Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “I’ll take care of it,” she promised.

  “Do you want to know what I’d like?” I asked, ushering her into the wardrobe department.

  “No. I barely trust you to dress yourself, much less decorate. You would make everything white and install a pattern of roundels in all the walls.”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad—”

  “Yes, it is,” she informed me, firmly.

  “Oh. If you say so,” I agreed, as I started changing clothes. My cloak flowed completely around me, skin-tight, so I could put clothes on over it. It didn’t want to let go of me, for some reason. Maybe it missed me. It doesn’t usually get separated from me and seemed to feel the experience was traumatic.

  The last time I was in Cripple Creek—the refugee village I designated Cripple Creek—the styles were almost medieval. I think it’s a side effect of forcing people to be self-supporting. They spin thread, weave cloth, cure leather, all that sort of thing. For me, wearing my usual Karvalen outfit would be appropriate. Once dressed, my cloak oozed out and turned back into a cloak.

  “So, you were talking about a date? Does this involve the nuclear refugees?” Mary asked.

  “Yep. The first set, anyway.”

  “Oh! That’s the one where the little girl asked you to save them?”

  “Shut up.”

  Mary snickered at my reply.

  “And now you’re rushing off to save her again?”

  “I am not. She simply wants help. She doesn’t need saving.”

  “Oh. Well, I stand corrected.”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at,” I admitted.

  “You rescue a hundred or so people from a world gone nuclear,” she pointed out, “and then make them support themselves.”

  “They had to survive on their own, anyway,” I pointed out, “but in a radioactive environment. And they weren’t doing too well. This is an improvement.”

  “Yes, I know. Look, I remember how this went. They get taken out of an atomic wasteland, run through Diogenes’ best battery of medical fixer-uppers, and plunked down in a prefab village. Their lot in life and life expectancy is infinitely improved. You’ve done your bit. They’re a sizable village, doing farming and whatnot. What I don’t get is the village. Just a village. Why not build them a… a…”

  “Civilization?”

  “For lack of a better word, yes.”

  “Two reasons. First off, I don’t know what I’d do with them. A civilization demands people interact. Sure, I can have Diogenes build them an automated version of a city, provide food, water, housing, power, even entertainment for the asking. And what will they do? Sit around and watch holovision all day?”

  “They might want to do other things,” she reasoned. “They could want to be useful.”

  “You have more faith in their motives and motivation than I do. Which brings me to my second reason. If I provide the civilization, it’s my civilization. I define the mold of it, the pattern of it. Conversely, if I turn them loose on the world with the resources and knowledge to make of it what they will, then they are making their own civilization. It’s their culture, their customs, their values.”

  “And their fault if it all goes wrong?” she teased.

  “Yes,” I stated, flatly.

  “Oh. I was kidding.”

  “I’m not. I’m not qualified to design a culture. I’m barely qualified to grow one in a petri dish.”

  “If that’s the case, why do you have Diogenes teaching school? You always say you don’t want to interfere.”

  “School is not interfering. They have holographic environment rooms so Diogenes can provide information for them to use. What they do with it—or even if they make use of it—is entirely up to them.”

  “Except you feed any children who attend school.”

  “Diogenes does, but I accept responsibility. It encourages them to send the kids to school.”

  “And you control what they learn,” she added.

  “I’m not teaching them values or socializing them. That’s for their parents and community. Diogenes is teaching them logic, critical thinking, and memory skills. Brains are like muscles. They’re being changed from fat, couch-potato brains to lean, strong, hardy brains. First, they learn to think. Then they learn facts and make their own decisions.”

  “And when Patty calls, you go.”

  “First of all, her name is Patricia. Second, she says she has an evil stepfather—evil enough that the little figurine I gave her triggered.”

  “Are you sure it’s not just teenage angst?”

  “No, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m going to check.”

  “Ah. Do you want me to come?”

  “You’re perfectly welcome, but I don’t insist.” I strapped on a low-slung holster and a spare saber. Both would blend in, if it mattered. They have the guns they brought with them when they evacuated. I thought it a good idea to have an armed populace. We have automated anti-monster defenses, but they’re not perfect.

  I also realized I would miss my previous sword. I’ve had it for quite a while.

  “Tease. How about I crack the whip over Diogenes while you handle your pet human?”

  “I can live with that.”

  “You’re happy,” Mary observed.

  “I’m happy,” I agreed. “It feels like half my soul just got reattached.”

  “I guess that would do it. Okay,” she agreed. I kissed her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank me later,” she purred, not letting go of me.

  “Deal. Diogenes?”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “Where’s my shoulder bag?”

  “Coming up, along with your wrist communicator. Your new phone should be ready shortly.”

  On the way, Diogenes briefed me on the current information about Cripple Creek. The people living there decided to call it “Colorado Springs.” It’s far enough away from the original that radiation isn’t an issue. There’s still a couple of truck-sized robots rumbling through the crater, sifting and processing to decontaminate what’s left.

  I think it’s a boring name. They don’t even call it New Colorado Springs. Not that I’m one to talk; I still haven’t sorted out separate names for the mountain-city-kingdom-world of Karvalen.

  I don’t build shift-booths for the refugee villages. On the rare occasion the locals need anything more than Diogenes’ advice, he has robots galore. I haven’t been to Colorado Springs in years. Getting there isn’t too hard, but I had no reason to go. They got along fine without me and I was quite pleased to have it so.

  I stepped through the shift-booth to Denver, picked up a Black, and headed south. There’s a road, if you want to call it that, suitable for track-laying vehicles and cyborg horses. Diogenes uses it for some ground traffic, but most of his local-world stuff ships in and out of Denver by dirigible or heliostat. I’d have taken Bronze, but she was still wearing a car, and not one built for off-roading. Still, the Blacks are pretty impressive. It’s about seventy miles, but they can do it in an hour. Robot legs and a nuclear power pack will do that.

  There’s another reason I’ve never been completely comfortable on a Black: The plutonium.

  Patricia’s village was a cross between Dark Ages and ultra-tech prefabrication. The core of the village was mostly concrete and millennium plastic, including the school, the town hall, and a bunch of houses. The rest of the place was more recent, constructed of whatever the residents could find. Mostly, that meant scavenged plastic panels, quarried concrete blocks, logs, thatch, wooden shingles, and the like. Most of the lights were lamps or candles. When they arrived, the residents didn’t know how to make either, but anybody can ask Diogenes for information. Someday, they’ll build their own power station, electric lights, vending machines, and pavement.

  No, we don’t give them electricity. We’ve already given them medical care, shelter, tools, and food to get themselves going. About the only thing they produce in surplus is food, at the m
oment. They use it to trade with the other refugee camps and with Diogenes. Every population center is parked on resources—coal, iron, farmable land, whatever—to encourage that sort of thing. The things they can’t make for themselves, Diogenes will. In exchange, I might add, for some of their surplus food. Other villages, other resources. There’s no point to milking them for labor. There is a point to encouraging them to work for a living and get along with each other.

  They think I’ve transported them in time, not across universes. I’m okay with that. They’re sort-of right, in a way. Apocalyptica is farther along the timeline than any of their worlds were.

  The Black and I slowed outside the village and entered it at a walk. Nobody noticed us, aside from some of the livestock. They raise some variations on pigs, chickens, and cows. This particular type of cow is smaller and faster than the cows I knew. I find it amusing these cattle all have horns—one horn, from the center of the forehead. Unicows? A few of them noticed us coming into town and mooed or snorted. They don’t like me and they definitely don’t like the Blacks. The genegineered cyborg horses are omnivorous and I think the herbivores can tell.

  Speaking of animals, I heard some yowling and scrambling, but I didn’t see any cats. I still don’t know why they don’t like me. Someday I’ll have someone bring me one in a cage and I’ll quiz it. I may have Firebrand quiz it once I sedate it.

  Patricia was living in a different prefab house from the last time I visited, now out on the edge of the core community. Those were more popular with farmers, since it was easier to build a barn nearby and plow fields in the back yard. Craftsmen tended more toward the middle of the village. Patricia’s house had a barn, of sorts, for sheltering animals and storage. She was outside, behind the barn, sitting with her back to it, knees drawn up, arms folded over them, crying softly. She held the little toy soldier figure I gave her… how long ago? She had to be about fifteen, now, and wore her hair in a loose braid, tied at the end with a bit of string.

  I hunkered down next to her. She sniffled a little and wiped her face with one hand.

  “You came,” she said, raising the toy soldier.

  “I did.”

  “I wasn’t sure. I never see you.”

  “If you look hard enough…” I began.

  “…you can find magic in anything,” she finished.

  “Is my miracle going stale?”

  “No. The whole world is green instead of dust. I need a different sort of miracle.”

  “Start with the problem,” I suggested. “You said something about a stepfather?”

  “Mom’s married. I hate him.”

  I had to stretch my brain to remember when I heard someone pack so much venom into a simple statement. Linnaeus could have equaled her venom, but he tended toward the Milton and Shakespeare end of the spectrum. This was short, bitter, vicious.

  “May I ask why?”

  “He touches me.”

  Well, at least I haven’t been summoned to deal with teenage angst. The obvious solution presented itself to me. I haven’t yet bloodied my spare saber, but it might be time.

  “I see. Does your mother know?”

  “Yes. She says not to be alone with him. She says he’s good to her and I’ll get a husband soon.”

  Patricia sighed and put her face down on her arms again. Another obvious solution occurred to me.

  “How are your friends?” I asked.

  “They’re okay. Carla is engaged and Mandy is flirting a lot with Jefferson. I think they’re doing it, but Mandy won’t admit it.”

  “Is there anybody you have your eye on?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to a wizard, would you?” I asked. She raised her head and regarded me through narrowed eyes. She could see me plainly by moonlight.

  “Maybe. I don’t think he’s interested.”

  “That always sucks,” I agreed, settling down next to her, extending my legs, crossing my ankles. “I’ve been in that boat. It’s not fun.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Other than your stepdad, you’re happy here?”

  “Yes. I guess.”

  “I ask because there are other villages. The roads are good, and I’ll take you—”

  “I’m not leaving,” she stated. Oh, well. I had to check.

  “You don’t have to,” I reassured her. “You’ve summoned me. I’m here. What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Patricia’s a good girl. The other obvious solution was obvious only to me, I guess. Of course, I’m a bad person and she isn’t.

  “All right.” I pulled a candy bar out of my shoulder bag. “Here. I’m going to go look at stepdad—what’s his name?”

  “Alvin,” she told me, taking the candy bar.

  “Isn’t he the loudmouth who demanded… something-or-other?”

  “He said we had a right to go back and forth between here and our old homes to collect our things.”

  “That’s right. I remember him.”

  “He meant well.”

  “He’s the sort who would win a lottery and complain about the taxes.”

  “Well… maybe.”

  “Definitely. I’m going to go look at his soul. I’ll be right back.”

  “Is it going to stay inside him?”

  “Yes,” I answered, trying to sound hurt. It was a fair question, though.

  “All right.”

  I went up to the house and reached inside with the invisible darkness of my tendrils. Yep, two people. That one is mom, the other is stepdad—Alvin. They’re on the second floor, but there’s a window… Up the side of the building, cling to the window ledge… now let’s eyeball him. What’s he like on the inside, as a person? If it’s bad enough, maybe I’ll take a closer look at his inside by bringing it outside.

  Well, well, well. What do we have here? He’s not a pedophile. I would have bet money on it. There are certain colors and patterns to various aspects of people, and his didn’t match the profile. Lucky for him.

  Since it’s not her age attracting him, I suspect he’s the sort to chase anything in a skirt. He’s interested in Patricia because she’s got a woman’s shape, not because she’s fifteen. I don’t have to like it, but I can sort of understand it.

  Is fifteen too young for this village? Alvin doesn’t seem to think so. I’m not sure if it’s just the culture of the alternative America I visited or if it’s an effect of the present circumstances. I wonder what the rest of the community thinks about it? Do they even know? Would they care?

  I wished I had Firebrand with me. I don’t like poking around in people’s hearts and minds like this. Then again, I’d have to wake him up and interrogate him for Firebrand to read the answers in his thoughts.

  All things considered, this Alvin guy isn’t evil. By my standards, he’s a jerk, lacking in chivalry, short on propriety, and whiffing slightly of incest. He’s not related to Patricia, but he married her mother. Awkward. Patricia isn’t interested, though, and that’s the important thing.

  Too bad for him.

  I returned and plunked down next to Patricia again. Something in the barn snorted.

  “Okay, I see a couple of options.”

  “I have a question,” she countered.

  “Oh? What?”

  “What do you see?”

  “Well, the options—”

  “No, no,” she protested. “Not the options. You see magic and you said you could see people’s souls. What’s it like? What you see?”

  “Hmm. It’s hard to describe. It’s changed a lot over time, as I got older and found myself subject to all sorts of strange circumstances. At first, I saw things a lot like you do. Then I stopped seeing darkness.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All right. Look over there. See the houses? Two dark ones and one with a lamp in an upstairs window?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you look at the lamp, you can see colors where the lig
ht touches. So can I. But as you get farther away from the light, it all fades to black for you. For me, it just loses all its color, turning to shades of grey. It’s still… I don’t want to say it’s brightly lit, but it’s clearly visible. It’s like… like an old black-and-white movie or television show. You remember those, right?”

  “Dimly.”

  “Now, along with that, there’s a tree next to the house on the right. I see it less as a tree and more of a slowly-flowing fountain of very pale light. It comes up out of the ground in a thousand little strands, flows upward and divides among the branches, and forms a cloud of dimly-glowing leaves—kind of like the way a cloud over a city can be lit from below.”

  “Does it illuminate anything?”

  “No. That’s partly how I know it isn’t a real light source. It’s the life of the tree. Everything alive has a glow, but it’s all on the inside. I suppose it’s like a silhouette of light instead of shadow. I’m not sure that describes it very well.”

  “What do you see when you look at me?”

  “A human-shaped thing with light inside. Networks of light run through you, from blood to nerves to I-don’t-know-what. Each of them is a collection of shining threads, all different colors, always in motion. You’re much more complex than a tree.”

  “I don’t illuminate anything either, do I?”

  “No, because your life, like the tree, is inside you. You’re not supposed to let it out.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “Anything else I can answer?”

  “I guess we can go back to Alvin.”

  “No problem. I can kill him outright. No one will ever find the body. He will simply vanish forever, never to be heard from again,” I told her. She cocked her head at me.

  “Are you always dark magic?”

  “I can’t help it. I do try to be nice.”

  “You are nice, in a weird, murderous way, I guess. And I don’t want to kill him.”

  “You won’t,” I assured her. “That’s my fallback plan if you don’t like any of the others.”

  “Go on.”

  “I can take him with me. He’ll live, but he’ll never come back. He’ll disappear forever and won’t bother you again.”