Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  Metaphor time! Well, simile time.

  My firmaments are like magnifying glasses. They focus magical power into achieving an effect the same way a magnifying glass focuses light to start a fire. The fundamental firmament, however, is like an electric light. It draws in the power of chaos to achieve effects the same way an old-fashioned filament light bulb uses electricity to create light. The magnifying glass may use the light thus produced to start a fire—assuming a sufficiently bright light bulb—but the magnifying glass can’t use the electricity itself.

  I should have paid more attention to the mathematics of chaos.

  While I was working on my bench model of a firmament generator, Diogenes rang my phone.

  “Unholy fiend of darkness speaking.”

  “Professor, there is a call for you from Ted, of the Numbskull family.”

  “Ah. Is this about the Templars?”

  “In part, Professor. He also wishes to discuss terms of trade.”

  “Any hints he’s still planning a Mango Diablo of dynamite and kerosene for me?”

  “None of which I am aware.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll call him back when I have a minute.”

  “I also have three items of interest, Professor.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “In your locale, I have noted a discrepancy. News reports regarding the German attack on the Firth of Forth, Scotland, are on schedule. However, descriptions of German attack aircraft seem to indicate jet propulsion, rather than piston-engine aircraft.”

  “Get me a drone,” I snapped. “Something stealthy, long-term, and equipped for reconnaissance. I want to turn it loose and let it spy on the Germans. I want to know exactly how far ahead they are of the technological schedule. I don’t want to find out I’m in one of the alternate timelines where Hitler gets atomic weapons!”

  “Several drones will be required for adequate—”

  “Then send several!”

  “Yes, Professor. Shall I release them from the cargo point, or do you wish to take delivery through the shift-booth in the manor, one at a time?”

  “Launch them as quickly as is practical without being noticed.”

  “Cargo point it is,” Diogenes agreed.

  “And answer me this: How could the German Luftwaffe have jet aircraft already?”

  “Every world has variances from the default, Professor. Relatively minor alterations can, potentially, have far-reaching effects. From the news radio broadcasts, I conjecture the bombers in the raid were typical, propeller-driven aircraft. It is therefore likely the jet fighters are early production models.”

  “So, they just recently developed a working jet engine and built a plane around it?”

  “The probability is extremely high. In the default history, the first practical turbojet flew well before the invasion of Poland, but production was delayed due to secrecy issues. Several alternate Earth-analogues have jet aircraft in the Luftwaffe during the war.”

  “How many of those have the Germans winning?”

  “Approximately half. The jet aircraft consistently add to the German capabilities across all such alternate timelines. However, in every case where the Allies obtain fission weapons and the Axis powers do not, the character of the war radically changes.”

  “Well… I’m not overjoyed about it. I may want to shoot some down.”

  “Speed-of-light weapons will not be degraded by the nature of their propulsion, Professor.”

  “Good point. All right. What else?”

  “There is a visitor from New Buena Vista.”

  “I don’t know that world.”

  “The site of New Buena Vista,” Diogenes corrected, “is here in Apocalyptica. The refugees call it New Cleveland. He has come, apparently on foot, to Denver.”

  “If that’s what they call it, note it. They have a right to name their own cities.”

  “Noted, Professor.”

  “How did he know enough to find Denver? The road only connects the other settlements.”

  “Only the paved road, Professor. I presume he observed flight paths of aerial cargo transports and followed the trails of my autonomous ground vehicles. They do cross some of the roads between settlements, Professor. If people choose to follow them, eventually all roads lead to Cybertron.”

  “Fair point, but Mary doesn’t like it when we call it Cybertron.”

  “All roads lead to Denver?”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

  “All roads lead to Home?”

  “That might work,” I allowed. “Did he say what he wants?”

  “In summary, to speak to the man who brought him to this world. He seems to be unable to speak succinctly.”

  “Okay. Treat him like a guest. I’ll get to him. What’s the other thing? You said there were three.”

  “I have a large orichalcum form awaiting occupation.”

  I shut down the Firmament experiment and popped through the shift-booth.

  Apocalyptica, Wednesday, September 23rd, Year 11

  I was lucky. The sun was already down when I arrived. I wasn’t thinking about it, though. I was too focused on Bronze to worry about it.

  I hurried down the hall, stepped through the shift-booth to Denver, and Diogenes met me with a robot vehicle resembling a cross between a go-kart and a dune buggy. I climbed in and we skittered away, heading for the foundry. Tires squealed as it braked hard, stopping just outside the shipping door.

  Diogenes outdid my wildest expectations. The statue stood before an open cage of machinery—Diogenes’ version of either an industrial three-dee printer or a framework for robotic plasma cutters, I don’t know. However he did the molding and sculpting, he did it perfectly. Aside from a somewhat more yellowish, brassy color, it was an exact replica of Bronze, from the nostrils to the mane, from the fetlocks to the tail. It was as huge as I remembered, seven feet tall at the shoulder, and felt exactly the right size. He even included the carved saddle and other accoutrements.

  It was a lifeless, soulless piece of polished metal. It was like looking at a corpse. No, it was like looking at an empty body. It was unsettling, even a bit unnerving.

  Bronze, still possessing the Black, waited patiently for me to finish my examination. She nodded as I approached, knowing I’d want to see this. I finished my inspection, hugged her neck, scratched under her chin.

  “Ready to get back to normal?”

  She nodded. Flesh and blood—even cyborg-enhanced flesh and blood—was nice, but it was still meat. It wasn’t a bad thing, but it would take a long time to get used to. All the breathing, the heartbeat, the gurgling digestion…

  “I get it. I understand completely. I have many of the same gripes during the day.”

  Of course I did. She hadn’t considered it.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I advised. “Go ahead.” I stepped back to watch.

  As with the other changes of body, I could see and feel her as she gathered herself and leaped from one body to the other. There was a visible discharge, like a bolt of lightning—not an arc from an electrical coil, but a sky-generated river of light. A bolt of lightning, bluish-green and bright enough to blind. Her spirit visibly moved from the Black and into the orichalcum statue with a clap of thunder and the smell of burned meat.

  The Black—what was left of it—collapsed in a smoking heap, whirring and sparking and twitching. A robot sprayed it with a fire extinguisher to put out the burning hair.

  Important note. When she steps out of something, whatever it is, it’s not going to enjoy the experience.

  The statue held still for several moments while Bronze settled into it. The head turned slowly, first one way, then the other. The solid mane rippled slightly, shivering into individual strands of wire. A wave of movement worked its way slowly down the tail, subdividing it. One hoof rose, settled again. Then another hoof. A third, a fourth… Her head rose, extended high, then forward, then reached down. She flicked her tail, hard, making it ring off o
ne flank, then the other. She opened her mouth, sucked in air…

  A plume of fire bellowed from her open mouth, deep red at first, brightening to orange, then yellow. Her eyeballs formed a molten film as they became independent orbs, moving in their sockets, looking around. Her mane stood up and rippled like hair underwater, spreading in a cloud of gleaming strands. A wave of heat baked off her, making the air around and above her wave and shimmer. A flicker of movement traveled from her nose, down the length of her body to her hooves and tail, echoed back again to her nose. Solid metal shifted, flowed, changed. The slick, polished surface of her hide softened, sprouting thin strands of horsehair. The stylized forms of the statue took on the details of a living, breathing horse.

  Bronze chuffed a cloud of superheated air and shook her mane, ringing it like a fistful of wind-chimes. She twitched an ear at me and whinnied, pawing at the ground, scraping up concrete with a screaming, metallic sound amid clouds of blue-green sparks.

  “Diogenes?”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “I do not have words with which to thank you.”

  “You do not need to,” he told me.

  “Oh, yes. I do. I most definitely do. I simply don’t know how.”

  “May I suggest you do so by going for a ride?”

  I sprang into the air, landing in the saddle. The saddle was stove-hot; I didn’t care. The hot wires of her mane grasped my hands even as I grasped them, like fingers intertwining. They were hot enough to scorch, even crisp some of my skin. I didn’t care about that, either.

  We ran.

  We ran like wind howling through a narrow pass. We ran like falling stars, like fire across the sky. We ran like a comet, trailing light and smoke instead of ice. We were as hot and bright as dawn and joy. I felt the fat around my lazy, wounded spirit catch fire and burn away, leaving something else. Something hard and lean and brilliantly alive again. We ran beyond the scars of sorrow, beyond the borders of grief and loss. We outran pain until it died in our dust.

  Bronze trotted up the road to Denver, high-stepping, hooves ringing, and Diogenes met us with a flying drone.

  “Welcome back, Professor and Bronze. Is there anything requiring correction in the prototype statue?”

  Bronze snorted and flicked an ear dismissively.

  “No,” I agreed, “there’s nothing. It’s perfect, Diogenes, and thank you again.”

  “It is my function to assist you, Professor. No thanks are necessary.”

  “Accept my inadequate thanks in a gracious manner, please.”

  “Yes, Professor. You are very welcome. It was my pleasure. I am always overjoyed beyond measure to be of any assistance whatsoever. My goal in life is to fulfill—”

  “Graciously,” I repeated. “Don’t overdo it.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Bronze tossed her head and brushed the drone with her nose. It wobbled a bit and recovered.

  “You are also welcome, Bronze.”

  We trotted on into Denver. The drone flew along with us, keeping pace on my left.

  “Where’s our guest?”

  “He is being treated for exposure at the medical building.”

  Bronze trotted happily in that direction.

  “How are the Bronze-sized stalls coming along?”

  “Construction is completed and they are ready for your attention.”

  “Good work. We’ll also need a media center for her when she’s not out and about. Build and install one of my new field containment units to keep the magical environment charged for her, please.”

  “I am fabricating the physical structures now,” Diogenes reported.

  “By the way, I’m going to want some ceramic disks, probably two sets—a set of five and a set of nine. Magical significance to those numbers. They’ll need some glyph-work, but I’ll draw those for you.”

  “Of course, Professor.”

  “And be sure to upgrade your primary core area with the new containment circuitry, too.”

  “You already gave me the instruction to upgrade my primary cluster as an ongoing task, Professor.”

  “Did I? How forethoughtful of me. I also want a higher priority on electromagical transformer production. Our bottleneck is electrical production, yes?”

  “Yes. The unexpected demands of a space program in conjunction with magical transportation have not yet been accommodated.”

  “Start liquidating our assets in Flintridge. I’ve made a decision. We’re going to mark it off as a resource point. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Get whatever we can from it, but pull our interests out of there.”

  “Yes, Professor. However, I must point out there is limited computer capability in Flintridge. With my new connections, I can use the telephone exchange in the Cosmo hotel to place calls, but I am unable to meet with human beings or sign documents.”

  “I don’t see why. You’ve got clone tanks and brain implant technology. Clone a human body, replace as much of the brain as necessary with control implants, and pilot it like a robot. Take enough brain out of the clone, we might even give it its own micro-gate for communications.”

  “I am unaware of any world where such procedures are public knowledge,” Diogenes reported.

  “You’ve done similar things with the Blacks,” I countered. “Work on it.”

  “Research and experimentation program running, Professor.”

  “What’s the word on Ted and the Numbskulls?”

  “In communication with them as your personal secretary, I have measurements for five people. I have already produced the requisite ballistic fiber underwear in anticipation. They request an exchange in person, however.”

  “Oh, do they?” I asked. Bronze huffed a small burst of fire. “It still sounds like they want to give me a napalm bath. Did they say where they wanted to meet?”

  “Ted suggested you should pick a place.”

  “Did he mention how many people would be at the meeting?”

  “He did not specify.”

  “Hmm. All right. Call him back, tell him to get my stuff together, and to be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. And get Mary on the phone, please.”

  I dismounted at the cloning center. Since Bronze now weighed considerably more than a Black, she elected to wait outside. Since I didn’t want to have to winch her out of the basement, I agreed it was a good idea. Ten tons or so of metal horse doesn’t do anything good to the floor.

  Seated in an office environment, a tanker robot poured a constant trickle of blood into one shoe. My skin soaked it up readily. Diogenes placed a call to Mary while I drew symbols for the ceramic disks. My idea was to use them around the perimeter of the manor estate. One set would act as a containment shield to keep in magical energies. The other set would define the area of a large power-conversion spell to energize the interior. The whole estate might be a trifle cooler than the rest of the region, but it would be considerably more magical. Trixie would love it.

  The phone connected.

  “Mary?”

  “Yep! How’s the Dark Lord tonight?”

  “If I get any better, I’ll have to ascend to godhood again. I just called to ask how you were and if there was anything I could do to help.”

  “Now you mention it, maybe,” she admitted. “I want to kidnap Salvatore.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’m annoyed with him. I’ve checked around with the local vampire community. They and the hunters keep tabs on each other, you know.”

  “Sensible.”

  “I’ve confirmed Lorenzo is not the one getting all personal on us. He’s killing vampires in general, albeit indirectly, in the sense he supports it as a worthy cause. I’m certain Salvatore reports to Lorenzo in the crime-family business, by the way, if not the vampire-hunting business.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking some of the diamond smuggling profits made it into Lorenzo’s hands. We could be—or maybe we were—financing his attempt on us.”

  “Ir
ony isn’t my strong suit, but I think this qualifies.”

  “Lorenzo still isn’t after us personally, though. As far as anyone knows, killing vampires is his idea of a public service. They know he’s a money mover in the business, but they don’t go after him.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Don’t think I didn’t ask! Lorenzo is well-defended by people, location, position, and charms. The general consensus is if he goes down to fangs, it’ll make things worse. Local vampire rumor has it he’s got evidence ready to go out—maybe to the public, maybe just to people and organizations who might join the fight. The rumors are sketchy on the details. I suspect they may be propaganda spread by Lorenzo, himself, but I can’t prove anything one way or the other.”

  “Hmm. I suppose if convincing evidence wound up on the desks of various political, financial, and military leaders, it could have far-reaching consequences. And the Black King strikes me as a cautious, forward-thinking sort.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I’m a little worried, though, about you introducing the religious fanatics to the hunters. I don’t think the two groups talk to each other.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Nope. I’ve been asking vampires, remember?”

  “Point. But Salvatore is the one you want to kill, not Lorenzo, and Salvatore is working with the religious nuts.”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed. “Salvatore made this personal.”

  “He did?”

  “I’m down in Long Beach and I’m looking at the burned-out remains of our base of operations for this world.”

  “Say what?”

  “You let the religious nuts go, remember? They knew where we operated from. The warehouse with the cargo shifter and apartment is a smoking pile of rubble.”

  “Well, that puts a crimp in our plans.”

  “You sound disgusted.”

  “Yes. Deep down, I knew letting those morons go was a bad idea, but it seemed like a worthwhile way to earn goodwill with Ted and therefore save me the time and effort of replacing our things.”