Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  I went into OKC for a weekend.

  That was interesting. I called a cab and Google Cabs sent me a car.

  When I left my own world, years ago, Google was developing a self-driving car. Now, in this world, Google Cabs is a major transportation industry. Anywhere within fifty miles of an electric road—a road with a power strip—they’ll send an all-electric, self-driving vehicle to pick you up and take you where you want to go. It’ll even remember your destinations and your schedule, like, “Mom’s house,” or “Take me home,” or “Time to go to school,” or “Date night with my girlfriend.” They’ll keep track of your friends, remind you of appointments, show up early when you’re likely to have luggage, and, for all I know, take your pet to the vet. While you’re on your way, they’ll suggest places to stop for food, shopping, or entertainment. Or you can sit back and watch a movie while the car drives you across the country. You can also have it talk to you in different celebrity voices.

  And every single cab, everywhere, will remember your preferences. They have a master file somewhere in the cybernet and the traffic control system gives it to any individual cab that you may be using, so you only have to set up any particular preference once.

  When I call a Google Cab, the welcome sound when the door pops open is a series of wheezing, grinding sounds—kind of like house keys run along piano wire—followed by a thump. If you know the sound, you know what I’m talking about.

  I love it. And it’s terrifyingly invasive of privacy. It’s convenient beyond belief, but I may have to get my own car so Google doesn’t know everything about me.

  Assuming it doesn’t already.

  Anyway, weekends in OKC. Could I find something to do on the weekends? Yes. I could join the fencing club at the university; it wasn’t limited to current students. I also thought to look for a karate school open on Saturdays. Maybe I could even find a chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism! I’m pretty sure OKC is in Calontir, but maybe it’s Ansteorra. Way back when, I was in Æthelmearc, up in the northeast, so I was never too clear on the other kingdoms’ borders.

  I haven’t found any SCA people yet, but I’m hopeful. I did join the fencing club, and I did find a Krav Maga school open on weekends. Now I have something vaguely recreational to do that relates not at all to driving myself up a wall with eye-crossing, brain-baking study.

  You know, I learn a little bit from every soul I swallow. Maybe if I eat a couple of physicists…

  No. Bad vampire. Bad, bad, vampire! Go to your coffin and don’t come out until you can behave!

  Anyway, I have excuses to go into the city, now. I can’t exactly admit I go to town for dinner. Well, not for the dinner I eat.

  Most of the time, I pick a hospital and walk through it. There’s always someone ready—no, ready isn’t sufficient. There’s always someone desperate to die. Usually, there’s a cancer patient in the oncology wing or someone in ICU. Once I walked in about the same time an ambulance pulled up. I sat down in the ER waiting room and had a quiet conversation with the ghost of the guy they brought in. But I never lay a finger—or a fang—on any of them. I help their spirits get loose from their failing flesh and move them along.

  They’re going anyway. At least they don’t go alone.

  That’s not entirely altruistic of me, but it’s what I do. Birds eat worms, wolves eat deer, and I eat people. I deliberately pick people who want to die, too. I doubt anyone is likely to be understanding and thankful for that, though.

  Does this make me a tragic figure? I don’t feel tragic. Much of my life seems more like comedy, albeit at my expense. Maybe that is tragedy. Maybe I should have spent more time studying theater instead of theories.

  Still, I don’t get nearly enough credit for not being a bloodthirsty monster. C’est la vie. Or should that be “C’est la mort”?

  For my more physical dinner, I go looking for trouble. I have to suppress the effect of the amulet while I “take a shortcut” walking through an alley, but it’s built to do that when the wearer wants. So far, I’ve been shot twice and knifed once by people volunteering to be food.

  Much to my chagrin, I’ve also had it proved to me that I need more hand-to-hand lessons. One guy did something fast and effective involving his feet, my legs, and both arms. I wound up face-down on damp pavement with a distinct pain in my shoulders and elbows.

  At night.

  I was too surprised at the suddenness of it all to do anything about it. Of course, once I realized the unarmed guy was actually a threat, I unbent my arms. He applied more pressure, but they unbent anyway. The joints may be shaped like a human’s, but they’re not made of human flesh and bone. They don’t tear like human ligaments and cartilage. The bones don’t break under any force a human can exert. My arms moved as inexorably as hydraulic pistons and, since he was sitting on my back, I grabbed at what I could reach. I wrapped my hand around his femur.

  If I’d meant “thigh,” I would have said “thigh.” Sharp fingernails and inhuman strength, remember? Besides, the femoral artery carries an astonishing amount of blood. He lost consciousness quickly and soon became a whiter shade of pale in the scattered streetlight.

  I seriously considered going to my Krav Maga class every day, rather than on weekends.

  On another occasion, there was also an electric zapper thing I did not like at all. I discovered my muscles will contract and vibrate under high voltage. On the other hand, when the current quits, I’m fine. Poke me with the high-voltage baton and I go rigid and vibrate. Turn it off and I look at you with an unkindly expression.

  It doesn’t hurt, exactly, although it burns a little on contact. The big thing is how it keeps me from making voluntary movements while the current is on. This is one disadvantage to a superconductive nervous system.

  To be fair, I didn’t do more than injure the guy with the electric doodad. He brought a non-lethal weapon to a robbery, which meant he had no intention of killing me. He even put some thought and effort into that, deliberately choosing something non-lethal. I returned the favor because it’s the sort of behavior—for a mugger—I think should be encouraged. His bones will knit. I was careful.

  No fang marks on any of the rest, either, but plenty of mundane wounds. Blood still crawls over to me and soaks into my skin, so once they’re suitably perforated, dinner comes to me. I’ve been trying to leave wounds that are obvious bleeders—wrists, femoral artery, throats, that sort of thing. Simplicity itself for me. If I’m not concentrating on seeing the skin, the surging network of the blood is one of the layers of things I see inside the vague, fleshy outline. So, when someone finds the bodies, the severe blood loss isn’t too surprising. Sometimes this takes fancy footwork, though. There needs to be some blood left at the scene! That means I have to hurry away down whatever direction it drains so the blood trying to follow me seems to lie naturally. That’s not always convenient.

  I have to take more care to pick the ground where I get mugged. It’s tricky. If there wasn’t a depression going on, it would be harder. Lucky for me the crime rate is at an all-time high.

  The blood reminded me, though, of the spells I’ve been working on. I’ve made good progress on my fundamental alphabet, so there’s that. I also recalled I can kill things to use their living force in magical workings. By releasing their life energies inside the revised magical circle in the basement, the magical environment inside it gets observably more powerful.

  Yes, I sacrifice squirrels, raccoons, possums, and other small animals in my basement. I’m that guy. No cats, though. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a cat, actually. No, wait, I can; there was the kid and his cat, when I tied its spirit into a more stable matrix so it could stick with him after it died. It was ungrateful. Before that, though… I haven’t seen any cats, aside from big ones that don’t seem to like me. Are they avoiding me? Or have I failed to notice them?

  I’ve also seen how my energy-conversion spell is a complete mess. I’ll have to redesign it completely. It’
s not utterly useless, but it’s such a poor converter of electromagnetic energy into magical potential I don’t see any reason to bother with casting another one in the form it’s in now. It’s too much work to build for too small a return. I think I’ve worked out enough of the local magical alphabet, though, so creating a spell tuned for this world should go much better.

  Let me see… in other news, I’ve had more visitors on my porch. I’ve given back all the drones, or fliers. Most of them are from streets to either side of Valley View. The owners of those drones seem to be less interested in me. I think it’s because how far they have to walk to recover their toys; the neighborhoods are fairly spread out. The kids who live on my street don’t have to walk so far, so they keep flying the things over me.

  At least I’m getting practice in using my funky mind powers during the day. I’ve never used my mental movement much, especially after Sasha started me down the magical studies road. Most of my work has been developing magical skills, not my built-in abilities.

  Things are different, here. It’s easier to be a supernatural creature than a wizard.

  Edgar is one of the repeat offenders. I’m not really offended; I think it’s just something for him to do. The other three repeat offenders are friends of his: Patricia, Luke, and Gary. Edgar is Susan’s son and, I think, the reason Susan married Larry. Luke is the one who needed the lessons in etiquette; I haven’t met his parents. Patricia is the brightest of the bunch, and the best pilot. She’s also suspicious. She suspects something is knocking down the fliers. Gary is the one with the large, loud father—Mark Spotznitz (Another name I’m probably misspelling).

  I’ve noticed Gary tends to wear long pants and sweatshirts even when the others are not. He also has an occasional bruise on his face. Apparently, he’s clumsy and runs into doors on a regular basis. Or so he says.

  Yes, my first impulse is to go have a midnight discussion with his father, preferably while holding him off the edge of some high place. I haven’t. It’s tempting, but I haven’t.

  I kind of like Gary. He’s a bright kid and, like Patty, Luke, and Edgar, doesn’t seem to be too addicted to staring at a screen. I’m worried about interfering in his personal and/or family life. A scared bully sometimes takes out his fear on his victims. Moreover, Gary might not appreciate someone kicking around his dad; he’s a young boy and it’s his dad. You don’t do that.

  I’m not sure exactly how to help, or even if I can. I’d have a quiet, tell-me-to-buzz-off-if-you-want talk with his mother, if his mother was around. She’s either dead or missing; I haven’t found out which. So far, the best I can do is make sure Gary has someplace where he can go if he needs to hide.

  I’m not using the barn for anything illegal or suspicious—yet—so I put a mini-fridge out there. I keep it stocked with things appropriate to a hungry, growing boy. I haven’t told Gary anything, but I also didn’t knock down his flier while hovered over me during the setup. We’ll see how that goes. I feel confident he’ll figure it out.

  For my own benefit, I’ve posted signs—Keep Out, No Trespassing, and so on. That’s so my butt is covered, legally speaking. But I notice things, like the way barn doors mysterious open or close themselves. Work stools have walked around. Strange, corrugated footprints on the wooden floor. Fudge-pops have mysteriously disappeared from the freezer. I’ve even detected wet streaks on the barn walls, inside and out—possibly from those pump-up, air-pressure water guns.

  They still think I haven’t noticed. They also don’t know Bronze is watching them. Even if I never went out to the barn, I would still know. She’s amused.

  The Fabulous Four (my name for them) have been sneaking into my barn since before I moved in. Under other circumstances, I might rush out and catch them in a water-gun fight, but Bronze thinks they’re fun. That counts for a lot. If it amuses her, it amuses me. If they want to use the barn as a clubhouse, I’m perfectly willing to pretend I don’t know. It’s probably more exciting for them, anyway.

  What does not amuse me—well, not nearly as much, nor in the same way—is the way Edgar’s mother, Susan, keeps inviting me to social gatherings. First it was a band fundraiser at the high school. Edgar isn’t in high school—he’s eight—but Susan is one of those compulsive volunteers. Then it was to come to church on Sundays. I really have no desire to set foot inside a church, but how do I explain I’d rather not test the pyrotechnic capabilities and undead tolerances of the local god(s)? She’s also asked if I’d like to come to Edgar’s birthday party in November. I think I’m going to have to agree to that one. They literally live next door. I’ll need a real Class-A excuse—kidnapping, for example, or global thermonuclear war—to get out of that.

  It’s not that I don’t like Susan. What I dislike is her liking me so much while she’s married. I’m old-fashioned like that; I don’t want to be chased by an irate husband with a shotgun. But, to be fair, if a woman is going to do that sort of thing, she’s going to do that sort of thing. If not with me, then with someone.

  Wow. That really makes me sound like an opportunistic jerk.

  What I mean to say is, if she’s going to, she’s going to, and it’s not my place to judge. I’m hoping to stay out of it; it’s a complication I don’t need. My worry is whether or not she’ll let me. Don’t misunderstand me. Susan is nice to be around and pretty. I wonder what else she’s after, aside from the obvious. Maybe she’s not happy at home, but maybe she’s interested in not staying there, too.

  I have enough on my conscience. Well, on the mangled ledgers I use for a conscience.

  I suppose I should mention Firebrand does not share my innate dislike of probing people’s minds; that’s the only way it can communicate, really. Firebrand reports that Susan and Larry don’t get along well. It can’t really rummage around in their memories, but it can catch the constellation of relational concepts to what someone is thinking.

  I’m not in the market for a girlfriend. Maybe I should pretend I’m homosexual. They seem to be pretty tolerant about that sort of thing, these days, around here, on this planet. Well, aside from Velma.

  On the other hand, I’m not in the market for a boyfriend, either, which could be even more awkward.

  Science and magic are two fields where my problem-solving skills work wonders. Human relations, not so much. I’m going to blame that one on my nerdity, rather than monstrosity.

  Thursday, October 15th

  Things were going so well.

  I have a house. I have a plan. I have hobbies. I feel like I have a life.

  Every time I get to this point, someone comes along and screws with it. Alien churches, foreign nations, strange gods, demonic entities—it always seems to be one damned thing after another. Well, occasionally a blesséd thing, but you get the point.

  This afternoon, I was in the barn with Bronze. I’d just finished building a new power center for her. One of the stalls has an Ascension Cube on it, constantly sucking in power. Bronze, herself, has a more horse-shaped spell surrounding her, the new version, using the new alphabet, that might actually be useful. She spends most of her time in an unenchanted stall, allowing her own spell to sustain her. The other stall, the one with the spell, is sort of a docking station for her to charge up in a hurry if she’s running low.

  I’m clever like that. I’m also mildly paranoid when it comes to her well-being.

  So I’ve finished this prototype charging arrangement and I’m scratching Bronze under the chin with my flesh-rending claws—excuse me, “fingernails”—when the hedge-doorbell goes off in the barn. I can see the truck gate from the barn; it’s closed, so someone’s coming up the walk. Okay. I head for the house so I can get a head start on the front door. I get inside, head for the front, the doorbell chimes, I open the door.

  The lady on the doorstep is a bombshell. Not literally. What does it say about my life that I need to specify that?

  Anyway, she’s hot. Curvy in all the right places and wearing business attire that does nothing to hide t
he fact. She could have walked into a courtroom as a defense attorney and made the prosecutor forget what the charges were. Dark hair done in a weird half-long, half-short thing that hid one eye—fashion in women’s hairstyles isn’t on my short list of interests. Big, brown eyes. Red lips. Sultry smile. Nearly my height in those heels. No briefcase; nothing in her hands. She smiled at me and toyed with one dangly earring.

  “Mister Smith?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Veronica Stuart. May I come in?”

  She reminded me of Keria in some ways, from the time I met Keria in the bordello. She was attractive, in a button-down, sexy librarian way.

  Boss!

  Huh? What?

  Mind trickery. I can feel something and I think it’s reaching for your brain.

  My natural suspicions came rushing back, along with a hefty helping of survival instinct and paranoia. Things were now on a completely different footing. All thoughts of being polite went away. I got a firm grip on my mental state and pretended to brush my shoulders off. The gesture helped with a generalized disruption spell. It wasn’t much of a disruption, but in this magical environment most spells are pretty fragile.

  She sized me up with an expectant air, still smiling slightly, still playing with that earring.

  “No, I don’t think so.” This surprised her. I’m not sure anyone has ever kept her standing on the porch. “What is it you want?”

  “Could we talk about your house?”

  “Go ahead,” I allowed, not moving from the doorway.

  “I’d rather do this inside, please,” she replied, smile dazzling.

  “I’d like to know what your interest is,” I countered. She glanced over her shoulder, back toward the street. There was a car parked on the street with at least two men in it. It wasn’t a cab. It looked like an actual fuel burner—gasoline, alcohol, or hydrogen—rather than an all-electric runabout. It’s expensive to operate a burner; there are lots of fees and taxes that go with them.