a spear and pointed one end at Kaluzax’s viewplate. The “spear” glowed orange, a color matched by the three small spheres that clung to the side of the weapon like salamander eggs. In fact, they were salamander eggs, of a sort—artificially created by Izzet magic and sold in licensed weapons emporiums all over Ravnica.

  It was not a weapon a Gruul was supposed to be carrying.

  “Looks like the primitives are trying to move up,” the observer muttered.

  “Repeat, 9477.”

  “Nothing much, Base,” Kaluzax replied, “at least, nothing mizzium plating can’t handle.” I hope, he added silently.

  The primitive tribesman had gotten hold of a goblin bam-stick somewhere, which explained the thumps against the observosphere’s hull. With the flick of a thumb the Gruul launched another eyeball-sized projectile of blazing, concentrated mana, this time aimed directly at the center of the observosphere’s viewplate. The human probably expected Kaluzax to at least flinch, but the goblin did not. He did blink when the tiny, white-hot pellet of energy struck the invizomizzium, but only at the loud spang! sound it made as it ricocheted harmlessly off the flame-proof material.

  “Wrong target, Gruul,” Kaluzax said as the human raised the bam-stick again. Kaluzax gave the flame-pod alignment a last-second tweak that left all six pointing at the center of the formation, then wrenched the red lever back halfway while slamming the emergency-braking switch to compensate for what otherwise would have been another rapid-acceleration maneuver.

  It was not a full blast, and odds were Kaluzax would have to perform a tricky deceleration to stay on target—belly-bursters could only compensate so much—but the results were more than enough to make up for the inconvenience. Six fiery columns of magical immolation met at a single point. Specifically, they met at a spot just north of the lead rider’s navel. The concentrated flame burned the human’s flesh away in seconds and kept going to flash-cook the pterro as well. The creature’s hollow bones, packed with the same gasses that kept zeppelids afloat, ruptured violently from within. As the creature exploded, it set off the remaining ammunition spheres on the bam-stick and obliterated what was left in a spectacular flash.

  Observer Kaluzax pressed the red lever forward again and brought the engines down to a tenth of normal as the small shockwave created by the leader’s destruction knocked the two viashino wingmen off course. One mount clipped the other, and the panicked creatures snapped at each other while their equally panicked riders fought the pterros’ instincts to no avail. As they rapidly shrank behind him, Observer Kaluzax saw one beast succeed in slicing through the membranous wing of its kin, which crumpled and fell from the sky like a stone. Then distance—and the impending arrival of duty—forced the goblin to swing the cockpit around to forward configuration so he could get to work.

  “That got them, Dragonfire Base,” Kaluzax reported. “Estimate I shaved a few minutes off my travel time with that blast.”

  “Correct, 9477,” the chief observer replied. “In fact, you may need to hitch a ride or stop off at a guild academy for refueling before you get home, especially if I’m reading these pools right. Pod six
isn’t just losing power, it’s draining pyromana from the other pods, and the bursters.”

  “Repeat that, Dragonfi—” before Observer Kaluzax could finish, a rapid-fire series of bells and shrieking whistles sounded in the tiny observosphere. “Oh, dromapples.”

  “It wasn’t that bad at first, just a small leak, but your targeted blast blew it open,” Vazozav said, an apologetic tone creeping into his voice. “I was not aware of that when I gave you leave to—”

  “Not your fault, Base. It takes more than a little exploding pod to take out ol’ 9477,” Kaluzax said.

  “I was not about to apologize,” the chief observer replied.

  “All right, my gauges are showing the leak now,” Kaluzax said, ignoring him. “Looks like a bad one. Where did primitives get a weapon like—” The question never made it out of his mouth because the observosphere rocked with an explosion from the stern. “That’s it, pod six just went!” he shouted. Kaluzax gripped the steering levers as the sphere lurched into a counterclockwise roll.

  “Looks like the projectile entered through the exhaust—that was a lucky shot. 9477, can you keep it in the air?” the chief observer shouted back, with enough volume to rise above the sudden chorus of alarms. “We’re showing pod six has increased in temperature four hundred—no, six hundred percent. Seven … eight …”

  “I’m cutting the pod loose,” Kaluzax said. Sweat pooled on his knobby brow and ran down either side of his face as even the mizzium plating grew hot and threatened to turn the ’sphere into an oven. He tugged a length of cable that hung over his head like a clothesline, careful to make sure he pulled the one labeled “6.”

  The expected clang of releasing clamps did not reach the goblin’s ears. “Dragonfire, I’m pretty sure the fire has melted the pod releases.”

  “That’s impossible!” Vazozav replied. “Those are mizzium alloy!”

  “Next time, let’s get pure,” Kaluzax said, “The alloy can’t take the heat. It’s getting to the next two pods.”

  “Observer,” said a new voice. It was not one Kaluzax had ever heard come over the pneumanatic cylinder, though of course he knew the speaker’s identity immediately.

  “My lord,” Kaluzax said. “You honor me with your words.”

  “This experiment must go forward, brave Observer,” the voice of Zomaj Hauc boomed, somehow drowning out the cacophony in the observosphere with ease. It was as if he heard the voice in his bones as well as his ears. “I will not lie to you. Your vessel will be destroyed. This was, as you know, likely in any event, but now it is certain. Your records will survive and will bring greater glory to the colloquy and, indeed, to all the Izzet.”

  “I never expected to go any other way, my lord,” Kaluzax said. He was surprised to find that his heart did not sink with the realization he truly was doomed—indeed, he felt more exhilarated than ever. Cocky. “I will not fail you. ‘Power is knowledge, and knowledge is costly.’ Your words, my lord, and I hope to honor them. And you.”

  “Die trying, Observer,” his lord replied. “And farewell.”

  Kaluzax’s heart swelled with pride.

  Another loud thump sounded at the rear of the vessel, and for a moment Kaluzax thought the Gruul had returned. Another set of bells told him that no, it wasn’t Gruul, but two of the five remaining flame-pods exploding almost simultaneously. He twisted another set of knobs to force the pyromanic flow into the belly-bursters as Peripatetic Eye of Niv-Mizzet 9477 steadily lost more and more altitude. The auxiliary thrust would be enough to keep him in the air and would help relieve the rising pyromanic pressure, but for how long?

  The proximity warning cut through the din as easily as the magelord’s voice with a single, clear whistle that rose in pitch until it disappeared beyond the upper realms of even goblin hearing. Kaluzax pulled out a cluster of metal tubes beneath the control panel with his bare hands and tossed them on either side of his chair to cut the alarms off completely. He ignored the burns and cuts, but wiped the blood from his palms before taking the control sticks again.

  At least the bookmakers would not be able to come looking for him after this was over. Observer Kaluzax’s luck had taken a different form today. It had gotten him to the experiment right on time. His ’sphere was in flames, and he was now certain he would not live out the day, let alone the next hour or perhaps even the next few minutes, but he’d kept his appointment.

  Fighting nausea, burning pain, and the steering levers, he managed to slow the ball-shaped craft’s meteoric descent before he deployed the witness orbs. Six of them popped into being around the vessel and immediately moved into their predetermined viewing angles. The orbs were intended to supply telemetry, backup data, and clear visuals not obscured by invizomizzium refraction and of course recorded it all for posterity. Usually, Observer Kaluzax would return with the bulk of the data himself. But if an observosphere did not survive a given experiment, the witness orbs ensured the magelord lost nothing more important than a goblin and the data stored in the vessel’s memory.

  Inside the ’sphere, anything not made of mizzium began to cook. The leather straps holding Kaluzax into the seat ignited briefly and were soon mere ashes dusting his fireproof salamander-skin flight suit. He could feel his ears and the back of his head blistering, every nerve screaming that he should be, well, screaming.

  Kaluzax did not scream. Instead he focused on a singular proverb that seemed quite appropriate: luck was a fickle mistress, and didn’t like to be pushed.

  With both hands, the observer grabbed the remaining cutoff cables dangling overhead and pulled downward. The pods sputtered and fell silent. Another dial told him he had maybe four minutes before the belly-bursters gave out and the Peripatetic Eye of Niv-Mizzet 9477 dropped like a mizzium egg. Fortunately for Observer Kaluzax—whose only concern now was to finish his life the way he’d lived it—and even more fortunately for Hauc and his colloquy theorists, the experiment took place in a little more than two.

  The goblin wiped sweat from his eyes with a blistered hand and saw it come away bloody, his leathery skin cracking. He was glad the scryers couldn’t see inside the mizzium observosphere. His colleagues didn’t need to see him slowly burst open like a roast dromad. Kaluzax forced the pain into another part of his brain—which didn’t help as much as it normally would have since his entire head was also in physical agony, and there was no place to shunt that—and turned the observosphere to face the zero point of the experiment. He hit the delayed return switch that would automatically pull the orbs inside the ’sphere one minute after the effect was triggered, an automatic reflex that he knew was pointless since there would probably be nothing to return to at that time.

  His last task completed, Kaluzax began to giggle uncontrollably for no discernible reason, and one part of his simmering mind realized that another part was seeping through his right ear, unable to take the pressure. The randomly firing, half-fried synapses in the goblin’s brain shifted from laughing to singing for the remaining minute, an old metallurgical ballad he’d learned in childhood. He sang “drop the baby on the anvil” just as his master’s experiment began, and so those were his last words.

  The experiment was powerful, but not flashy. In mere moments, a tiny point of light in the sky drew in and devoured every living thing in the Utvara province.

  In the time it took to blink, the zero point once again had no depth, width, or height, though its mass had increased considerably. The witness orbs finally recorded the observosphere as it appeared to stretch into infinity, then it was gone. The stretching was all too literal for Observer Kaluzax’s body to take, and his life ended with more rending and less immolation than he had ever expected.

  The goblin’s fleeing spirit snagged on an event horizon. It wasn’t long before the fragments of identity and memory coalesced once more into a mind, a mind with a distinct feeling of an elusive identity called Kaluzax. The mind became preoccupied with one question:

  Why am I still in this observosphere?
/>   * * * * *

  Chief Observer Vazozav tugged at a dangling gold chain he had wrapped absentmindedly around his left ear. His right ear was mostly gone. His excellent eyes, as young as they’d ever been, peered out between centenarian lids at the scrying pool that filled most of the floor space at Dragonfire Base. It displayed in seven dimensions a colorful, accurate map of the Utvara area and the sky above it. The chief observer’s boss and magelord had ordered Dragonfire to get close enough to gain visual images from Observer 9477’s collection orbs, which were unliving and therefore immune to the mana-compression singularity bomb’s effects.

  The seven-dimensional image showed a sort of crease in the sky five miles above a now-empty ghost town.

  No, that wasn’t accurate, Vazozav thought. This wasn’t a ghost town—there were no ghosts at all. The scrying pool map was certainly on a scale large enough to display individual specters and phantoms that should have remained. Vazozav had seen the Gruul with his own eyes before the loss of Kaluzax’s ’sphere, they were far too close to have survived. Even at the standard and measurable average rate of ectoplasmic dissipation, ghosts—by definition not living things—should have been all over the place. Yet Gruul spirits were nowhere to be seen.

  Seconds passed, and the crease appeared to fold in on itself, then fracture, finally settling into a shape that his eyes had trouble comprehending. Vazozav could only see it by looking for what wasn’t there—blue sky or a cloud of any kind. It was just—a fractal nothing.

  Chief Observer Vazozav let another ten seconds pass and finally decided it was his place to speak first. And if Hauc struck him down in anger, it would only be right.

  “My lord,” Vazozav turned to the scarlet-skinned human who stood at his shoulder. He drove his claw tips into his palm to force himself to meet Zomaj Hauc’s fiery gaze, “The graviticular effect was a masterful success.”