Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  Oh, and she loves commercial charcoal. She likes most forms of fuel oil, diesel, and kerosene, too. She also likes gasoline, gasohol, and alcohol, but they make her sneeze. I have no idea why. They’re lighter and vaporize more easily, so that’s probably part of it, but why would she need to sneeze at all?

  Of course, when a metal horse sneezes fire into a bucket of gasoline, you don’t ask why; you accept it and try to deal with it. I put out the barn fire without too much damage. Bronze was apologetic about that. She’s not drinking the lighter volatiles indoors again, though. I’m tempted to let her try breathing in propane or methane, but I think we’ll put that off until I get some fire extinguishers, no matter what Firebrand says.

  The root cellar, on the other hand, is a good place for storing things that don’t need to be out in the barn, nor in the house. I wrapped the bowling bag containing the Orb of Evil in several layers of trash bags and duct tape. I’m not sure if the thing is subject to mundane forms of damage, but I’ve decided I don’t want to find out. I also don’t want it anywhere it can watch what I’m doing.

  I don’t like that thing. I don’t trust it. There’s an evil inside it I know all too well, and I don’t want to take chances with it. Burying it isn’t a long-term solution—at least, burying it in anything short of an abandoned oil well—but it’ll do until I can find someplace really inconvenient to get to. Jupiter, maybe, or the Sun.

  The door to the root cellar is one of those heavy, reinforced things, as befits a tornado shelter door. I added six of those little, sliding bolts you sometimes see on the inside of a bathroom door. I have to use my telekinetic trick to pull them before I can open the door, which suits me. They’re light enough I can do that during the day, too. Since there’s no normal way to operate them from the outside, I feel confident no one is going to pick the lock.

  It’s not totally secure, of course. Nothing is. Could a thief break the door down? Sure. But sneak in? No. Besides, who breaks into a tornado shelter? It doesn’t look important. Even if someone does break in, all they’ll see is a damp, musty chamber with nothing in it. I buried the Orb of Awful under the floor and carefully replaced the boards. It looks exactly like a disused root cellar should.

  I also furnished the house, at least in minimalist fashion. I have a desk, a computer—I’m not comfortable doing everything on a wrist-mounted thing; I like my desktop terminal, thank you—a kitchen table, a couple of really sturdy chairs, and a chest of drawers. Along with some appliances—a washer and dryer, a fridge, an electronic teeth-cleaning gizmo—and a selection of spare clothes, I’m pretty much set. I have what I think of as the bare necessities for safety and security, with some additions for comfort. Until someone comes by to ruin it all, I think I can live here.

  My desktop computer has a natural language interface. I can talk to it rather than type at it, if I want. It also has a built-in camera, which reminded me to check my nighttime presence. I’m fine during the day, but at night I don’t show up in cameras, either; not even my clothes appear. There are faint flickers of images on video, traces of movement, corner-of-your-eye flashes, but nothing concrete. Which is weird, because automatic doors open for me at night. Does it have something to do with my actual image versus my physical presence? Or does it have something to do with my soul? Or is it strictly a matter of visible light?

  A while ago, I did some experiments with producing vampires. When you kill vampires during the day, they become nightwalkers—truly dead things that only get up at night. They’re shadows of the people they used to be because they’re really dead; their souls aren’t in there anymore. Has something like that happened to me? I have to consider that as a possibility. After all, how would I know it if it did? I still move around during the day, but am I missing something—that is, is something missing from me?

  Maybe it’s something Tort did, either by accident or as a side-effect of ripping out my darker half. Or maybe my darker half did something, like digging in claws as it was dragged out. Or maybe it’s an inevitable part of the ongoing vampiric-infection process?

  I wish I could have asked Tort. No, I wish Tort was here so I could ask. When I find her, I will.

  I keep thinking Tort would do more with the house, too. I think almost anyone would. Maybe I’ll hang some pictures on the walls or something. I’m not sure exactly what to do on the home décor front; I don’t have the decorating gene. Does that come from being a monster, a man, or a nerd? Tough call.

  Down in the basement, I’ve cleaned it up, psychically drained the life from more mold than should actually exist in the world, and made it feel less like a bricked-in box of damp. Adding a couple of ventilation pipes helped, but it’s cool down there. Moisture is going to collect. I’m not sure how to handle that. Maybe I can read up on it on the internet—excuse me, the cybernet.

  They call it the Cybernet here. It’s one of the many little changes between my original world and this one. I’m pretty sure this is a different one, not another point on my original world’s timeline. But they still have Google, which is comforting.

  Unless Google is a secret conspiracy of multi-universal travelers. Aluminum-foil hats, anyone?

  Back to the house’s basement. It doesn’t really have windows, just dirt-crusted pieces of glass with a view under the porch. They’re really only good for letting in light—a quality I do not appreciate. I’ve added some plywood over them. Now the basement is a good spot to hide out from the sunrise and sunset, as well as a place to put my magical diagrams. I’m working to put one on each of the four walls as tributaries to a main one in the center of the concrete floor. I haven’t really got any of them drawn, yet; I’ve been doing cleaning and prep work. I hope to get one wall done tonight. This is kind of important if I want to try playing with gates in this environment.

  Besides, I think my spells should be working a darn sight better than they are. The power level isn’t the problem—a problem, certainly, but not the only one. I think something’s not quite right in the spell structures. I need to do some experiments and figure that out.

  I still want to know more about what happened while my Evil Alter Ego was busy being a king. I want to know that Amber and Tianna are all right. I want to see the guys—Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar—and I want to talk to T’yl and Kelvin. I did tell T’yl I would be back. And I want to discuss the spells Tort used. She’s not in that black ball—that’s my final word on the subject—so she had to have an escape hatch, a way out.

  I have to know what happened.

  To do that, I have to have the power to reach Karvalen. I don’t know any spells that will actually communicate across the void between worlds. Maybe I could rig a mirror spell to do that, but magical research and development here is like military R & D during an election year. My best bet is probably to build a teeny-tiny gate and send message spells through it. At least, that’s my best guess at the moment. When I have enough magical charge for it, I’ll try testing it and see if I come up with anything better.

  But I also want to work with gates for other reasons. If there are an infinite number of universes, it’s at least possible there is one where I can actually fit in. I thought I was doing an okay job of that in Karvalen, but apparently I was wrong. Nonetheless, I can at least go looking. I can explore.

  At least, I think I can. I have yet to open a gate in this magically-deficient world. Do they have anything on interdimensional theories that might help? I’ll have to cruise the cybernet and see, I suppose.

  Meanwhile, I have housekeeping to set up. And more grocery shopping to do.

  Sunday, September 13th

  I went into town to buy a lawnmower, but nothing’s open on Sunday. True, Bronze can crop grass, but it’s a low-yield energy source for her. It’s almost not worth it. She would rather stand still and conserve her resources while her Field builds up her magical charge. I can’t argue with that; I never liked mowing the yard, either. Now, though, I kind of have to. I have to keep up the appearance of a Perfect
ly Normal Neighbor. There’s a thin green line of hedge between me and suburbia. Well, a thick green line, then about a hundred feet of grass. The yard will wait until Monday.

  The neighbors won’t. They barely waited until afternoon.

  Valley View Court is a piece of blacktop running due north for the length of five homes. There’s no valley within a hundred miles. There’s certainly no view of one. I guess they liked the name. It’s every inch a suburb and shockingly cookie-cutter. Lots of fiberglass and plastic give it a sort of prefab look, but done in such a way as to appeal to Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class. It looks weird to me, somehow. It reminds me of an idealized 1950’s suburb, but there’s something wrong with it. It looks… strange. I can’t put my finger on it.

  Valley View ends in a round cul-de-sac. On either side is another house and yard. The walk up to my front door is like a narrow concrete continuation of the street, piercing the wall of hedge, stabbing through the yard to the front porch.

  A full house—three ladies and a pair of men—opened the gate in my hedge and marched boldly onto my porch. The doorbell buzzed out its harsh, annoying burr. I think it says something about me that, when the doorbell buzzed, my first thought was to grab Firebrand. I hope it says more about me that I didn’t actually grab Firebrand.

  Mental note: new doorbell. Monday. Along with a front gate more like a door than a picket fence. I probably need to put some sort of extension on the driveway gate, too, to make it taller and more opaque. I definitely need something to reinforce the hedge. Right now, a car could come straight down the lane, bounce up the steps to the porch, and wind up in the front room. A big truck might make it all the way through and out the back.

  Dragon teeth, maybe—the steel-and-concrete kind. That won’t help against pedestrians, though. Electric fence? Barbed wire? Caltrops? Land mines? Maybe a guard dog? Aren’t quasi-demonic hounds traditional for vampire lairs? But if I do that, I’ll have to get an Igor and an opera cape. I might have to learn to play the pipe organ.

  I opened the door with Perfectly Believable Smile #2 pasted onto my face, instead. I’ve tried to delete all grinning and other teeth-showing smiles from my casual repertoire. My teeth aren’t obviously pointed, but there’s something subliminally wrong with my smile. It unnerves people. While it has its uses, it’s not something to show the neighbors when I’m trying to blend in.

  “Good afternoon,” I offered, eyeing my unexpected guests. They carried pans and covered dishes—always preferable to pitchforks and torches. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, we’re so pleased to meet you,” started the lady in front. “I’m Myrna, this is Susan and this is Velma. That’s Larry, Susan’s husband, and that’s Fred—he’s my husband. We’re here to welcome you to the neighborhood!”

  I felt a brief pang at the mention of Fred’s name. I miss my Fred; I haven’t spoken to him/it in ages. I wondered how he was doing. Maybe I should get a bed, slide under it, and see if he shows up. Probably not; wrong universe. Then again, he hangs around in what is, essentially, his own sub-universe…

  Like riffling through a set of file cards: Step One, open the door wider, step aside, and invite them in. Step Two, apologize for the mess. (Substep: pause to let them express how they understand completely, just moved in, and so on.) Step Three, explain the rest of the furniture hasn’t arrived, yet. Step Four, show them into the kitchen so they can put their stuff down.

  I got through it. I shook hands firmly while looking people in the eye, was warmly hospitable, kept my closed-lip smile in place, expressed no political or religious opinions, agreed in general with their views while not committing to anything, and deflected questions with rambling stories, jokes, and questions of my own.

  Some questions I could answer without worry; BitRate gave me a complete dossier on Vladimir Smith. Never married, no kids—less work to generate a person with no family. A family either had to be copied, swiped, or invented, then they needed explanations for their absence. Moved south for my health because the winters in Alaska were starting to affect my sinuses something awful. What do you do, Mr. Smith? Why, carpentry and general handyman stuff, but I inherited some money…

  Firebrand told me nobody noticed it in the fireplace. It was easy to miss, or at least misidentify; there’s a heavy mesh screen across the front to prevent sparks and cinders from popping out. I made sure not to stand near the fireplace, anyway. Looking at me drew their eyes away from it. The lack of chairs was a trifle awkward for everyone, which made the visit shorter than it might have been.

  Once the Politeness Brigade completed its interrogation—spearheaded by Myrna the Nose—and withdrew from their exploratory sortie, I put food away and laid Firebrand on the kitchen table. I poured myself a glass of water and sat down.

  “Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”

  I think Myrna needs her shoulders shaved, Boss; we could remove the lump sticking up between them.

  “You don’t like her either?” I asked.

  She was constantly thinking about how to find out more about you. Susan—the young one—thinks you’re funny and sexy. Velma—the old lady—thinks you’re a sweet young man.

  I found a towel and mopped up the spray of water.

  You know, Firebrand observed, most people just drink the stuff.

  “I have a drinking problem.”

  Another one?

  “Go on with the guests.”

  Okay. Velma is also happy you’re white and hopes you’re not one of those homos that seem to be taking over everything.

  “Seriously?”

  Not a clue, Boss. That’s just what she thinks.

  “She seems like such a nice old lady,” I protested. “I wouldn’t have thought she was… what’s the word? Bigoted, I think.”

  She’s got some strong opinions on stuff. Skin color, who screws who, some people she thinks of as “tight-fisted Jews.”

  “Well… she’s old. She’s got a lot of life experience. I suppose she has a right to her opinions. I didn’t expect such unpleasant ones from someone who seems so nice.”

  Years of practice at being polite? Firebrand guessed.

  “I hope I’m as good at it when I’m her age.”

  Uh, you kind of are her age, Boss.

  “I slept through most of it. Okay, Velma is a nasty old lady in a kindly granny suit. What about the rest?”

  Larry’s thinking his gutters need cleaning out and wonders if you have the ladder he’s been borrowing from the Ardents for the past four years. He also hopes you don’t try to pressure him into a discount when you find out he works in a furniture store; it eats into his own money, somehow. What’s a “commission?”

  “He gets a percentage of the purchase price for every sale he makes.”

  Oh. Okay. Fred is about as curious as Myrna, but he hates the way she wants to find out everything immediately. He’s patient. He also wonders how much you inherited if you went from handyman to homesteader like this. He also thinks there’s something weird about Bronze; he’s seen her running around the farm.

  “Well, he’s right.”

  Yeah, but we can’t have him blabbing to everyone, can we?

  “No, I suppose not. And, before you start with suggestions on how to dismember or decapitate him, that is not how we do things in this world. Any suggestions not involving bloodshed or arson?”

  Firebrand was silent. I waited. It remained silent.

  “I figured. I think I have a different plan.”

  Oh?

  “Yep. Plausible deniability.”

  I sensed a wordless question.

  “Here’s the deal. I can order all sorts of stuff—no, let me back up. That magic box can communicate with other magic boxes. If I use the magic box to send money to someone, he’ll send me stuff in exchange. I don’t even have to go to his store. Got that?”

  Sure. Seems simple enough. You’re buying his goods from far away instead of flying over, burning his shop to the ground and taking anything shiny.


  I ignored this. I’m not sure if Firebrand says this sort of thing deliberately, or if it really can’t help but think that way.

  “Now, around here, they make a particular type of golem called a ‘robot’. My plan is to order up some robot parts, or things that could be robot parts, and have them lying around in the barn. I plan to use the barn as a shop, anyway, for experimenting with gates. Come to think of it, robot construction can be a good cover for that, too. But if anyone starts getting too nosy about Bronze, I can show them my shop and ask them what they think of my home-made robot horse.”

  You think that will work?

  “I have no idea; I’m making this up as I go. If it doesn’t, then we can make them disappear.” I cursed under my breath. “I should have sucked it up and gotten a place farther from other people.”

  Didn’t you say you needed to be near the herd for easy hunting?

  “In your terms, yes. What I actually said was I needed to be fairly close to someplace with lots of people so my movements wouldn’t easily correlate with deaths. I’m trying to avoid the whole, ‘Every time he comes to town, another villager dies,’ scenario. What I’m talking about now is having people who can look across their yard and into mine. I should have picked a house farther away in that sense. They might see enough to be troublesome, and modern pitchforks and torches are worse than you think. ”

  I’ll defer to your experience, Boss. I could hear Firebrand’s mental reservations. I can’t really blame it. It’s a dragon-sword. It kills things. That’s what it does. A little contempt for farming implements is only to be expected.

  On the other hand, maybe I should get a shotgun. It seems to go with the general vibe of the farmhouse, plus it’ll give Firebrand and Bronze an idea of what we might expect if we have to bolt.

  Thursday, September 17th

  Operation Robot is going well. I’ve been observed pretending to work on one of Bronze’s forelegs with a socket wrench. I’ve got sheet metal, fiberglass, and a silicone horsehead-mold in the barn. I also picked up some pipe, wire, and electric motors, along with bunches of bolts and some hinged contraptions that look suitably mechanical. It should be sufficient to fool anyone who isn’t actually a robot builder.