by Garon Whited
Frank was thoughtful. Shakespeare and Gorilla salivated. Shakespeare put his gun away and ran sparkly rocks through his hands.
“Paulie. Put those down.”
“But, Frank, the guy said—”
“Put them down, dammit! Always thinking small, that’s your problem.” Frank eyeballed me. “You’re telling me we can make way more than this?”
“The boss will supply as much as you can move, so it’s up to you. The boss doesn’t like putting too many eggs in one basket, of course. That’s why the Castiglione family only moves diamonds. We can get you these three kinds of gems, of course, and gold—all of it untouched by governments, taxes, tariffs, and other such encumbrances. Pretty much anything you like, really, that Customs agents love to slap a tax on.”
“Anything?”
“Almost anything,” I corrected. “There are things he can’t get out of South—” I cut myself off, as though I’d said too much. “There are things too hard to smuggle,” I corrected. “He also won’t touch anything that’s illegal for a good reason. Most drugs, for example. Human trafficking. Stuff like that. High-class, all the way, every day, in every way.”
“Who, exactly, do you work for?”
“He strongly prefers to remain nameless and unconnected, for obvious reasons. If you do meet him—if you move a lot of product—you may get an invitation you didn’t expect to a party or other gathering. You might meet him there, socially, but it will never be related to the business side of things. Like I said, high-class, never crass, and never anything to connect him to the business.”
“Guys.” Frank and his two friends stepped out into the warehouse to discuss. Even during the day, my ears are pretty good; I heard them whispering and knew we would work out a deal. I opened the medicine cabinet and took some aspirin.
Mary triggered the garage door and drove her car—a violently red Toronado—into the building. I was still lying down in the bedroom, nursing a headache, and muttering low-grade healing spells. She came into our apartment area in the corner and turned on the lights. I groaned and laid an arm across my eyes.
“Did you get a lift home?” she called out from the kitchen area, setting down some shopping bags. “I looked for you at the apartment.”
“You could say that,” I called back, as quietly as I could. “I have a headache.”
“Poor baby.” She came into the bedroom and sat beside me. “Did something go wrong?”
“Depends on how you judge it. We now have a partner who thinks he can move all the gems and the gold.”
“Wow! The Castiglione family is spreading out faster than I thought,” she said, quietly.
“It’s not them. It’s one of their competitors, some Irish guys from the East Coast trying to push into the West Coast.”
“Oh?” She frowned in thought. “How did they… was the note from Salvatore or not?”
“Not. The Irish guys want us to stop dealing with the Castiglione family and be exclusive with them.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure we want to side with newcomers.”
“I know. I figure we’ll have a quiet word with Salvatore about a new drop, then make arrangements for a drop in New York, to keep our Emerald Isle allies from suspecting.”
“Yes… yes, I think we can do that. Maybe we should consider someplace in Las Vegas for the Castiglione drop. I seem to recall Salvatore mentioned something about family operations there. It might help to avoid conflicts. I’ll double-check with him.”
“Are you sure? Most of the Las Vegas variants we’ve been to have a huge number of the local vampires. It’s worse than Santa Carla. Even that post-nuclear Las Vegas had a mutated-human version of vampires.”
“I’m not sure those count,” she replied, doubtfully. “They didn’t live long, they could eat things besides blood, and they reproduced sexually.”
“They had fangs and excellent night vision, preferred blood, and sunburned easily. Close enough for the locals.”
“I guess we can count them in the vampire species catalog,” she agreed, reluctantly. “I’ll give you three to two Flintridge has vampires of some sort.”
“No bet.”
“Maybe it’s a type we can fake,” she added. “We could blend in and enjoy some underground night life.”
“I think you just want to drag me through another mirror funhouse,” I accused, grinding the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“I can’t help it if you’re amusing,” she replied, smiling and rubbing my temples with her fingertips.
“You mean everyone else is amusing when I don’t have a reflection.”
“Well, yes. Bad headache?”
“Hell, yes. Mild concussion, I think, but I’m not thinking at a hundred percent. I’m having trouble with bright lights and I’m a trifle nauseous, too. There may be other symptoms of a concussion, but I don’t remember them right now. I’ve got a piddly little healing spell going, but it takes time. The frailties of living flesh are not helping.”
“Especially in a low-magic environment like this one,” she agreed. “Poor baby. Did the bad men do mean things to you?”
“Baseball bat. He wasn’t trying to kill me, just knock me out. He did, too. I think he needs more practice. If he knocked me cold, he’s going to wind up killing mortals here and there.”
“Planning to eat him?”
“Not while we’re doing business with him. I’m also not going to do him any favors,” I added, darkly.
“Do you want to stay and watch over the transfer of the copper Diogenes ordered? You can go back to Apocalyptica if you want. I won’t mind.”
“Maybe I should. Whichever course gets me to nighttime quickest. And I still think we could stop dealing with the criminal element. We’ve established enough of a legitimate presence in this world to quit the illegal money. Haven’t we?”
“Moving commodities cheap in one world and expensive in another is our major profit maker, but to maximize that, we need to avoid too much government scrutiny. I suppose,” she added, looking up and tapping her lips, “we could take out a patent on something they haven’t quite invented yet and rent it to somebody. Manufacturing methods for slightly better computer chips, for example. We don’t do much but collect the money, that way.”
“Maybe later. The idea is to have a steady income over time so Diogenes can order whatever resources he’s most lacking in Apocalyptica, not spend money like movie stars.”
“I like spending money. I like making a profit off the criminal classes, too. They never go to the cops.”
“Yes, but they don’t need to if we’re not stealing—aha!” I exclaimed and regretted it. “Ow. You’re planning to burgle someone.”
“Yes, but he deserves it.”
“I’m too tired to ask searching questions. Please be careful.”
“I always am. More careful than you, judging by your headache.”
“I’m a trusting soul.”
Mary made a strangled sort of sound, a suppressed laugh. I ignored it with dignity as I opened my disguised Diogephone—the model I carried here was disguised as a cigarette case. Diogenes agreed that sunset was closer in Apocalyptica, so, after Mary helped me to my feet, I stepped into the closet and it shifted me back.
Apocalyptica, Friday, August 29th, Year 11
Diogenes met me in the Hall of Doors with a medical robot. It gave me three injections and insisted on being a wheelchair. My head was hurting, so I gave in. The robot hummed along to the residential area.
I laid myself down in the shower area of our quarters. It’s big enough for four, has benches for lounging, and comes equipped with settings for mist, drizzle, downpour, pulse massage, and the more mundane jets of water. It didn’t help much, but the injections Diogenes administered took hold fairly quickly. My head stopped throbbing, at least. I know better than to push my luck in these circumstances, though. I stayed down and enjoyed the warm mist, dim lights, and quiet music. Gentle strings, slow tempo, and nothing sharp or jumpy. Very nice.
It was a good place to be for the local sunset. I felt immediately better. There are advantages to vampire regeneration, especially when your personal version of Skynet has cloning facilities. I don’t routinely bathe in blood, but it’s reassuring to know I can. I double-checked my usual array of spells and wondered if I should get a haircut. I can’t tell at night—no reflection—but when hair starts to get in my eyes, it’s time.
“Professor?” Diogenes asked, through a hovering drone. “Would you like to review the latest model of the Blacks?”
“Are you still upgrading those cyborg horses?”
“Always, Professor. You mentioned the smell of ozone in the current model, as well as an unnatural level of stillness when not walking.”
“You couldn’t possibly grow a new clone so quickly.”
“Theoretically, I can use a cargo shift-booth to place multiple clone tanks in other world-lines of the multiverse. Statistically speaking, once the gate connection is cut, one of them should immediately run at a faster temporal rate. It is a wasteful technique, however, and should probably be used only for sufficiently high-priority production.”
“No kidding. All right, I give up. How did you manage this so fast?”
“The Blacks are genetically-engineered horses from several species across several worlds. Growing them is still limited by organic processes, but the biological components of the design are finalized, barring exceptional discoveries. Keeping several grown specimens in stasis is not a material drain on resources.
“Implanting mechanical and electronic components takes relatively little time, but the organic recovery time from surgery and other techniques must be factored in. This was something of an issue in solving the ozone problem. However, altering their behavioral programming is purely a digital action. The brain implants are, in essence, dedicated microcomputers. Updating their firmware is much less time-consuming.”
“I see. So, the latest model should act more like a horse and less like a robot?”
“Yes, Professor. I believe I have also corrected the design fault causing the ozone production. Future models should be better.”
“I look forward to seeing them.”
“I also have a fusion plant test, if you are prepared to observe.”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You usually go home after world-gate travel.”
“The Manor is not my home, Diogenes. It’s just a quiet place I like.”
“I am uncertain about the difference, but the distinction is noted. If you have time, I do require your assistance with the magical components of the experimental reactor. Those are not subject to my analysis.”
“I know I enchanted a couple of cameras and lenses for you.”
“If something goes wrong, I will lose them. I prefer not to risk their destruction.”
“Good point. Got mundane eyes on it?”
“If you would care to step into the media room, I will provide multiple views.”
I dried and dressed, then left our quarters in silo two and rode the slidewalk through the underground tunnel. It’s a pretty fair walk to the media room and the Hall of Doors. They’re in a separate structure—silo one—because I don’t want to sleep in the same converted missile silo as multiple portals to other worlds. I’m funny that way, which is weird, considering the fact I don’t sleep.
Technically, the Hall of Doors is A Hall Full of Closets. It’s a jumbo hallway done in an Industrial motif, including reinforcing girders and concrete. It extends through bedrock from the basement of silo one and goes nowhere. That is, it’s a dead-end corridor. It’s lined with doors. The doors lead to closet-like rooms of various sizes, each corresponding to a specific room in another world. Since travel is possible in both directions, it seemed wise to isolate the Hall of Doors and have it well-defended. Between my second-favorite chair and the Hall, there are also several hatches, two sets of blast doors, a long walk, and whatever armaments Diogenes hid inside the walls.
I haven’t asked. I’m not going to. It would only make me nervous walking down the corridors.
The media room—well, the main media room; there are other, less fancy versions—is in silo one, two hatchways from the Hall of Doors. It’s circular, with individual screens all the way around, and a unit to project holograms in the middle. The individual screens can also project images to some extent, making their images spring outward and enlarge—handy for when I want to focus on one of them. There are two chairs, both on wheels and reinforced to take my weight. These have jointed arms with mirrors—mirrors already enchanted as scrying devices. Other than that, it’s clean, clear, and empty. It’s Spartan, functional, almost sterile.
I parked myself in one chair and brought the mirror up. Diogenes built a composite holographic image of the fusion reactor test unit. I wheeled the chair closer to the central projector. I guessed the simulated viewpoint was from about six miles, give or take. It gave me something to shoot for in my scrying mirror.
“Ready?” I asked, once the mirror stabilized.
“Yes, Professor.”
“I’ve got a good image of the plasma injector, but let me shift to a psychic viewing mode to avoid any potential solar problems… there. Now a false-color magical energy filter. Okay, I’m good. You may fire when ready.”
“Activating electromagical transformer. Power optimum. Crystals at capacity. Pinpoint gate ready. Targeting locked. In three… two… one…”
The psychic image in the mirror wasn’t a real image. It was more of a mental illusion than an actual picture, and deliberately so. We were dealing with solar power and lots of it. I’ve had my face lasered off by sunlight before, which isn’t as pleasant as it sounds.
Nonetheless, the flare of light was momentarily painful. It was a stinging shock, transmitted through the spell an instant before it failed. It didn’t hurt the mirror or its enchantment, but the scrying sensor at the observation end, inside the reactor, snuffed out.
In the holographic image, however, there was a rising cloud of light and fire and smoke. The mushroom cloud was already starting to form.
“I think we goofed somewhere,” I observed, rubbing my temples. Losing a psychic link always hurts a little, but the backlash was already fading.
“I am forced to agree, Professor. You will excuse me, I hope, in suggesting it is your goof?”
“Of course, since you’re probably right. Why do you think it’s my goof?”
“The magnetic containment equipment is a proven design, a mature technology commercially available in the world from which we downloaded the schematics.”
“Fair enough. So the gate, itself—” As I spoke, Mary opened the door to the media center and stuck her head in.
“Are we going to—what have you done?”
“Probably miscalculated,” I told her. “Diogenes and I are trying to build a hybrid science-magic fusion plant so he doesn’t have to spend so much time and effort salvaging and remanufacturing solar panels, mining and refining thorium, all that stuff.”
“I thought he had all the power in the world. Didn’t he already rebuild the Niagara thing? Adam Beck something?”
“That was the original plant, pre-holocaust,” Diogenes corrected. “Our new generating station was built at the new location of the falls, farther upriver, and named after Nikola Tesla. Since there are no agencies to restrict water use, the entirety of the river is being used for electrical production, rather than allowing it to erode the new lip above Crater Lake—”
“It generates a lot of power, yes,” I interjected, “but Diogenes keeps expanding his robot legions and manufacturing facilities. It’s not easy, this salvaging, mining, refining, repairing, and maintaining everything. The robot bulldozers and trucks and whatnot in the radiation zones are a headache all by themselves, you know. Cleaning up after nukes—even after a thousand years—isn’t cheap or easy.”
“The ongoing project of probing and cataloging random worlds is also a major power expenditure
,” Diogenes added. “Lesser power costs include maintaining a constant level of power through the electromagical transformers in the Habitat area, as well as powering both personal and cargo-sized shift-booths. I also maintain a constant magical flux in my central computer core area.”
“That’s why we parked the wormhole exploration equipment at Niagara, so the falls could power the project,” I pointed out, and sighed. “I was hoping we could have enough thorium reactors online quickly enough to make Cheyenne Mountain viable as the main exploration site.”
“Why?”
“I thought it would be a good place to put a wormhole exploration facility.”
“If you say so.”
“Plus, we keep learning new things from new worlds and wind up needing more power. Two or three years ago, we bought him a bunch of superconductor-based dynamos, remember? It took time and resources to pull the old ones and put the new ones in, then even more to recycle the old ones. And just the other day, he downloaded a whole slew of new stuff from… uh…”
“Serial number 5-7-8-1-7-7-3,” Diogenes supplied. “No name designation as yet. Advanced technology, minimal magical flux, high pollution, above-normal radiation levels, extensive wireless computer networking, former global government balkanized into smaller states. Data mining is being given priority due to the aftermath of biological warfare. Probe gate three has been taken out of rotation to maintain a constant connection for data connectivity.”
“Right. He’s got a dozen or more new processes and techniques for manufacturing, as well as new designs for equipment. Now he has factories to upgrade, retrofitting them. It’s like watching the Industrial Revolution every month.”
“Sweetheart,” Mary said, eyeing the still-rolling mushroom cloud, “what I’m interested in is that,” she emphasized, gesturing at the hologram.
“The original Trinity test site. Seemed appropriate as a place to risk it, and it’s geographically isolated. The weather is cooperating and there are mountains between Trinity and the closest refugee settlements… Diogenes?”
“Poncha Springs and Cripple Creek are the closest. Fallout is minimal. Current weather shows what contaminants there are should miss the settlements and their connecting roads, as well.”