Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Construction is underway.”

  “You’re a clever complex of programs.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “Ready to fire up the main fusion plant?”

  “Very nearly. Shall I pour dinner, Professor?”

  “That sounds good. Oh! And call Mary. If she answers, patch her in.”

  “Coming up.”

  Mary was busy, so she didn’t answer. Diogenes rolled in a small tanker robot and provided a drinking straw.

  For the record, it’s much faster to drink out of a tank than it is out of a creature. All those annoying little blood vessels—it’s like getting the last little bit of toothpaste out of the tube. Admittedly, the toothpaste, in my case, is actively trying to get out, but it still takes more time to get it all. I didn’t need to drink quickly, this time, so I sat back and savored my liquid dinner.

  I stayed like that for a while, in the media room, watching the monitors and gauges as Diogenes pumped the last of the air out of the fusion bottle. I thought about what my altar ego said about depression, among other things. Eventually, I asked Diogenes.

  “Diogenes, am I depressed?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, don’t ask a question if you don’t want an answer. First Mary suggests I might not have my mojo, then a godlike thing says something similar, and now my computer’s psychoanalysis program agrees with them. That’s not annoying in any way.

  “I am?”

  “You exhibit many symptoms of a chronic depression, including lowered decision-making, indications of low self-esteem, decreased levels of formerly enjoyable activities, and excessive insomnia.”

  “I don’t sleep because I’m a part-time undead.”

  “I am told you used to enjoy sleeping, even as an undead. I am unaware of any sleeping on your part since your evacuation from Karvalen.”

  “It’s the psychic dreams. That’s all. And I still do things I enjoy.”

  “Such as regularly spending time with friends and family, going to movies, playing games, laughing and joking with people. Instead of being reclusive and socially isolated.”

  “Your sarcasm module is working perfectly.”

  “It learned from the best.”

  “You know, Raeth and Seldar regularly pissed me off by being right when I didn’t want them to be.”

  “Another reason you avoid contact with people, perhaps?” Diogenes suggested. Damn computer.

  “All right, all right. If I assume I’m mildly depressed—”

  “Chronically depressed, a condition known as ‘dysthymia.’ It is not acute, merely ongoing.”

  “—chronically depressed,” I corrected, “what do I do about it?”

  “Talk therapy, or psychotherapy, is typically used to develop coping mechanisms in the patient. Your coping mechanisms appear to be functional. Antidepressants are contraindicated due to your unusual vitality cycle. They typically require days or weeks to build up in the brain chemistry. Your twice-daily transformations purge foreign material.”

  “What does that leave us?”

  “Healthy lifestyle habits are also difficult to establish. Regular exercise and a well-balanced diet are not easy to determine for your metabolic oddities. You already avoid drugs, alcohol, and smoking. The only other suggestion in the literature involves forming and utilizing strong social bonds with friends and family.”

  “You’re saying I need to take regular naps and get out more?”

  “Those would seem to be the primary options for a depressed vampire, Professor.”

  “And what if I don’t want to do either of them?”

  “It would be consistent with the diagnosis.”

  “Damn!”

  “Shall I schedule naptimes and playdates, Professor?”

  “We need to review your humor algorithms!”

  “Noted. If you do not wish to undertake treatment at this time, may I suggest enchanting another dedicated micro-gate set?”

  “For?”

  “Work therapy.”

  “At least that would be more productive than lying on a couch and lying to a psychiatrist. Do you have a set on hand?”

  “I have thirty sets awaiting enchantment in anticipation of future requirements.”

  “Bring them to the enchanting room, please.” I walked out of the media center, followed by Diogenes’ drone. The hatch hissed closed automatically behind me. I debated continuing the discussion about my mental state. If I continued, Diogenes would simply present more evidence. It’s how he’s built. If I avoided it, I would be adding to the evidence.

  It’s hard to win against a computer. It’s even harder when I’m wrong. Maybe Diogenes needs a programming module for being socially untruthful. Then again, look what happened to HAL 9000.

  Nuts.

  “By the way,” I asked, avoiding the depressing conversation, “have you given any thought to the best-use configuration of solar-conversion panels in a polar position?”

  “Yes, Professor. The layout is available at your convenience.”

  “How long do I have before climate change becomes a factor?”

  “Detrimental climate change is unlikely if the current level of coverage is maintained.”

  “Good. And get me a rundown on the auroras, both borealis and… australius?”

  “Aurora Australis.”

  “Thank you. I’ll want to know what sort of power we’re attempting to tap and what effect it’s likely to have on the planet.”

  “A full briefing is available whenever you wish.”

  “Maybe after I finish a couple of communications gates. And see how Mary’s doing. I need to get out more, right?”

  “Yes, Professor. I believe Mary will be delighted to see you do so.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll work on it.”

  Flintridge, Saturday, September 20th, 1969

  With plans for Diogenes’ new communications relays sorted out, I went through Wardrobe to make sure I was dressed properly before stepping into my shift-booth to Flintridge. Once there, I checked with car rental places, muttering about a lack of twenty-four-hour service. I never appreciated the 21st century and the convenience of all-night everything until I was truly up all night, every night. The only place open was at the airport. I settled for a light-blue Ford Falcon with bench seats, a good motor, and a nasty squeal in tight turns. The radio worked well. I fiddled with the dial periodically to get music.

  I tried calling Mary again. When she did finally answer her Diogephone, she was in Las Vegas.

  “Remind me I need to turn a couple of local closets into shift-booths.”

  “Later, sweetums. The Castiglione family has interests in other cities, too, so I anticipate some travel. Can we get a three-way between L.A., Vegas, and ’Frisco?”

  “Not New York?”

  “I think your Irish friends—the Looney Gang, named after their boss, not their brains—have too much clout on the East Coast for the Castiglione family to be over-involved there. The Irish aren’t too involved out here, for opposite reasons, but they’re thinking about it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Tell you what, if you can get out to Vegas tonight, you can help me a lot with a discussion.”

  “An up-close, personal discussion with someone who doesn’t want to have one?”

  “Yes.”

  I briefly considered taking the flying robot car, but it doesn’t have wheels, tends to draw attention, and would require a private garage to hide it. The only way it could go back to Apocalyptica was through the warehouse. I decided to stick with local transportation.

  “Good thing I already got a car.”

  “I don’t know if you can get here before dawn.”

  “I’ll build a radar-absorbing spell and keep the lights off.”

  “Adventurous,” she commented. “You’re usually more boring than that.”

  “Yeah. I’m not ready for anything interesting,” I agreed. “See you soon.”

  Technically, the a
nti-radar spell was a basic, one-way frequency-shifting spell, lowering everything from the infrared on down into an even lower frequency. This meant any reflected radar was so far out of sync with the projector it didn’t even register a hit. It also ruined radio reception. The Falcon’s radio didn’t get anything worth listening to. I could have Diogenes keep the communications micro-gate open, but that strikes me as wasteful just to have my phone play music.

  I’m not sure how many policemen wondered what roared by in the night, but I had my lights off, it was overcast, and none of their radar units beeped. I was unmolested on my inter-city run, although I did make an unscheduled stop.

  As I was roaring up the I-15, I saw a VW van pulled over on the side of the road. It was clearly being used as a mobile home of sorts, and the flower power paint job stood out even in my greyscale darkvision. When I lit it up with the headlights, the bright colors covered everything but the windows—and even those weren’t completely immune. The cover was open over the engine and the owners painted “Help” on a sheet, hanging it so motorists could see.

  Would I have roared right on by if the owners hadn’t been outside the van, puzzling over the engine? The woman held a baby in her arms, gently bouncing it up and down while she talked with the man. If I hadn’t seen the little one, would I have bothered to stop? Would I have taken any notice of them at all? I would like to think I would have, but I don’t know. There’s a lot about how my heart and mind work—or fail to work—that mystifies me.

  At any rate, I stopped to help. I’m not a mechanic, but I understand the principles of air, fuel, and fire. I can also run psychic tendrils around inside an engine, feel along the fuel lines, taste the spark of electricity when the starter engages, all of it. A car may not have a spirit of its own, but it has a body I can examine in detail.

  I can also take off a fuel filter with my fingers, no tools needed, and clean away the worst of what’s clogging it. With the filter unclogged enough to get them to a garage, I then had to give them a jump start to get the thing going. At last, I got back in the car, waved goodbye, and roared off into the darkness again.

  Who was that masked mechanic? I can check off my random act of kindness for this year.

  Mary and I rendezvoused at the Sunrise Motel. Her sense of humor is impish, possibly mischievous, and sometimes mildly disturbing. She already light-proofed the bathroom in preparation for the dawn, so we sat down to talk seriously.

  “Lorenzo Castiglione,” she said.

  “Not Salvatore?”

  “Lorenzo is his father.”

  “What’s the deal with Lorenzo?”

  “He’s the prime mover here in Las Vegas, at least as far as the Castiglione family is concerned. According to local sources, he’s also the chief financier of the humans hunting vampires. There are rumors he’s highly religious and is carrying on a crusade against all vampire-kind, but also rumors he wants the bloodsuckers gone so we don’t eat his customers and crew.”

  “So, vampires are either hellspawned evil or just another business problem?”

  “Pretty much. I’d like to ask him about it and see if it’s possible to come to an arrangement.”

  “Okay. Let’s do that. Any idea how his vampire-hunting relates to Salvatore’s hunting?”

  “Sort of. My theory is Salvatore wasn’t aware of the existence of vampires, since he was surprised by my transformation and doesn’t know how to kill one.”

  “But Lorenzo runs a vampire-hunting organization?”

  “I suspect Lorenzo doesn’t want the rest of his family involved in his vampire hunting lodge. Most mortal fathers wouldn’t willingly choose to expose their children to the horrors in the shadows.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Either that, or he doesn’t want Salvatore sending him to a padded room. And since neither Salvatore nor Lorenzo wants anyone to think they’re crazy, they probably haven’t compared notes. They will, sooner or later, but I don’t think it’ll be soon unless Salvatore gets careless where Lorenzo can notice.”

  “Add it to the list of things to ask,” I suggested.

  “It’s a long list.”

  “Mental study. I’ll root around and dig up the papers.”

  “I wish I could master that trick,” she pouted.

  “I have tried to teach it to you.”

  “I know. I have a headspace, but I don’t automatically have everything written down. I have to go in there and write it down by hand, not rummage in the pile until I find it. It’s not fair.”

  “I agree. I think we can build an automated scribe spell, if you like. One to write down a transcript of everything you do.”

  “Will that fill up my brain?”

  “Eventually, yes, but you can review your memories periodically and dump the useless stuff. I used to have a number of automated semi-people in my head, but they seem to have suffered somewhat during my basement incarceration.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Probably best,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t want to have to review and delete my daily memory.”

  “You’re a messy housekeeper. You would let it all pile up.”

  “Yes, but I’d probably come up with some sort of fail-safe once it blew up on me.”

  “Assuming you were sane enough to do it.”

  “Excellent point. So, what do you want to do about the local humans-versus-vampire conflict? Or do you think we can just avoid everyone and pretend we don’t know anything?”

  “Lorenzo lives in a penthouse at his hotel.”

  “Seems familiar.”

  “I know. I haven’t got an appointment and I’m torn. Either we approach him openly, honestly, with a sincere desire to meet and discuss, or we go in with the intent to pin him down and interrogate him. Each way has advantages and disadvantages.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. If we go in after him and it goes wrong, I doubt we’ll ever have a chance to negotiate a deal. We’re stuck with killing him or intimidating him. If we intimidate him, it may not stick. Then we have twice as many vampire hunting parties crawling over the city. We have problems, the local vampires have problems, and the local vampires become annoyed with us and give us more problems. Either way, he’s not going to want to talk to us in a civil manner afterward.”

  “Assuming we get in to see him and shake him down. Remember, religious fanatics sometimes have religious powers to counteract our supernatural ones.”

  “I also have mundane powers.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, suspiciously. She smiled.

  “You’ll see. But as I was saying. If we set up an appointment, there are various ways to go about it. We could pose as hunters wanting a sponsor, for example, and sound him out. Then we can kill him later if we need to.”

  “You want to pretend to be a husband-and-wife team of hunters?”

  “We could pull it off. Everyone I worked with on the diamond deal is based in Los Angeles. Even Salvatore is only rarely in Las Vegas, and he’s involved in his own hotel, not the Cosmo.”

  “What’s the Cosmo?”

  “Lorenzo owns the Cosmo. Salvatore has his own place—the Roll ’Em.”

  “The Black King has the Lady Luck, Lorenzo has the Cosmo, and Salvatore has the Roll ’Em. Got it. Continue.”

  “I dye my hair and re-style it, change my makeup, and you grow a beard—it changes your looks more than you realize. Just in case.”

  “I’m not sure I like either of these plans,” I admitted. “Either way, all we absolutely want to know is whether he’s a religious nut out to get us or a businessman who views us as a problem. One we can deal with by doing exactly that—working out a deal. The other we have to kill to stop, and that doesn’t do much to his organization of fanatics, if that’s what they are.”

  “You have a point,” Mary replied, stretching her legs and putting her feet up on a chair.

  “Can’t we dump the diamonds? We could quit the whole illegal trade business, in fact, and go s
trictly legit. Then we can avoid everybody.”

  “We could, but where would be the fun in that?”

  “I acknowledge your point,” I decided, sighing. “I don’t have to agree with it, but I acknowledge it. Fine, fine, fine. We’ll tempt fate. Diamonds for the Castiglione family if we can swing it, other gemstones for the Looney Gang—we’re setting up a drop in New York, though. I don’t want to be involved in a gang war if I can avoid it.”

  “We have to set it up in L.A.,” she countered. “Frank Dermot, the guy you negotiated with, is there.”

  “Crap.”

  “Don’t worry so much, sweetie,” she reassured me. “Diogenes will get his resources and I’ll be enormously entertained. I like how you’re thinking about it, too. You’re engaged. You’re focused. I’m liking it.”

  “You’re welcome. I am trying.”

  “I can tell. So think about the nutjobs with stakes. How do we deal with the hunting branch of the Castiglione family?”

  “Rather than confront the big boss man, why not work on identifying his organization? Tap his phones, put cameras on the hotel, gather intelligence, and run it all through Diogenes to get an organizational chart? It’ll take a while to gather data, but it may answer our questions about his motives without alerting him or sticking our faces in the fire.”

  “How so?”

  “If we find he’s calling the Vatican for advice, that’s a result. If a henchman holds briefings in the parking garage after everyone takes holy communion, that’s an indicator. If we can’t find any priests that ever come to visit, and he never goes to church, that’s another sort of result. See what I mean? We may be able to tell a lot simply by looking.”

  “And we simply sit back and wait for Diogenes to give us all the answers?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. You get to place all the bugs, find the phone lines and tap them, and consult with the rest of the undead community on what they’ve actually seen, rather than only their rumors.”

  Mary was thoughtful, putting her hands behind her head and leaning back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. She tilted the chair back on two legs, rocking it slightly while she thought.