Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Partly, yes. I also want to work out a way for him to cast spells. He needs to know everything about magic for the day I finally figure out how to give him thaumaturgic circuits.”

  “With all that information, what spells has he come up with for you to try?”

  I blinked at her. She looked at me expectantly for several seconds.

  “Oh, you poor dear,” she said, softly. “Did you really not think of that?”

  “It never occurred to me.”

  “You have what is probably the most powerful computer complex ever put into private hands. You gave it every scrap of magical information you ever encountered and told it to download everything else it could find on its own. You had it correlate and collate and corroborate and whatever else, but you never asked it to plug the bits together and make new spells for you?”

  “I’ve never needed him to. I mean, I can make my own spells and they do perfectly well for my needs. And I enjoy inventing things on my own—”

  “Stop talking,” she said, holding up a hand. “I love you, but sometimes you’re a complete goof.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Get back to angels. You were talking about demons, devils, and angels, as well as the summoning and controlling thereof.”

  “Right. Uh… right. So, major demons, smart ones—devils, in this context—you don’t control those. You conjure them and bargain with them.” I thought for a moment. “The demons from beyond the Edge of the World can be summoned, told what to do, and sent off on their mission. But things like the Devourer… the best you can do is contain them. Then you can haggle. Forcing it into obedience is like… like… getting into a brawl over who does the dishes. You eventually pin your opponent and put him in a hammerlock until he agrees to do the dishes. Technically, yes, you do get the dishes washed. Most of the time, doing it yourself would be easier than getting into the fight. Compelling them isn’t the best way to get things done. Making a deal is usually the way to go, if you have to deal with them at all.”

  “Can they be trusted?” Mary pressed. “If you make a bargain, will they keep it?”

  “As far as I know. If for no other reason, it seems like a good idea to have such a reputation. I don’t do much summoning, mostly because I don’t trust Things to do as I want instead of as they’re told. I’m afraid they’ll act like lawyers and adhere to the letter of an agreement instead of the spirit.”

  “And you’re considering conjuring up an angel.”

  “Yep. I even have a specific name for one. A little research, some experimentation, and I should be able to do it.”

  “Assuming you survive the experiments.”

  “Well, yes, but I do assume that.”

  “Maybe I’m missing something. Do you really intend to be a vampire who summons angels? I mean, let’s think about this for two seconds. Vampire. Angels. This seems to be very similar to vampires and the Sun.”

  “Oh, heavens no! I’m not doing this at night. The radiance of a celestial being outside the flesh might count as sunlight or an unreasonable facsimile thereof. Remember how you didn’t like the radiance of the Lord of Light? Karvalen energy-state beings aren’t the same, but it’s a good cautionary indicator. No, I intend to do my spell work at night to lay down heavy foundations, then do my actual conjuring during the day, when I’m more human. These things seem to have some sort of strictures regarding humans, so I’m more likely to get away with it then.”

  “Huh.” She settled back in the seat, put an elbow on the door, and stared out the window to think. I shifted more comfortably in the driver’s seat and simply enjoyed the feeling.

  I’ve got Bronze.

  Yes, I want to know what happened and how. It’ll wait. Even if I never find out, I think I can live with it. It’s like coming home after forty years in the desert. It’s like surfacing from the ultimate blackness of the ocean depths, and I ought to know. It’s being cut into pieces and hunting for them, slowly reassembling yourself, and then finding all the rest of the pieces were assembling themselves to look for you.

  Yeah, I have some creepy metaphors. It’s not like that.

  I’m happy. Even if something gruesomely awful is about to happen—as I expect it will—I’m happy now.

  For the first time in a long time, I let myself enjoy the moment.

  Eventually, we had to turn on the headlights and slow down for traffic. Even in the wee hours of the morning, Los Angeles is not known for its abandoned streets. We also pulled over and put the rest of the money in the gas tank. Bronze is thirstier than I expected, but perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a low-magic world and I assume she needs energy from somewhere. That is, I assume thermodynamics is still a thing, even in magic. Maybe I shouldn’t.

  On the other hand, orichalcum is a good electrical conductor. If we use it in place of copper wire in the car’s alternator, would that be worthwhile? Or would it be easier to install a second unit dedicated to magical energy production? Things to think about…

  We stopped outside our transit building and I got out to roll up the warehouse door. I had to pick my own lock with tendrils—the schmucks took my keys, too. I raised the door, Bronze rolled in, and I pulled the door down behind me.

  The lights came on, but I didn’t do it. As I blinked in the brightness, half a dozen people pointed religious icons at us.

  Important safety tip. When deliriously happy, keep your wits about you. The drawback to Bronze constantly over-revving her engine is it’s hard to hear people breathing and the only thing I can smell is exhaust fumes.

  Mary was still in the car. She ducked. I raised a hand to shield my eyes. The overhead lights obviously came on for the humans’ benefit. The crosses, on the other hand, blazed with an incandescence akin to arc lights, visible only to vampire eyes.

  I seriously considered going out through the garage door. It’s composed of interlocking, horizontal strips of metal so it can roll up. They’re only sheet metal. I could practically run through it. But someone outside touched the door and ignited the cross recently painted on the inside of it. It forced me forward, up next to Bronze, away from the door. Leave it to professionals to block off every escape route.

  It’s just not fair.

  Someone started chanting in Latin and I felt an uncomfortably warm sensation as the crosses radiated even more heat, painful levels of it. I doubted it would do anything to the humans, Bronze, or the building, but we creatures of darkness are another story. I also doubted I could approach anyone surrounding us. The bright, hot light of the crosses was not only hot, but now felt like a physical force pressing against me.

  A couple of things from The Art of War sprang to mind. First—and I’m paraphrasing—don’t bother the enemy when he’s headed home. They get cranky. Second, if you surround someone, make sure they have a line of retreat. If they’re surrounded and about to die, they fight fiercely to live. On the other hand, if they have a way to run, they’ll try to take it.

  Well, they obviously didn’t know we still had a way to run.

  I activated the spell for the cargo shift. Everything in the room exchanged places with the Flintridge receiving station on Apocalyptica.

  Apocalyptica, Saturday, September 19th, Year 11

  Due to time differentials, the night I left wasn’t even half over. I departed Apocalyptica slightly after sunset. We returned only a few hours later, local time—less, for all practical purposes, since Denver is a couple of hours earlier than my East Coast departure. It wasn’t even midnight.

  The personal shift-booths are in the refurbished silo complex. The cargo-shifters are in Denver, where Diogenes has most of his manufacturing. We arrived in Flintridge’s landing space, although nobody seemed to notice but me. The rooms are as identical as possible, of course, to make the transposition of congruent spaces more efficient. The humans still held up crosses to repel the evil thing, but they didn’t see or feel the incandescence. As a result, they didn’t immediately react when the cross on the garage door va
nished.

  Technically, it was still there. It was still on the garage door—the one in Flintridge.

  I rolled up the blank door with a quick movement. Blue-green sparks danced from the edge of the rims to the floor as Bronze dropped into reverse. Hers tires squeaked a little on the smooth concrete, but the crawling lightning clawed at the floor, yanking her backward. She and Mary shot through the door amid a bellowing engine roar and wails of disappointment and anger from the hunters. I stepped out and slammed down the door down again.

  “Diogenes!”

  “Yes, Professor?” replied the nearest drone.

  “Get me something to subdue a bunch of humans!”

  “Right away, Professor.”

  Bronze’s engine growled. She was all for running them flat before taking a trip to a car wash.

  “Oh, no,” I told her, still holding down the door—we didn’t have a lock on this side of the shift. We never needed to lock the Apocalyptica doors before! Who would we need locks against? Clever giant ants?

  I made a mental note to correct that.

  “You’re not killing my interrogation subjects,” I continued. “You got the angelic Thing. I get the humans. Assuming there isn’t an angel in the bunch. It was hard to see beyond the blazing crosses.”

  Mary got out and came over to me. Someone on the inside organized the people and they all started lifting the door together. I weigh about five hundred pounds. Even with me standing on the exterior handle, they could lift the door. Mary added her hundred-odd pounds, but it didn’t help. So she did a sort of whirling, low to the ground, acrobatic sweeping kick under the edge of the door. There was a meaty thud, a scream, and their teamwork fell apart. The door came down, hard.

  Diogenes, meanwhile, retasked some robots to come help us. When the men inside sorted themselves out and heaved on the door again, there was a solid line of robots in front of it. Metal hands and graspers presented themselves. Arc welders, laser cutters, and other visually-impressive tools made everyone reevaluate their desire to go through the door.

  I would have reevaluated. Robots can be terrifying.

  All of his free-roaming robots also have anti-organic weapons. With humanoid natives, omnivorous elephants, giant ants, mutant monsters, ungrateful refugees, and other unpleasant beasties roaming the countryside, it was a policy I insisted on. Now it turned out to be useful in other ways.

  Most of the robots were equipped with masers—microwave-frequency lasers. These cause enormous amounts of damage to living tissue. Shoot a small animal and it pretty much explodes. Shoot a larger one and a piece of it explodes, leaving a bloody crater. But I told Diogenes to subdue, not kill, so they held their maser fire.

  I said most of the robots had masers. They’re most common. Sometimes, we need something else. For deterrence, rather than killing, we use sonic weapons.

  Sonic emitters are like loudspeakers or megaphones. They direct sound, but oh, such sound! It’s a combination of frequencies deliberately chosen to be painful, nauseating, disorienting, and, to some extent, damaging. I’m told they were designed for riot control and I have no doubts they control rioting humans the same way flamethrowers control rioting snowmen.

  Mary and I hurried away, fingers in our ears. Our ears weren’t in the line of fire, but ours are also more sensitive. On the other hand, we regenerate. Doesn’t mean it’s pleasant.

  While a robot on either end of the door held it open, the one sonic-equipped robot caused everyone within a hundred feet and in its forward arc to fall down, writhing and screaming and clutching at their heads. After ten seconds or so of shivering, convulsive agony, the sonic weapon cut off. Mary and I came back, went in, and delicately thumped people on the head to quiet them. It’s a Three Stooges form of pain management, but, applied with precision and care, it does work.

  As usual, the holy symbols were nothing but metal or wood once the wielder lost focus. They all wore rings of a magical variety—charmed in some way. The engraving gave the wearers a slight pearlescent aura, not a flame-like one. It was quite different in form from the ones on the vampire hunters who were transporting Mary. It didn’t completely prevent us from touching the people, but being close to them made us both feel queasy, almost nauseous. Our tendrils couldn’t touch them, either. It almost felt as though their personal auras were repelling magnets. Against vampires, it was the equivalent of a bulletproof vest. We could force the issue if we took the time, concentration, and effort, but it would be unpleasant in the extreme.

  I had Diogenes remove the charmed objects. Robots don’t care. Then we relocated our victims.

  Prisoners. Sorry. I meant prisoners.

  Since they were all damaged to one degree or another—bleeding ears or eyes, mostly, along with possible concussions and fractured skulls, but one broken ankle, too—we moved them to the elf-factory. The medical facility, I mean, where we do all the biotechnological stuff. Suitably stripped, strapped, and skewered, Diogenes lowered them into growth tanks to encourage a rapid recovery.

  “Got them sedated?” I asked, once I had them in their tanks and could sit down to observe. Mary chose to take the shift-booth back to the residence, claiming she wanted a change of clothes and her knives.

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Good. How long do we let them simmer?”

  “To cure them or to cook them?”

  “Cure them.”

  “Soft-tissue damage regenerates quickly. One day should be sufficient.”

  “Then, if we implant a radio tagging device under the breastbone, or somewhere relatively unnoticeable, the insertion wound would be gone before they wake up?”

  “Yes, Professor. Shall I tag your captives?”

  “Might be a good idea. I don’t know if they’re ever going to leave, to be honest. I’ll want to talk to them before I decide. If I do want to let them go, it’s always good to know where your agents of divine retribution are.”

  “Understood. Do you also want broken bones repaired?”

  “I’ll settle for putting them on the right track and then putting a plaster cast on.”

  “One day should be sufficient, Professor. Within twenty-four hours, nanite repairs can partly rejoin the broken bones, although a full recovery will require more time. Shall I prepare some period-appropriate plaster?”

  “Please do. Make sure it’s exceptionally itchy. Maybe add some fiberglass powder to the mix.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And, since humans may become more of a problem than previously, design and build some dedicated security robots. Equip them to subdue human beings and only kill if necessary.”

  “Building now. Shall I also refuel your vehicle? It appears to be attempting to get into a fuel storage facility.”

  “It’s Bronze. Give her anything she wants.”

  “Understood, Professor.”

  That’s one thing I like about Diogenes. If I tell him something, he simply goes with it. There’s none of this nonsense about, “Are you kidding? What do you mean? Are you serious?”

  Well… unless he suspects I’m kidding. I think he’s got a pretty good bead on whether or not I’m joking. It’s better than I can do. Maybe I should ask him how to tell.

  “And, while I’m thinking about it, how much orichalcum do we have on hand?”

  “Our present stores of reserve ingots weigh one hundred and twenty-one kilograms.”

  “Make more. A lot more. I want a solid statue of our highest-grade orichalcum.”

  “A horse, Professor?”

  “Yes. Bear in mind Bronze is higher on my priorities list than idiots on the Moon or elves screaming about the Sun. Assume she has priority, period. If there’s any doubt, ask.”

  “Yes, Professor. I am retasking a foundry even as we speak.”

  “You’re a good quantum computer core running a complex of personality algorithms. I appreciate it.”

  “Think nothing of it, unholy abomination of the human form. Do you wish to review your messages?”r />
  “Moon-men again?”

  “No, Professor. They have not resumed their hails.”

  “Okay. Who from?”

  “One from Tianna, one from T’yl, and one from Patricia.”

  “Patricia?” I asked, sitting up in interest. “What’s she have to say?”

  “Message follows. ‘Do you have magic for an evil stepfather?’ Message ends.”

  “Hmm. Are the other two emergencies?”

  “No, Professor.”

  “All right, I’ll be in Wardrobe. Get a Black ready.”

  I hurried outside, had a word with Bronze, and reintroduced her to Diogenes. They worked out where on the radio dial Diogenes could talk to her.

  I don’t know why she doesn’t just talk. As a car, she has speakers. She can repeat music with vocals. She can play the news if she feels like it. She doesn’t even need a real radio station. She just plays it back from memory, I think. Is it a right-brain, left-brain thing? She has all the feelings and stuff, while I have all the language? Add it to the list of things I don’t understand.

  I popped through the shift-booth to the residential area and encountered Mary in the hall. She looked much better in a partially-armored jumpsuit. I know she felt better. We walked together to Wardrobe.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Got a date with a stepchild.”

  “A what with a who?”

  “Patricia,” I told her. I pointed at the walls. “Before I get into that, why is the residence complex so bleak?”

  “Bleak? I suppose it is. It’s more of an industrial look, I think. Brushed concrete, some structural metal, that sort of thing. I like it.”

  “Yeah, but there are no paintings. No paint at all, really. The place is as cheery as a tomb.”

  “Sweetheart,” she said, taking my arm, “we’re vampires. It is a tomb.”

  “You’re not wrong. It just doesn’t seem like a home. It’s a lair.”

  “I did suggest we decorate the hallways, if you remember. You asked, ‘What for?’ and I dropped the subject.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Now I’m thinking this place could use some color to it.”