Entromancy

by M. S. Farzan

  The Pitcher looked up at Gloric, blue eyes wide.

  “Unlimited ammo!” the gnome finished, clapping his hands.

  Tribe let out a low whistle into the stunned silence. The wolf sniffed at the globe a couple of times, uninterested.

  “Thank you, Glory,” Alina said finally, putting a hand on his little shoulder.

  “Yes, yes of course,” he fussed, blushing a little. “One button to start, two to engage, and another to return to idle.”

  “Got it,” she said confidently, pressing the button again and returning it to the satchel. I was a little jealous.

  I gathered my things and we exited the SUV, joining Doubleshot next to her motorcycle. The air was crisp and stars visible above the road, providing a small amount of illumination next to a pale moon.

  “Where do we find them?” I asked as we walked up.

  “They’ll find us,” she said, planting her feet firmly and staring towards the east.

  We didn’t have long to wait. After a few minutes, I could pick out several figures melting out of the shadowed boulders and evergreens at either side of the freeway.

  They were rugged, and they were armed. Twenty or more dwarf-sized aurics paced deliberately out into the roadway to encircle us, all manner of axes, picks, rifles, and shotguns brandished openly. They stopped within five paces of us, ceridium weapons glowing at the ready.

  As instructed by our guide, we kept our hands empty and visible, which was not easy. Every bone in my body screamed for me to draw my pistol and nightblade and fight my way back to the coast, but I managed to keep myself in check.

  “Rodder,” Doubleshot acknowledged the dwarf in front of her, a squat fellow with a greying blond beard braided into his bushy hair and curling yellow horns jutting from his forehead.

  “Vasshka,” he said. “Back already?”

  “You know how it is.”

  “Running to, or from?”

  “Neither,” our guide said smoothly. “These folks need to speak with the Sigil.”

  The grizzled dwarf peered at us each in turn, his black eyes unreadable. “Humans?”

  “Not really,” Doubleshot replied.

  Rodder looked us up and down again, then left his post to briskly march over to me.

  “What’s a fed-loving scab want in dwarf land?” he asked in a low voice, looking up at me. I could smell coriander on his breath.

  I held his stare, feeling the eyes of my party and the ring of aurics on me. “Sanctuary,” I said.

  His bulbous nose twitched as though he was sniffing the truth out of me. “Vasshka?” he barked without turning.

  “He’s good,” Doubleshot said from over his shoulder. “Confused, but good.”

  Rodder measured me again, then relented, stepping towards our guide. The ring of dwarfs stood placidly, squat sentinels in the road.

  “You know the way,” he said curtly. Some unspoken message passed between them that I couldn’t decipher.

  “That I do,” Doubleshot agreed. They bowed slightly to each other and Rodder turned on his heel, signaling to his patrol. The dwarves sifted back into the wilderness as quickly as they had arrived.

  We got back in the SUV and followed Vasshka through the mountains, seeing the remnants of human civilization as we drove. Here and there, road signs had been cut down or boarded over, and a few abandoned cars littered the shoulder. If there were auric settlements this far west, their entrances were invisible from the freeway. Unlike most of the underrace population, dwarves actually preferred living underground, and made excellent basement renters.

  It took a few minutes after crossing the border for us to see the drones. Flitting like fireflies, they zipped across the roadway in the distance, flying unerringly from the left to the right. There were only a few at first, but as we neared the exit to the city center, they grew in number, gliding overhead in a swarm of lights.

  The city itself stood like a bright beacon in the inky desert. The abandoned region was dark as far as the eye could see, save the central casino district, which was lit with a kaleidoscope of colors. The drones, almost invisible against the light, were indeed flying in the same direction, but turned in their course when they reached the outer limit of the city.

  “They’re going in circles,” Gloric breathed next to me, pressing his bearded face against the window.

  “Have we got a game plan?” Tribe asked as Alina followed Doubleshot off the freeway and into the city center.

  “I sure hope so,” I said, out of my depth.

  We drove in between the towering buildings, skyscraping casinos plastered with AR digads amid brightly lit parking structures and rows of empty restaurants. Fountains spewed forth colorful cascades for no one, and the deserted streets were only more eerie for their brilliance. We drove past a sign that would have once read Reno - The Biggest Little City in the World, but its augmented reality wiring now made it display simply, Reno - The Best City.

  “The marquis,” Alina said, pointing as she drove.

  I looked outside my window at the moving signs abutting the casinos, each pulsing in my lenses with AR filters. They all creepily read the same message.

  “Welcome, SF Guests,” Tribe read aloud.

  “Well, that’s nice,” Gloric said.

  Doubleshot drove into a long, curving driveway adjacent to a large casino, stowing her bike and motioning for us to join her. Alina pulled the SUV in behind the dwarf’s bike, parking in what looked like an empty valet zone.

  “Brilliant, just brilliant!” Gloric exclaimed, bounding out of the SUV. The rest of us joined him more slowly, taking in the light and color.

  The dwarf took us through a set of tinted doors that opened as we approached, blasting us with air conditioning and the deafening clamor of slot machines. The interior of the casino seemed somewhat lively compared to the deserted city, and managed to be even more colorful. Rows upon rows of jackpots, Blackjack machines, and other consoles stood protectively around empty card tables and roulette wheels, blaring their jingles noisily. The place smelled of carpets and old tobacco smoke.

  “Where is everyone?” Alina wondered out loud.

  “Utah, mostly,” Vasshka answered, sauntering through the casino. “When we took Nevada, most of them went east, or north to Oregon or Idaho.”

  “I thought you said the Sigil was in Sparks,” I said to Gloric.

  The gnome shrugged, looking up at the building’s ostentatious chandeliers and ceiling paintings. “He must have liked it here better.”

  “This way,” Doubleshot said, leading us down a side corridor and through an enormous doorway framed in marble that was etched with the word COLISEVM.

  We walked through two sets of automatic doors into a large, open-air stadium that had been built to resemble an ancient arena. Rows of marble benches encircled a long pitch, which itself was rounded by a dirt running track. Several standing lamps lit the field in radiance, casting the yellowish grass in a warm light.

  The arena’s inhabitants were a strange motley of electronic visitors. All manner of machines, from ancient personal computers and flashlights to the most modern holodisplays and portable generators littered the field. There were even a few vehicles parked along the track. The drones circled overhead, buzzing.

  “God be praised,” Gloric declared, picking up his pace. Buster trailed after him, snuffling at the various electronics.

  At the center of the pitch sat an old human, dressed simply in a long, flowing robe and wire-framed spectacles. The man was perched cross-legged on an ornate circular pillow, writing furiously at a digital tablet. A long oval of grass surrounded him, free of the electronic clutter save for a small circular device next to him.

  The human looked up as we approached, squinting and tugging at his beard. “He said you’d be here ten minutes ago,” the man said crabbily.

  Vasshka shrugged. “Rodder wanted to talk.”

  The man threw his hands up irritably, clumsily dropping the digitab. “Dwarves, always meddli
ng,” he muttered, fumbling after the tablet.

  Alina and Tribe exchanged looks, unsure. Gloric had taken his hat off of his head, mesmerized by the round machine. His heavy backpack looked comical on his small body.

  I cleared my throat and stepped forward. “Sigil,” I said stiffly, “we need your help to prevent a civil war.”

  “You’ve come far, Eskander Aradowsi,” a digital voice purred.

  I looked down at the circular device. It was a plain, thick grey disc, with a panel of LED lights and buttons and some faded, indecipherable writing. It continued talking, lights flashing as it spoke. “I bid you and your companions welcome, and shall help you if I can.”

  There are few instances that I can recall being struck completely speechless, having not the slightest idea what to say or how to proceed. This was one of them. Fortunately, Gloric broke the silence with his excitement.

  “Oh, Your Grace, it is so very good to meet you!” he said to the machine. “I have been looking forward to this day since my first reprogram!”

  “Welcome, Gloric Vunderfel,” the little thing buzzed, and the man beside him scribbled at his digitab, recording. “Your reputation precedes you. My drones tell me very good things about your work.”

  The gnome beamed, and I took a closer look at the device, racking my brain for where I had seen its kind before. Recognition dawned as I remembered seeing a similar contraption in an architecture museum years ago, which had among its collection a number of household appliances that had been used in prior decades. This disc-shaped thing resembled exactly an automatic vacuum device that was purported to be among the first advances towards artificial intelligence. The very premise of true AI had been proved laughable as the science of technology progressed, but it seemed that not everyone knew everything.

  Tribe and Alina seemed to catch on about as quickly as I did. I recovered from my surprise, kneeling in front of the machine.

  “Your Grace,” I said formally, “we have come at great peril to ask for your wisdom on the Inquisitor General’s schemes to initiate a war with Aurichome. I intend to expose their plans, but our technomancer,” I nodded at Gloric, “has informed us that the information we seek is not accessible through the network.”

  “Your technomancer knows much, Eskander Aradowsi,” the Sigil said, “but he sees facts, not patterns. The Inquisitor General and the auric king do indeed intend war with one another. Yet they are neither what they seem.”

  I thought about the Sigil’s words, holding Buster at arm’s length. The wolf was trying to get his snout within sniffing range of the device.

  “They’re working together?” I asked slowly.

  The machine beeped in what must have been a nod. “It will be a tipping point in the battle of races. A watershed moment in the history of nations.”

  That sparked something. “Project Watershed,” I said, looking to the group for support. “What is it?”

  “I do not know the answer to this question,” the Sigil replied mechanically.

  I sat back on my haunches, thinking. Karthax and the auric king being in cahoots would explain the dispensary full of ragers, and the NIGHT-trained auric assassins after us. I couldn’t quite grasp what either faction would get out of a full-blown war.

  “Tribe Achebe,” the Sigil continued. “You too are not what you seem. You must decide which of the paths in front of you to take.”

  Tribe shifted nervously, reaching into a pocket for his Oxidium, then remembering where he was and dropping his hand. “OK,” he said quietly.

  The little vacuum turned on its wheels, facing Alina, then Gloric, and Vasshka. It seemed to be calculating.

  “Alina Hadzic,” it intoned, “fight for that in which you believe, and your aim will always strike true.”

  The Pitcher breathed in through her nose, considering. She nodded at the Sigil.

  It turned to Gloric. “Gloric Vunderfel. My eyes and ears are everywhere, but they have no direction. I would have you be their captain.”

  The gnome stood like a statue, unmoving. I nudged him gently with my elbow, holding back the wolf with my other hand.

  “Yes, yes, Your Grace,” Gloric said, falling to a knee. “It would be my honor and privilege.”

  “Very well,” the Sigil droned. “My Scribe will contact you when you return to the coast.

  “Vasshka Lestrage,” it continued. The dwarf inclined her head soberly.

  “You owe me fifty dollars for the Chinatown wager,” the Sigil said.

  Vasshka smirked, then rummaged in a pocket and handed the Scribe a wad of paper money.

  “Amateurs,” the old man mumbled as he took the cash, not looking up from his digitab.

  “Now,” the Sigil said, whirring back towards me. “Do you have the information you need?”

  “I think so,” I lied. I was having a hard time getting my mind to stop racing, and felt like I had a hundred questions to ask. I picked one.

  “If Karthax and the auric king are working together, it would seem that the Inquisitor General would have everything to gain and nothing to lose, is that correct?”

  “Indeed, it would seem that way,” the Sigil agreed.

  “Unless,” Alina chimed in, “Karthax has agreed to give Thog’run something.”

  “But what would Thog’run want that only Karthax can give him?” I mused aloud.

  “The city.”

  Alina and I turned towards Tribe, taking in his words. Even Gloric looked up from his place of reverence.

  The thief shrugged. “What else could he want?”

  It made sense. The auric king had land and he had power, but a nation needs a capital. And there would be no better way to address the civilized world as a sovereign than from the seat of anti-underrace leadership itself.

  The pieces started to fall into place. Thog’run offers a handful of ragers to the slaughter, Karthax throws a Nightpath into the pot. The media stirs the public into a frenzy, forcing the government’s hand into igniting a war with Aurichome. The NIGHTs strategically surrender San Francisco to the auric king, ceding to the lesser evil for the greater good. Thog’run would be given a larger platform, but from Karthax’s perspective, it was one that could be controlled and contained. The plan would doubly allow the NIGHTs to save face by not appearing to have diplomatic relations with the revolutionaries.

  A plan began forming in my head, but I would need to gain access to the secured data drive, and that would require going into the lion’s den. I knew who would be protecting it.

  “Agrid the Destroyer,” I said to the Sigil. “What role does he play in all of this?”

  The vacuum buzzed, calculating. It turned to the left, then to the right, and back again. The stadium hummed with the sound of different appliances.

  “You may ask him yourself,” the Sigil said, pointing itself towards the marble entryway. “He is here.”

  SEVEN

  The most experienced mancers believe ceridium to be the axis upon which all magic turns. The uninitiated see it as a mystical element that is foreign to nature. Neither of these opinions is accurate.

  -The Sigil of Sparks

  I wheeled back towards the arena’s entrance, just in time to see the assassin stalk through the marble doorway, lackeys in tow. He walked with single-minded purpose, snaking in between the sundry machines with his crimson eyes unerringly upon us. His white skin appeared ghostly pale in the stadium light, and I counted twenty-two underrace henchmen behind him.

  I drew my nightblade and pistol as they approached, and without a word of communication, my companions followed suit. Tribe pulled out a semi-automatic ceridium rifle from somewhere, and Alina palmed the blue sphere, initializing its processor and return function. Gloric pushed a button on his digitab, and four robotic arms slithered out of his huge backpack, reaching over his little shoulders to train what looked like small missiles on the advancing assassins. Buster, almost as large as the little gnome, lowered himself to the ground in a ready position, growling. Only Va
sshka remained still, crossing her arms lazily in front of her.

  “Welcome, Agrid Ogreson,” the Sigil said as the Destroyer reached at the edge of the oval. The auric stood waiting, staring at me.

  “I have no quarrel with you, Sigil,” the assassin said. His voice was smooth but menacing, like a poisonous gas slipping free from a canister.

  “Nor I with you or your masters,” the vacuum replied, its lights turning a shade of red that matched the entromancer’s overcoat.

  “Then turn these ones over to me.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  The entromancer took a step into the oval, reaching into his crimson overcoat for something.

  The Sigil’s response was immediate. Dozens of mechanical and ceridium artillery weapons rose out of the thousands of machines in the arena, pointing at the assassins. They buzzed and clicked, filling the coliseum with power.

  “I will not have bloodshed in my sanctuary,” the Sigil intoned.

  The Destroyer stopped in his tracks. I could hear the Scribe behind me pause in his writing.

  Slowly, the assassin removed his hand from his coat, holding it up in a signal of acquiescence. His red eyes burned holes into mine.

  “Very well,” he said. “We shall wait outside.”

  The auric turned on his heel confidently, signaling to his party. The assassins left as quickly as they had come, disappearing into the casino.

  I started breathing again, putting away my weapons. The others did the same, and the Sigil’s weapons lowered themselves among the arena’s appliances.

  “Rude,” said the Scribe, resuming his scribbling.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” the Sigil spoke. “Yet I cannot protect you outside of these walls.”

  I nodded, understanding. “You have already helped us immensely, Your Grace. I appreciate your help.”

  “And I appreciate your honesty, Eskander Aradowsi. May you see the daylight again. My Scribe will be in contact with you, if that is the case.”

  We said our goodbyes to the Sigil, Gloric genuflecting again. As we walked towards the entryway, Tribe hurried to jump out in front of the group.