Eric Brickston is barely seventy, owns a company that is fledging but already successful, and he has his whole life ahead of him.

Those three things comfort Eric a lot.

As an entrepreneur accountant, he runs his own successful advising company that manages millions of dacrats every day. Thousands of people and several major companies depend upon Intercore Accounting, Ltd, to nurture, defend, and grow their fortunes. Ultimately all of their money and livelihoods come back to rest on him, CEO and President.

And to think, all this is managed while keeping his staff small—another reason why he is both CEO and President. He hardly needs a large staff to keep up with the demands of his company when Pete Gabshaw, a high-school friend, long since created customer service programs to deal with all but the most difficult problems. Intercore promises real live service, and it delivers real life service—to those who really need it.

People never read the fine print. Besides, it isn't as if Pete would have managed to do anything with the program on his own. This way, they make a fine team; Pete handles the programs, and Eric handles everything else.

Secure in his importance and youth, Eric ignores the press of the crowd around him as less important individuals rush to complete their petty errands. He does, however, keep an eye out for pickpockets. The Planesmeld Terraces on the Central Prime Plane might be some of the most secure establishments in the multiverse, but the defences are tuned to detect known criminals and those with violent intentions, not small-time cutpurses.

"Planesmeld to Second Tere establishing at gate F-5 in one hour. Planesmeld to Fifth Ave establishing at gate A-12 in one hour. Planesmeld to Kel establishing at gate D-9 in forty-five minutes. Planesmeld to…" the dispassionate, mechanical voice of the announcer continues to boom out over the intercom, but Eric ceases to pay attention. The gate of his own destination—Fifth Ave—has been confirmed, and that's all he cares about. Careful to not muss his suit, Eric pickes up his pace, shoving his way through the throng of people in the huge atrium of the Dukesberg Terrace. After all, he still needs to get gate-clearance, and that's always a bitch.

Ten minutes later as he stands in the slowly-moving line to get into gate A-12, Eric sighs and wishes again that planesgates would work for private corporations. He would pay a premium for an individual planesgate's services at the moment.

As it is, I'm probably going to miss the damn meldwalk!

As if in response to the agitated thought, just behind him some baby starts bawling, and Eric's frown deepens. Gate-clearance always takes a while, but now the line has stopped moving entirely. This is ridiculous!

Probably, he gripes to himself , it's some young idiot trying to change tickets at the last minute, just like that woman last week when he'd been trying to get to Ninth Tere. Usually Eric wouldn't have let it bother him, but at the moment the full weight of importance is pressing down on him, replacing the usual elevating effect. He has to get to Second Tere; there's a vital conference there that he cannot afford to miss, even if the company advisors in charge of calling it could have given him more than a day's warning. But it involves Intercore Accounting's largest customers, Lawsigns Inc.—and the CEOs, for sake of appearances, have to be there.

It'd been a nightmare trying to get a gate-ticket on such short notice. He doesn't even want to think about attempting to arrange a makeup meld.

Too, if he misses the meeting due to a planesmeld, there's little chance that he'll even be able to pass along a message explaining why…unless he can catch the brief broadcast interval while the planes were melded, but that's near-impossible to do on your average cell-phone. Eric has never been that good with technology anyway—he's an accountant, damn it! That's what Pete was for!

Not for the first time, Eric grinds his teeth and clamps down his feelings of frustration at the Department of Planar Travel's strict policies. It is utterly disgusting that he, an important CEO, for crying out loud, has to wait in line with the masses—but planegates cannot be bribed to meld planes for individuals, and it is well-known that attempts to buy them off inevitably get the buyer thrown in jail for several years—with no hope of appeal. The DoPT is the Over-Advisory Government's pet department, and OAG backs its favoured child fully.

Just then, a gate-attendant standing near the front of the line—Eric has to crane his neck to see her—begins an announcement, her voice augmented to carry to all those waiting. "Ladies and gentlemen, due to unforeseen circumstances this gate has been forced to close." Groans arise from the crowd, along with some angry muttering, forcing her to up the volume of the augmentation. "A backup gate will be established in an hour and a half at gate B-3. We apologise for the inconvenience, and hope that—"

The woman's polite words are cut off as a thunderous boom shakes the complex, shattering the buzz of conversation and provoking several screams.

Then the security system of the Dukesberd Planesmeld Terrace wakes from its slumber.

Hundreds of magegates flare to life, powering the systems that simultaneously immobilize and safeguard everyone within ten miles of the Terrace. Bodies are paralyzed and minds put to sleep as all of the doors slam shut and automatically ward themselves, dividing the entire area into dozens of sealed off stasis cells. Reinforced aldacium plates slide to cover the windows and skylights while self-protecting lazers form individual cocoons around every animate and inanimate object in the Terrace. The first defences are established in an instant, and the area well-secured even before the klaxons begin to ring, alerting the sentient protectors of the Terrace to the fact that something has gone terribly wrong.

Eric's last thought before he gives way to the induced sleep is that he is definitely going to miss his meeting.