“I didn’t mean him. Lots of people work in his office. I want to close all channels that information could leak from.”
The empath reluctantly nodded, admitting that he was right, and immediately livened up: “Do you think that our mage has a support group?”
“Rather, a nonsupport group,” Mr. Satal grimaced. “Talks of the Artisans started again in some circles, meaning there will be sacrifices. But I am not Larkes! I’ll be sentimental with no one. If they stick out, they will pay dearly for that!”
Ms. Kevinahari conciliatorily shook her head: “The rrebirth of the sect requires a certain incubation period, if there is still anybody left. Or do you think the incident at the estate was their work?”
“You mean Grokk?” the coordinator raised eyebrow. “Nonsense! The old knucklehead ran in the ghouls’ jaws to cover up his wrongdoing. When he was in charge, seven (that we know about) were lost in that place. He had to prove to everybody that the danger was exaggerated.”
His brief analysis perfectly complemented the image of a fattened and brazen dark magician, who was introduced to Ms. Kevinahari as the chief of Redstone County’s Division for the Liquidation of Supernatural Phenomena.
“Perhaps I should try to establish connections with the local white,” the empath decided. “Also, I need information about Redstone’s artisans, if they were here.”
“Tell my secretary to prepare a request; I’ll sign it…” the coordinator suddenly faltered. “There is one more thing, Ms. Kevinahari…”
“Rona…Rona, for short,” the empath smiled.
“Oh?… Thanks! Then… I am just Dan.”
Rona Kevinahari smiled at him and left the senior regional coordinator’s office that was temporarily stationed in the Redstone division of NZAMIPS.
That day they took an important step forward: the move to informal communication meant that Satal no longer perceived her as a suspicious spy. Trust has been established! Perhaps the higher-ups weren’t mistaken on the new coordinator, for a change. The dark could control himself, he was easily appeased, he was ready to adapt to teamwork, and his excessive aggressiveness in the current situation was more of a bonus than a disadvantage. She needed to reflect this in her report!
In the hallway, Ms. Kevinahari exchanged bows with Captain Baer, noting that the chief of Redstone’s NZAMIPS looked particularly melancholic (no doubt he was hiding something), and hurried to the door—she was going to visit the university and give two review lectures today.
Locomotive followed the empath with an indifferent glance. When he was told that the regional coordinator would occupy his office, the captain could not believe his ears at first. Was the complex of buildings, taken away from Grokk’s “cleaners”, too small for the coordinator? It had so much room—you could let a rail line run through. Alas! The captain had to reshuffle and condense his staff in a smaller space, because the senior coordinator wanted to take over Baer’s office, and the captain was forced to move to the former accounting room. In a sense, the idea proved not to be so bad: women-bookkeepers started aggressively courting the single man, and some of them were such beauties that o-ho-ho! But losing his office pained Baer anyway!
On the other hand, the authorization of documents happened at a phenomenal rate now, as in the approval of increased funding for intelligence work at the university. Locomotive was not sure if the coordinator took his arguments seriously, but the logic was compelling, and Satal did not risk arguing about it. It was easier for him just to give the money.
The unlicensed dark mage was not found yet. The captain agreed that such a successful otherworldly liquidator was unlikely to be a novice. Unlikely, but not totally improbable. First, according to the assurance of his own experts, the unknown magician used a single spell, the Fire Seal, in all cases. It would be hard to find a simpler curse, but what a great effect he had achieved. Second, all of Redstone’s magicians minimally suiting the description of the Knight had already been checked. Oh, and third, what mage in his right mind, apart from a student, would agree to stake his life for money?
“A novice,” the captain confidentially whispered to the coordinator.
“A student?” the coordinator winced with displeasure, trying to dodge off the bulky body of Locomotive. “With such skills? Three ghouls simultaneously, practically with his bare hands, improvising as easily as scratching his foot’s heel! It’s a shame to admit, but I don’t know any combat mage so powerful.”
“A gifted student!” Locomotive hung over the dark mage as a big warm cloud.
And Mr. Satal surrendered: “Okay. Talk to the faculty members whether they have a young genius in mind.”
“A genius with money.”
“Right. If we don’t catch him red-handed, then at least we will watch him. We’ll need to recruit this kid.”
To recruit! First, they needed to find him. The intuition of the experienced police operative hinted that they would have a good run to accomplish the task. Captain Baer wandered around the office with a businesslike appearance and without a specific purpose, but not because of thoughts about the Dark Knight. He was not a magician (and did not possess any Source), but years of service and life woes taught him to perceive approaching troubles, even when the others found only occasion for fun. Now Locomotive was haunted by a feeling that the situation had acquired an irregular shape.
Thinking logically, events in the county were supposed to undermine the reputation of NZAMIPS and dark mages in one fell swoop. All preconditions for disaster were present: a dismissed team of “cleaners” headed by the fat idiot, long-time ignorance by the central office (perhaps too long) of the activities of the Redstone division, the novice coordinator, not knowing yet how to put two and two together, and the mass media—always waiting for a scandal. The situation bore distinct traces of serious planning, and here an adventurous unlicensed mage emerged on the scene, walked over some sore spots, fixed them in passing, and transformed a minus into a plus. And the worst was that the former coordinator Larkes definitely played some role in this. Captain Baer felt the upcoming troubles in his gut, though he could not rule out the possibility that it was all about him changing the room.
Chapter 13
I never had a chance to work in a team, except for the expedition to the King’s Island. The future belongs to large research institutions and corporations; the time when alchemists worked alone in garages has forever gone (my motorcycle is a different story). Therefore, I had to learn how to get along with co-workers or become so brilliant that I would be forgiven for anything.
Overwhelmed by those thoughts, I bought a penny-worth pamphlet titled The Business Etiquette from a hawker’s tray, read it, and realized that it was written by a well-wisher whose intent was to help prostitutes reach the level of a secretary. A more useless idea was to ask Quarters’ advice. No, he would have answered, but god forbid I follow his recommendation!
It would have been easier if the employer had interviewed me; we would have looked at each other and understood who was worth what. But Ron conveyed that Mr. Polak preferred to test me in action. Did he think, ‘Every dark is the same?’ Or was it our patent that impressed him? On the other hand, they offered so little money during the probation period that it wouldn’t matter who was at the drawing board; even with a monkey they would not lose much.
The situation was kind of confusing to me. I could have guessed then what was the matter, but, as a naive student, I wasn’t versed in business.
And then the day came: the first day of my grown-up life.
I went to work in a business suit (in my opinion, I had to be dressed up), though I didn’t put a tie on; I was fed up with neckties. The bureau occupied the third floor of a cheap office building. A dusty sign on the door declared “BioKin”. That name did not shout association with alchemy. Behind the doors there was a huge hall. Two drawing boards, pushed into the far corner, and desks with rolls of drawing paper on top of neighboring thick folders hinted at the creative process that was taking place
there. A boy in uniform and two girls (I immediately recalled The Business Etiquette) were having coffee at the only unloaded desk. One of the two was red-haired and giggling cutely; the other, a searing brunette, flashed her astounding blue eyes from under long bangs. Not without regret I interrupted their fun: “Where can I find Mr. Polak?”
The redhead pointed her finger at the distal end of the hall, where the deposits of folders and drawings were particularly high. I confess, I did not notice a man behind them. He did not see or hear me, but not because he was busy with work: Mr. Polak was sweetly napping with his head on a pillow of folders and his legs stretched into the aisle.
“Hello!” I called gently.
He started, looking around with bleary eyes. I waited patiently until his face took on a meaningful expression.
“You booked an appointment with me at three p.m.”
“Is that so? Oh… of course! Mr. Tangor?”
I suspected this guy wouldn’t be able to pronounce the word “mister” twice in a row. Not because he woke up two seconds ago. Bewildered, I looked at the man who was steering the whole company: he wore a plaid farmer shirt and overalls, like a handyman from a farmyard. (If not for the quality of the fabric, I would have thought that he had just come out of there). On top of it all, a brilliant earring gleamed in his ear.
And then the revelation hit me that my first boss was a classic, double-dyed representative of the nerds. Shit!
“You can call me Thomas for short.”
He smiled radiantly and introduced himself: “Geoff. Would you like coffee?”
“Thanks…”
“Girls, girls! Coffee!”
I tried to avoid stimulants in the afternoon, but it was impossible to get Geoff off of the idea. The courier quietly disappeared; the secretaries stopped giggling and started intently rattling the dishes.
“By the way, you don’t have to dress up. Our company has adopted a casual style,” he pulled a strap off of his overalls.
Okay, he might think of me as a hick, but I would not allow myself to wear such junk on the streets, except maybe to use as work clothes on the job. But they could make me look like I had an attitude, not to mention that there were no lockers or places for a clothes change.
I forced a smile, feverishly looking for a way to turn his offer down.
“I understand, Geoff,” I looked down, pulling on the lapel of my jacket. “But this is a gift from my Mommy!”
Knockout! He could not dispute that argument and tried to hide his embarrassment under a business-like tone: “Do you already know what our company develops?” That was Mr. Polak’s first question.
“Equipment for sewage factories?” I ventured to suggest.
“Not only that, not only that!” he jumped up in indignation. “The application of modified micro-organisms will open up a new era in the progress of civilization!”
And Mr. Polak poured down on me streams of strategic information about market conditions and future developments in this field.
I desperately tried to extract the nitty-gritty about the firm and my future responsibilities from the torrent of words. Why was he telling me all that stuff? I came here to earn, not to donate money!
“Do you understand now?” he smiled encouragingly, sipping his coffee.
“I do,” I nodded stupidly. “But at this moment you are working on a gas generator.”
“Yes,” he did not deny the obvious.
I struggled with a desire to run away without explanation—absolutely everything annoyed me about the place. And I wanted to have a heart-to-heart with Quarters…
We began fine-tuning my work schedule: it was not supposed to interfere with my studies. Polak was surprised to learn that my classes ended at midnight twice a week.
“What program are you taking at the university?”
“Alchemy and the art of dark magic.”
“Uh…”
I waited patiently—which one of my skills would he question? I swear I was ready to cast the Odo Aurum spell on the spot!
“Have you been engaged in research and development previously?” Mr. Polak asked cautiously.
In my opinion, the boss began catching on to whom he was speaking.
“Yes,” I nodded, “I have a patent in the engineering field.”
“Right, they told me…”
’Why did you ask then?’
He clapped his hands: “Well, let’s try to get down to business.”
“Let’s try” was an apropos phrase in this context.
Polak gave me a sketch made by hand, and ordered to transfer it to a Whatman paper. Then he left, probably going back to nap in some other place. First of all, I dragged one of the drawing boards to the window, mercilessly hitting a desk cluttered with pots of violets. The secretaries, pointedly clanking their heels, moved the pots to another windowsill.
For two hours I transferred the sketch in fine lines and then went to a familiar pub to have a showdown with Quarters. That malicious serpent! To draw his friend into this…
“Ron, who did you send me to, you bastard?!”
A guilty expression appeared on Quarters’ face: “Tom, I’ve got a cousin working there, and she is crazy about Polak. Be a sport and give them a hand!”
“Redhead or brunette?”
“She usually wears curls. Listen, they’ve been breaking their backs for two years with zero result. My uncle will fire them soon.”
“What do I have to do with that? I would have to spend a year just to delve into the topic! What could I do that they haven’t done already?”
Quarters rolled his eyes: “Had they done anything, the situation would have been different! Have you met Johan?”
I tensed up: “What, is he worse than…?”
“Yes, he is—I don’t have the words! My uncle had hired stars of academic science for the firm. Think for yourself: who can get carried away by breeding shitty mold, except for a white mage? They do breed mold there! But they haven’t been able to make a working device. Polak chatters, Johan writes articles, and an alchemist of theirs, Carl, raises a fuss: ‘Give me ideas!’ Tom, do you remember how you excelled at the seminars? Do the same with them—make them run!”
“How can I excel in white magic? I am an alchemist! Those two fields have almost no connection.”
“Well, bring this thought up to them. Tom, I’ll pay you from my own pocket!”
“Two hundred.”
“Agreed.”
“Per month.”
“Agreed!”
I realized that I made a bad bargain. As a bonus, I managed to shake out of Quarters his understanding of the problem. Ron knew nothing and didn’t care to learn about the improved microorganisms. The company was formed two years ago in the wake of new developments, promising, according to experts, fantastic profits. The work was funded by Ron’s uncle who owned a sewage disposal factory and was an extremely pragmatic and meticulous guy. Well-versed in profit generation, he knew little about employing academic nerds. How he managed to maintain patience for two years was incomprehensible, but Quarters was aware that BioKin had ignominiously failed tests more than once. If I knew then what the failed tests meant…
Well, becoming a killjoy for the staff was not complicated, and no one would cope with the task better than a dark magician. It remained unclear whether the firm’s goal was feasible at all; people from the academy like to work on the undoable! I feared the work would be such that I wouldn’t want to put it in my resume, but two hundred crowns from Quarters were guaranteed to me anyway.
Better to take the money up front…
* * *
Captain Baer was busy creating a network of agents, a task that would take years, not months, and certainly not days. Locomotive believed that he was the only one in the office engaged in real work.
The whole of Redstone’s NZAMIPS searched for the mysterious sorcerer by the sweat of their brows. For heaven’s sake, who did he do harm to? The chief of the division saw the heart of
the problem and pondered: if a mean trick on the “cleaners” and the capitol’s raid on the regional NZAMIPS were cover-up operations, what would be the next move of the enemies? What would have to occur after the media stirred up the townsfolk with chilling stories of the supernatural frenzy in the neighborhood? Half of NZAMIPS higher-ups would immediately lose their jobs, but that would happen on the surface. Following the onset of panic, a muddy wave of forgotten customs and strange superstitions—superstitions that the state had been eradicating since the time of the Inquisition—would flow from the cracks. And somebody hoped to ride that wave.
Mysticism! The word that decent people do not say. An echo of primitive times, when people were ruled by Fear with a capital “F”, great and comprehensive Fear, Fear consisting of many small fears: fear of the elements, crop failures, animals and neighbors, and most importantly, fear of creatures from the other world. A multitude of false gods awaited unwary minds on the back streets of memory, captivating them by the beauty of rituals and enticing by promises of love; but, whatever their adherents alleged, they brought only more fear into the world. It didn’t matter what people asked of ancient magic; they could get what they wanted just by chance, if they were fortunate, but the beggars always paid for the asking. It seemed that by now people had become more reasonable and forgotten their silly belief in fairy tales. But logical magic was inaccessible to all and was not omnipotent, and, therefore, again and again under different pretexts people returned to a naive belief in miracles.
That is, the belief is naive in the beginning. Captain Baer caught one such wave that coincided with the abolition of the Inquisition: under sweet moans about love and goodness, latter-day priests reveled in the power, demanded offerings, and then dragon tears, unbridled orgies and human sacrifices took their turn. The troops hesitated to enter the city, whose residents declared the foundation of Heaven on Earth; a couple months later, the same troops were engaged in the removal of forty thousand corpses, fighting off the few surviving monsters (who, typically, ate only human flesh). The ruins of Nintark remained inhabitable…
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