"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 h
e 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...
Knock on wood! Why scare yourself ahead of time?
Locomotive gained enough experience and decisiveness in dealing with "non-formals" (a vague term used in reports for any non-normal humans), and the bylaw mandating "gatherings of no more than three people" hadn't been canceled yet. The authorities had not forgotten how badly such gatherings could end. It was enough to reinstate the licensing of public events, and NZAMIPS chambers would be full of the homegrown gurus. Someone worked hard feeding those psychos with appropriate information, motivating them, taking them under his control, but so far all his efforts came to naught. The inopportunely-appearing dark magician tamed the supernatural in the region, turning the bloody drama into a comic scene—an occasion for jokes. With perverted pleasure, Captain Baer crushed the results of someone's long-term work with a steamroller of police forces.
A big prize wasn't long in coming.
In the blue light of the balls mounted on portable tripods NZAMIPS experts dismantled the ruins of a brick outhouse. Soldiers in protective suits and masks cautiously stacked clear glass vials with glowing contents into sealed containers. Locomotive's hair stood on end just from looking at them.
The dragon tears! The first batch in seven years. But experts claimed that the recipe for the cursed potion had been lost. Was the source an archeological excavation? Foreign intervention? Even the scent of this potion resulted in a state of euphoria for a commoner and summoned a desire to trust and obey, not thinking about the consequences and repenting for one's deeds. Booze for killers! In the white mages the potion caused irreversible addiction; the dark reacted to its action much more simply—they just puked.
All the residents of that house would have to be investigated regarding their involvement in the sales of that stuff. The distributor of the poison escaped the interrogation: upon seeing the police, the psycho maniac blew himself up in the boiler room that had been converted into a warehouse. The poor fellow did not know the specifics of the building code. The main apartment building only lost its glass windows; in the outhouse, the roof got blown off and one of the outside walls destroyed. There were no casualties among the NZAMIPS team; two were wounded by fragments of the roof, but the suicidal maniac died on site.
"You are to be congratulated."
Before turning around, Locomotive drove a smug grin off his face.
"Yes, sir! The operation went off almost flawlessly."
Mr. Satal nodded gravely, looking over the luminous scattering: "This will make the capitol authorities fuss around. But they will start asking difficult questions."
Locomotive shrugged indifferently: "I have requested forty-four times an increase in funding over the last ten years; I can show you a copy of each of them."
The coordinator angrily shook his head: "I don't give a shit about your papers! What will we do when inspectors arrive here? They can stick their noses anywhere, and I don't even know what you and Larkes have done."
For some reason, Locomotive didn't think of that. It isn't enough to be honest, you must look honest. Any normal organization inevitably accumulates a couple of episodes that appear ambiguously untrustworthy. As soon as the auditors dug out something like this, he could kiss his captaincy goodbye!
"I ... will do the cleanup."
Mr. Satal nodded with satisfaction: "I'm glad we understand each other!"
Captain Baer worked with superiors of a dark nature for years, but it was the first time that he was so frankly offered to commit fraud. He was almost ordered to...
"And one more thing," the coordinator stopped halfway to his limousine, "I didn't have time to go into the details of our main investigation."
Locomotive snorted mentally. Indeed, he didn't have time!
"There is an opinion that our mage developed an unconventional power channel. We are not talking about a wild Empowerment, but, perhaps, university instructors remember an unusual student. Let's say, over the past seven years. I think it will be easier if you talk to them," Mr. Satal concluded.
My Path to Magic Page 14
