To Beat the Devil (The Technomancer Novels Book 1)

by M. K. Gibson

  “So, what sect of magic is your discipline?” I asked this Father Grimm.

  He only stared at me, his eyes unwavering. Slowly his mask of ambivalence melted. His eyes changed to warmth and a very human smile crossed his lips. He let out a short chuckle.

  “Magic? Please child, enlighten me as to what brought your train of logic to that clumsy conclusion.” Father Grimm leaned back in his chair and folded his arms within his robes.

  I snubbed out my smoke and lit another in succession. I took a sip of my whiskey. OK, I would play his game for now. New clients always like to feel that they are in charge. They want me to know I work for them. Makes them all warm and gooey inside to have an employee they can belittle. As long as their credits were good, I didn’t give a damn. But I wanted to take him down a peg. Let him know he wasn’t dealing with an idiot.

  “Several things,” I began, ticking them off on my fingers as the list went on. “You got past Jensen without a cloaker. Don’t pretend you have one; we both know you don’t. In fact, you don’t have any technology on you. That could make you a demon, which is fine; I have done my share of work for them. But your body temperature is human, if a little cold. Your clothes are from an ancient Catholic sect, but they are well preserved. The fiber patterns are original loom, not a reproduction. Something has kept them from time’s wear and tear. Also, you have no dirt on you. At all. I can’t even smell the smoke of the room coming from you. In fact, I can’t smell anything from you. I’ve been chain-smoking like a chimney and the smoke actually seems to avoid you.” I paused to see what kind of reaction I could get from this guy.

  He leaned slightly forward. “Go on.”

  I nodded. “You leave no prints behind. I watched as you touched the table. There should have been the residual outline of your fingerprints on the gloss. There aren’t any. I specifically requested this booth for our meeting because it is out of the way, but also, the sound dampener is busted. Loud noises make clients uncomfortable. Yet you’re calm, and I hear no clamor of the club. My friend at the bar has signaled me that he can’t hear us. So, something is blocking our conversation from leaving us. You refer to me in the pejorative ‘child,’ and your speech pattern suggests you are used to doing this with those who are vastly younger, even though you appear to be less than ten years older than me. And as the saying goes, remove that which is impossible, and what remains, however improbable, is the truth. So, an immortal got in here past the sentry, is blocking others from hearing us, has no tech on him at all, and is armed only with hidden blades, trinkets, and a pouch. Said immortal leaves no prints and is vain enough to ensure his robes and person remain pristine. You tell me, Gandalf, am I close?”

  “What if, simply, I am an incredibly skilled master of subterfuge and stealth? A low-tech thief in this modern age?” he asked.

  I took another sip of my drink, tasting the ice cubes against my teeth. I sucked on one of the ice cubes, considering his words. Then I spat the cube at his face.

  The ice never touched him. It hung in the air before him, slowly rotating. Then the ice dropped, clattering on the table. I leaned back and grinned smugly, taking a drag of my smoke.

  “You were saying something about not being magical?” I asked, feeling content.

  “Why do you think there are sects to magic?” His voice was still calm, but I picked up a slight raise in his heartbeat. Not fear or anger. Excitement.

  “Honestly? A guess. I figure, if magic exists, then it is a multi-faceted skill that is learned. Just because you can play piano doesn’t mean you can pull off an awesome drum solo.” I shrugged and finished my drink. I held it up and shook it at the staff. When no one noticed my empty glass, I tried calling out to a server and realized it was foolish. Our conversation and outbound sound had been muted, presumably by this Father Grimm. I sighed and shot him a “Do you mind?” glance.

  “You drink too much,” he said flatly.

  I smirked and shrugged. “One does what one must when one is bored and stuck with magical asshole showoffs,” I said.

  He considered me for a moment, taking in the barbed comment. And then sound poured in. My ears were one again filled with the rush of bar noises, chattering conversations and power metal Gregorian chant from the jukebox. Whatever he had done to mimic a dampener he had released, but I’d seen no perceptible movement from him. Interesting.

  I called out to Rashethi, the young demoness cocktail server. I gestured my head to my empty drink and she gave me a slight nod and a bit of a coquettish sway of her hips and tail as she scuttled off to fetch it for me. There is something to be said about the merits of sin when the object is a lavender-skinned Lust demon in a vinyl string bikini and booty shorts. I quickly got my hormones in check and looked back at my would-be employer.

  “You want anything? You must be parched, you know, from all the ‘stealthy subterfuging,’” I asked him with a healthy ladle of snark. He stared at me, saying nothing. He steepled his fingers again and waited. Rolling my eyes, I settled back into booth and did a quick assessment of the club. I took in and categorized the heartbeats, scents, and electronics to pass the agonizing minutes until Rashethi got back with my bloody booze. She showed back up and handed me my drink, and as I was about to swipe my BEAST drive, Father Grimm dropped a few credit coins on the table. For a moment I swear they were only blank metal slugs, but at second glance, they were credits. Rashethi swiped them up quickly, and gave me a wink that sent stirring into me. Hmm, maybe I should ask her out again, even though she had turned me down before. The Spinolis didn’t like me messing around with the staff.

  Suddenly the noise of the club was muted once more. I turned back to Father Grimm and his eyes showed he was in no mood for my pathetic fantasies. He didn’t speak. The seconds turned into full minute of awkward silence.

  “She doesn’t really want you to pursue her. She just wants you to think you can,” Grimm said to me, breaking the silence. “She is a Lust demon. She wants you to crave her. That way she gets better tips. Like a stripper. And you are playing into it. At your age, you should know this.” I could have sworn he was disappointed in me. I think the awkward silence was better.

  “Yeah, you’re right. But I have spent longer with the minions of Hell walking the earth than I did with regular society pre-G-Day. So thanks for the reminder and the drink,” I said. I think my sincerity surprised us both.

  “Your insight as to whether or not magic exists seems rather laissez-faire. You don’t seem to be surprised or concerned. Please, elaborate on your thoughts.”

  “Sure, it’s your nickel,” I began. “Short of it is, I have met some strange people in my time that could do some bizarre things. None of them ever confirmed or denied such skills existed. Most people don’t live to be my age. They don’t live to see a little, and then see a little more. Because I don’t age, I do. Then I then start piecing it together. And in this new world, a little skill and the right secrets carry currency. It is the type of thing that can keep you alive today to bluff your way through tomorrow.”

  “Rather defeatist attitude,” he said.

  “Well, I didn’t ask to be immortal,” I said, getting maudlin and staring at the drink in my hand. “Hell, why would anyone? Did you?”

  “Yes,” he said, refusing to elaborate. I took out a smoke and tried to light it but my lighter refused to spark. I saw a slight gesture from Grimm and the tip of my smoke burst into flame.

  “Aww, come on! Now you are really just showing off,” I said, surprised by the display. I took a drag and leaned back. Grimm almost smiled.

  “OK, potential employer, finish with this little interview and employ me, or leave me to the self-pity party I feel building up.”

  Father Grimm slid a small cloth-wrapped object across the table to me, along with a piece of paper. The cloth was ragged and tied down with twine. The paper had an address written on it.

  “Take this object to this location. 50,000 credits up front. Do not open the package. And do not use the he
lp of your bishop friend at the bar.”

  And that was it. The noise of the club rushed back in. He got up, placed a large clinking pouch of credits on the table, put on a battered leather gaucho Stetson, and walked away. I think I was on the mark with that Gandalf comment. I stared at the package and the money. Every atom in my body was saying this was a setup. But I was feeling just drunk and stupid enough to go ahead and do it. I kept staring at the items.

  “Aww, fuck it,” I said to myself. I finished my drink and felt my buzz settle in nice and thick. I relished it. Maz walked over to me.

  “Well?” he asked. “What did he want?”

  I concentrated for a few seconds as every bit of alcohol burned out of my system. Clearheaded, I signaled to Rashethi for a large glass of water.

  “I suspect he wants me to pass a test. And to see if I am stupid enough to walk into a trap,” I said to Maz.

  “Are you?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “Of course you are,” said Maz, shaking his head.

  Rashethi came over with my water and I downed the glass, asking for a second. I thanked her. Picking up the package and the credit pouch, I headed toward the exit. So the spooky Father Grimm wanted to see if I would take his bait and walk into a trap. Problem is, when you get to be my age, you get bored easily. I guess Grimm knew this, and that was why he went out of his way to make this little scene extra intriguing. Walking out, I threw Jensen a nod and made my way down an alley toward my bike.

  I reached my fusion bike and deactivated the cloaker, alarm, and weapon response system. A motorcycle of my own build, based on my father’s designs. Fusion tech isn’t the norm, and it’s wicked expensive. But I know a guy.

  I powered the old girl up and she hummed ready. It looked like something from an old anime movie. I loved it. I rode off, heading south.

  Be careful, said a distinct female voice in my head.

  “I will,” I told the voice.

  Chapter Four

  Fucking with a Mechsquatch

  An hour or so later I sat with my feet dangling from the roof of an old high-rise tenement in a deserted section of the district of Black Marble. The burned-out husk of a building loomed over what used to be called Washington DC. It was around 4 am, and the streets were empty. I was at the location Grimm indicated. The lack of people made me wonder if it was because of the time, or because I was going to be attacked in a loud and collateral damage kind of way.

  The silence was deafening. It was rarely this quiet. After God left, when Hell rose, it was all noise. Loud, painful, burning noise. The wars came, and with it terrible noise. The world was destroyed and the cities then rebuilt, all with endless noise. I took the moment to appreciate the silence, and remember.

  I told Father Grimm the truth. I was sitting in old Baltimore when it happened 175 years ago, smoking a cigarette and drinking bottom-shelf whiskey at an Irish pub’s outside patio, celebrating alone, when the big man in the sky himself appeared over that filthy harbor. The night sky split apart. Void and Existence merged into one. His form was . . . well, each person remembered it differently, but I saw him. God. He tore the world asunder when he appeared and said one fucking word.

  “FORSAKEN.”

  That was it for us all.

  No heavenly host. No trumpets. The sky just cracked apart, and He manifested before all of creation and uttered that painful single resounding word. And that was it. Everyone everywhere felt less. Like a new shade of grey.

  Have you ever disappointed your parents? Or a beloved mentor? Have you ever let down a child, or your damn dog? And for that brief moment they couldn’t stand the sight of you. Then you would be overwhelmed with that feeling. That deep. creeping, empty stomach, spine-chewing, internal agony that only comes from letting a loved one down. Now multiply that feeling by God Almighty and you may get a sense of what the world felt that day.

  And then there was nothing more than the feeling of aloneness. We were cut off. Everyone knew it. Everyone felt it. I almost wept, and many openly did. Others stood there in shock. I had never heard Baltimore that quiet. I reached over the counter and took the bottle of whiskey and dropped a $100 bill and walked away. I made my way down to the harbor, through the people. Some muttered, some prayed. A few just laughed.

  A whole bunch of years ago, some right bastards in Scotland cloned Dolly. And since then mankind raced to map the human genome, to unlock our DNA. And we did it. My dad was part of that team to unlock mankind’s full potential.

  Then mankind had its worst idea. The ultimate cosmic cock-up. Science and religion came to a meeting of the minds. The Catholic Church reached deep into the vault and produced The Cross, or what was left of it. The actual wood the Romans nailed ol’ JC to. Take a guess whose 2000-year-plus-old DNA was deep in the recesses of that wood?

  A few years later, on that night, about sixty seconds before God made his final address, Jesus 2.0 was born. Man did it. We cloned Jesus, and had a surrogate mother carry him to term. He was born and all the news crews covered it. We triumphed at our creation.

  Then we got backhanded in the mouth by a very angry paternal deity.

  You see, on that night, mankind produced the Anti-Christ. And God, I guess, did not take kindly to it. So I walked the harbor, and that was when the earth shook. I do not mean an earthquake. I mean: The. Earth. Shook.

  And then Hell rose. What we came to know was that since God was real, and since he left us, he took with him his grace, his blessing, and his protection.

  People ran and hid. Demons and hellions roamed, freely at first, killing, eating, and fucking. It was basically the worst parts of the Bible come to life. Then something happened.

  Man fought back.

  Say what you will about mankind. There is one thing we are very good at. And that is war. When the first shots rang out, something miraculous happened.

  We found out demons bleed.

  Trust me, everyone—including demons—was amazed to discover that one. Demons also came to discover they got hungry. They felt cold. They had to sleep and shit, just like the rest of us. Coming into our plane of existence once God left caused them to transubstantiate and become flesh. And beings of flesh required food, shelter, and a place to wipe their asses in relative peace.

  Bullets and guns were not enough to kill off all the demons. It was very clear very soon: there were a lot more them than there were of us. For every one we killed, one hundred were there to take its place. Demons were bigger, stronger, and faster. They had the Abominations, true giant monsters from the pit. Dinosaur-sized nightmares that walked the earth and flew in the sky.

  But we had something their minds couldn’t grasp, because their minds were never intended to—technology. The first cyborgs were made then. Military-grade super soldiers that put us on their level physically. They burned fast and hot, but died quickly. For decades and decades this went on. War upon war globally. And they kept coming. Our world was basically destroyed in the process. Because it wasn’t just our world anymore.

  An armistice was eventually reached. Demons, it turns out, enjoyed pop culture. They liked microwave burritos because humans were too gamey. They liked hot showers, soft beds, smoking, and alcohol. But they also liked to rule. Peace talks came and went, battles flared up. In the end, Hell became our masters, the new gentry, and humans became the proletariat. We worked for our new masters, and they treated us well. We ran the power plants because they couldn’t. We built the supercities and they let us live another day. The noise of war eventually died away, replaced by the hum of routine. And we settled into our decline with all the grey-toned whimpers of a sexless marriage.

  After a while, we came to realize that demons from actual Hell were not the worst thing out there. What’s worse than Hell? Let me ask you, do you know your Bible?

  Genesis chapter 1, verse 1 through 3: In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit
of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.

  The key words to take away from that are Darkness, Deep, and Light. There were things in the darkness that could only be in the darkness. They existed in the dark. They were the dark. And when God brought the light, they recessed into the darkness of the Deep. This is not Hell. It predates Hell. Hell came to pass after the war in Heaven. No, these are the Deep Ones. The first. They predate Angels and Demons. God’s original nuisance. When he came to this plane of existence, they were the residents. They were darkness; he was the light, and it was his “light” that held them at bay. Now, he is gone, back to his original state of being. We do not know where or what that is. I don’t think we ever will.

  These Deep Ones have been with mankind since the beginning. And they hate us. They hate Hell. They simply hate. But they also influence. They send their mental imagery out to those who are receptive. And some people have felt their taint. Crowley, Lovecraft, King, Del Toro, to name a few. And due to the Deep Ones, we all live in fear of the water and the mines, the deep dark places where they reside. God’s protective hand of holy light, gone.

  So the elite moved inland and high, while the poor remained seaside and low. But regardless of anyone’s locale, the influence of the Deep Ones can be felt anywhere. Fishing is nearly gone as a food source and only the super-rich can afford to fly. Most people work a normal provisional job, for our lords and masters. There are gangs that live in lawless quadrants. Refugees, occultists, cannibals, and cyberpunks. They pay no tithe and receive no quarter from the law.

  Demons and hellions make up the law enforcement and government. But overlap does occur in menial labor. A hellion out of favor may work at a bar, like Rashethi. But if she were to seduce enough people, destroy enough lives, and prove her corruption to the local bishop, she may be granted favor back into court and higher society. But in her case, that is a big “if.” Maz likes to let his lessers twist in the wind for some time. If she were ever to get back into society, she could out-position Maz, so he can’t have that. I guess she will have to try and kill him. Demon culture is pretty fucked up.