by Jaxon Reed
His head exploded in blood, and he collapsed to the pavement.
She put the gun back in her purse, bent down and pulled out his wallet. A floating screen appeared, showing the amount of credits it contained. Her eyebrows raised.
“You are a wealthy one.”
With a flick of her finger she transferred the credits to her own window, then turned and made her way back to the street where she could hail an autocab.
-+-
The car dropped her off on the roof of a luxury hotel. She changed attire once again, donning a formal gown that added a touch of elegance to her body. It highlighted her slim waist, and a slit running up to her thigh provided subtle hints of sexiness. Instantly, she no longer appeared tawdry.
The bald, middle-aged NPC driving the cab said, “From club slut to penthouse prima donna. I like it!”
These “non-playing characters,” or NPCs as they were called, were just in-game AI routines, she thought. Renard resisted the urge to shoot him, and flicked over the proper amount for the ride in the hovering transaction window instead.
Stepping out of the vehicle, she made her way down a red carpet to the rooftop doorway where another NPC guarded the entrance. This thick-necked, muscle-bound bodyguard would try to prevent attempts at unauthorized entry. A bulge in his suit jacket underneath one arm betrayed lurking firepower. The look on his face as she approached offered little doubt as to the AI’s willingness to use force, if needed.
She stopped in front of him, offering no hostility, and said, “I’m here to see Simon Cybershot.”
A light seemed to click on in the predator’s face, and he reached for the cell phone implant under his ear.
He spoke in a high-pitched, almost comical tone. “Mr. Cybershot? A young lady is here to see you.”
Whoever programmed him had a sense of humor, Renard thought, to make him look so threatening but have a cartoon voice. What was the term for that sort of childish pleasure in the midst of all this high tech?
Ah yes, she thought. Nerds.
The guard nodded at unheard instructions, presumably from Simon, and the doorway buzzed behind him. Renard swept by the NPC and entered the small foyer beyond the doorway. She took the stairs one flight down instead of waiting on the elevator, and knocked at the only entrance on the top level of the hotel.
An incredibly handsome man opened the door. He stood tall, six-foot-five by American measure, with beautiful light-brown hair in tight curls. His face reminded her of a movie star’s: finely chiseled and perfectly proportioned with a sharp nose and chin, and full sensuous lips. Sparkling blue eyes seemed to stare into her innermost soul, and even though she knew consciously that everything she could see was fake and occurring only in her mind, she felt a stirring deep within her when looking into those eyes.
This particular avatar had cost its owner a small fortune, she thought. It looked absolutely stunning, and she doubted a better looking male existed in the game at the moment.
“Bonjour, Phoebe.”
The spell of his physical allure snapped, as she recalled with irritation he knew who she was in real life. He seemed to know everything, and while it was not surprising he knew so much, the fact he knew all about her still sparked irritation.
“Hello, Simon. I’ve fulfilled the terms of our meeting.”
She pointed to her public stats window, showing the recent kill.
“Yes, so I see. Come in.”
He opened the door wider, and she stepped into the penthouse suite. The rich ornamentations of the real world were faithfully reproduced here. Lustrous teak wood flooring, marble tables with gold leaf accents. Even items long since prohibited were presented, such as a lamp made from an ivory tusk. All were scattered about in a tasteful yet audacious display of wealth.
Cybershot said, “They’ve come a long way with these games, I’ll have you know. I recall playing them on mainframe computers with simple text. The Americans called them MUDs. ‘Multi-user Dungeons.’”
Renard nodded and remained silent. Simon liked to boast of his age. She had no idea if he were truly as old as he claimed, but it seemed imprudent to doubt him out loud. Perhaps there were many ‘Simons’ going back through the years. That was one of the theories among her associates, anyway.
They walked to the opposite side of the room, where a glass wall folded back accordion style, leading to an elegant pool and hot tub on a private balcony.
She sat in an Adirondack chair while he picked out a bottle from the poolside bar. Returning, he placed a wine glass on her table, then poured her a drink. She thanked him, but waited patiently for him to pour his own glass and take a sip before tasting the wine herself. Although she could not conceive of a reason for him to kill her character, she had spent a considerable sum on this avatar, and had no desire of dying in the game. Thus, she took no chances.
He smiled behind his glass, as if reading her thoughts. He said, “If you spend enough, you can replicate just about anything. This is a bottle of Château Pétrus, 1921. Indistinguishable from the real thing.”
Her eyebrows arched as she sipped.
She said, “I’ve had it once before, many years ago. That one’s been faked so many times, there are still counterfeit bottles all over Europe. But this does seem similar to the real thing, from what I can recall.”
Simon smiled slightly, but if he took offense at her half-hearted praise, he did not show it.
Instead, he reached into the air and expanded her stats window, revealing the name of her recent kill.
“Fascinating. You know, I believe in real life he is the son of a Texas state senator. It would not surprise me if your little ‘murder’ here results in some kind of legislative effort during their next biennium.”
Renard shrugged. She said, “Let’s get down it to it, Simon. Your rule is to kill an established character before meeting. I have done that.”
He nodded, and with a shoving motion put away her stat window. He leaned back in the chair.
“So you have, Phoebe. So you have. And here we are. I have a report. Your colleague Michel Caron has passed. As you requested, he was removed. I found him making contact with Detective Gerald Bryce.”
Renard nodded. She said, “I trust he revealed nothing to the detective?”
“Something fell out of his hands at the time of death. Bryce retrieved it.”
“What was it?”
“I do not know. It was small, and round. That’s all I could see. It fell out and slid on the sidewalk toward Bryce. Before I could do anything, the detective retrieved it.”
Renard placed the glass on the table and sat back in her chair, absorbing the news.
Simon said, “I trust you know what it was?”
She nodded and said, “I’m sure it was one of our sigils. Michel was trying to warn him. The sigil would help establish the veracity of his claims.”
“I see. Well, I don’t think you have much to worry about. The sigils haven’t been used in centuries. With Caron dead, Bryce will never deduce its significance.”
“You don’t know Gerald Bryce. He’s probably already figured it out.”
3
Bryce woke up and stretched in the cramped confines of his car seat as the sun rose in the east. He looked at the map hologram and could see Iowa City approaching fast.
Considering the entire trip was about 1,000 miles, he had decided to make a night of it. He slept through the car’s flight above Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri and into Iowa, all the while following the old I-35 route. Somewhere in the night he knew the car had taken a right turn over Des Moines. Now he shot above Interstate 80, at the computer-controlled top speed of 100 miles per hour.
He said, “Stop at the nearest restaurant serving breakfast.”
The car’s computer dinged at him and began descending to the parking lot of an old-style diner along the paved interstate below. The door opened and he crawled out, stretching muscles again. He made his way inside, freshened up in the bathroom, then ordered a hearty meal of sausage and
waffles with a pot of coffee. Much of the kitchen seemed automated, from what he could tell, but the waitresses were human.
Joining traffic back in the air above I-80, he checked the time, assuring himself he would arrive when he said he would: 9:00 am, sharp.
He sat back and called up the morning news headlines on his phone, which scrolled in front of his face while the car sailed into Coralville.
Soon, his vehicle exited the traffic stream and slowed considerably as it flew above city streets. It veered off into a residential neighborhood of older but well-maintained houses, settling gently onto the pavement.
Bryce’s door popped open. The car’s computer said in a pleasant female voice, “You have arrived at your destination.”
He exited and walked up the sidewalk toward the front door. It opened before he could knock and Katherine stepped out, pulling a strand of gray hair back behind her ear.
“Welcome, Detective! You’re right on time.”
He formally offered his badge. She glanced at it but did not bother inspecting it too closely. She held the door open for him and he walked inside.
Someone in the back of the house yelled, “Is he here? Is that him, Kat?”
Katherine shut the door and smiled at Bryce. She said, “He’s very excited to meet you. We don’t get many visitors.”
A wheelchair floated into the room, although Bryce realized the term was an anachronism. This newer, high-tech model hovered without wheels. An old man controlled the joystick on one of the armrests. Age had drained most of the vitality from his body. His face displayed a complex web of wrinkles. Thin gray tufts of hair waved weakly with motion from the chair.
But despite all the signs of advanced age, the man’s eyes still shone bright, displaying a sharp mind and an intellect not yet dulled by time.
He glided the chair toward Bryce, offered up his hand and said, “Ted Drossel.”
Bryce shook the old man’s hand gently and said, “Gerald Bryce. I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
In a surprisingly strong voice, Drossel yelled, “Katherine!”
“I’m right here, Daddy.”
“Oh. Well, don’t just stand there. Bring us some refreshments. We’ll be in the study.”
He whipped the chair around and headed to another room, calling out over his shoulder, “Follow me, Detective!”
Katherine smiled again and said, “I told you, he really is excited to have a visitor. What would you like to drink? We have lemonade, coffee, tea, water . . .”
“Water is fine.”
Bryce followed the wheelchair into a large room filled with old-fashioned books crowded on floor-to-ceiling shelves. A desk in the center of the room had been placed on risers so Drossel could park his chair under it. A couple of leather wingbacks faced the desk. Bryce sat in one while the professor negotiated the joystick until he had positioned himself properly.
Katherine walked in with two glasses and a pitcher of water then politely stepped out, shutting the door on her way.
“So,” Drossel said. “One of my lectures proved useful. Which case was it? The Texas Harpy? The Hangman?”
Bryce’s eyes betrayed his surprise, and the old man barked out a laugh that quickly turned into a wheezing cough. About the time Bryce became concerned for him, Drossel recovered and took a sip of water.
“Yes, I did my homework, Detective. I looked at everything I could find about you. Which wasn’t much, I must say. The police do like their privacy. But I was able to piece some things together about cases that made the news. It seems to me those two were the most germane to my research. Now, if I could have tracked down who has watched my lectures on the GRAIL system over the years, and when, I’d have an even better idea of what you were after. But homunculi and harpies would certainly fit.”
With even greater newfound respect for the man, Bryce said, “I discovered one of your lectures when researching information on the Hangman. That was shortly after the GRAIL system came online. Practically every recorded university lecture in North America and Europe was available at that point, and I was given access to the system. You touched on homunculi, and the information you shared was very helpful.”
The old man beamed, his wrinkles creasing. He said, “Always happy to assist law enforcement. Although I must say my specialties are so obscure, it’s a rare day they’re useful for murder cases. And to be able to assist one of the cunning folk, well let’s just say that’s icing on the cake.”
Bryce stared at the man in silence. After a moment he realized his mouth hung open. He shut it, swallowed, and said, “And, uh, how did you come to that conclusion?”
Drossel chuckled, happily. He said, “I told you, Detective, I can read between the lines. If I’m not missing my mark, you’re an empath. Am I right?”
Bryce nodded.
“You know,” Drossel said, “the cunning folk were almost wiped out in the Holocaust. And let’s not forget the gulags the Soviets set up, either. Along with all the other lives lost during the world wars, it has taken this long for newer, more powerful generations to come along. You understand how the bloodlines work?”
Bryce nodded again.
“Then you must know you are an extremely rare occurrence: a male empath, just like Hitler’s father.”
Bryce grimaced. Drossel raised his hand and said, “Yes, yes. I know. Sorry for going there. But that’s how unusual you are, even with uninterrupted bloodlines. But I know you didn’t come all this way to talk about yourself. Katherine said you are working on a new case.”
Bryce took a moment to shift, his mind swirling while he absorbed the professor’s words. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.
He said, “Yes. I was handed something by a man right as he was being murdered. I’m having trouble finding much information about it on the internet, and I thought maybe you could help.”
Bryce pulled the flat stone out of his pocket, placed it on the desk and slid it across. Drossel leaned down and blinked, slowly. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass.
“My eyes aren’t what they used to be, even with surgery,” Drossel said, while peering closely at the stone.
A moment later he said, “Notice the very small print at the bottom: ‘Das Siegel des Vehm Gericht.’”
Bryce said, “Okay. What’s that mean?”
“Siegel means sigil. This is the sigil of the Vehm Gericht. The secret Courts of Westphalia.”
Bryce stared back at the professor with a blank expression.
Drossel said, “I see your knowledge of medieval secret societies is clearly lacking. As one of the cunning folk, though, you should be aware of the Vehmic Courts. They are still in business. Or at least, that’s the rumor. No one has seen clear evidence of their existence since the early 1800s. Well, at least no who’s lived to tell about it.”
“Alright, I’m game. Tell me about the Courts of Westphalia.”
The professor leaned back in his chair and his eyes seemed to drift off to another time and place.
He said, “There were two great secret societies that came out of Medieval Europe. Three if you count the Assassins, but most people place their origins in the Middle East. The first, of course, were the Templars, knights returning with secret knowledge gleaned during the Crusades. Most people have heard of them, thanks to popular fiction. And, many people are aware the French king, Philip IV, rounded up and executed all the Templars he could find on October 13, 1307. That’s how we got the tradition of an unlucky Friday the 13th. Many of the remaining Templars folded into the Knights Hospitaller, and introduced modern banking to Switzerland and England. They didn’t go away. They adapted.
“From the ashes of the Templars, Freemasonry surfaced in Europe, although details are shrouded in mystery. Masons, of course, were the most noteworthy and famous of all the secret societies. They’re still with us today, and they’ve had a profound, though often overlooked, impact on history.
“I’ll tell you a tale of your state’s
origin, if you’ll let me chase a rabbit for a moment. Have you ever wondered how the Texans managed to defeat one of the best armies of the 19th century?”
Bryce said, “Can’t say I’ve thought much about it.”
“It’s an interesting story, bear with me. Santa Anna came in and devastated the Texans at Goliad and the Alamo. Then he chased after Sam Houston’s remaining army. Houston turned tail and ran, heading north and east toward the coast. The Texans were running fast. So, Santa Anna split his forces, leaving behind the slower elements, and raced after Houston with his light infantry. He caught up with the Texans near San Jacinto.
“And then, on the very cusp of victory, with their armies camping within earshot of one another . . . Santa Anna’s men took their daily siesta. That’s when the Texans counterattacked.
“Santa Anna was allegedly meeting with a lady of ill repute. Caught with his pants down, he tried to escape disguised as a common soldier. But one of the Texans recognized him and captured him alive.
“Houston was lying under a tree suffering from a gunshot wound when they brought Santa Anna to him. At that point, the Texans wanted to throw a rope up in the tree and hang the generalísimo on the spot.
“But then, something amazing happened. Santa Anna gave Sam Houston a Masonic signal of distress. Houston recognized he was a fellow Mason and kept the men from killing him. Houston did, however, extract a treaty that essentially granted Texas independence. And Santa Anna, for the most part, honored the treaty.
“That’s just one example of how Freemasonry has affected history down through the ages. In a way, you could say they gave us Texas.”
The old professor paused for a long drink of water, and Bryce leaned back in his chair. He felt like a college student.
Drossel said, “So that brings us to Westphalia and the Vehm Gericht. The Vehmic Courts. It began with some political tumult in the Holy Roman Empire in the 12th century, which continued into the 14th. I won’t bore you with the details of the Golden Bull of 1356, but suffice it to say that many Germanic states teetered on anarchy during those times.
