by Garon Whited
There was a long pause.
“Hold on a minute.”
There followed a muffled discussion about whether or not to believe me. Turns out they were already aware some of the butcher shops sold blood, but it was the first time they ever heard of a vampire paying people to be donors.
As I hoped, it sparked a bit of a debate about whether or not to double-cross me. If I could be believed, it might be better to leave me running around. Admittedly, I was a loose cannon shooting at the enemy, but if I regularly got into fights with other vampires, no matter who died, the humans would come out ahead.
Eventually, they tabled the idea for later consideration.
“Still there?”
“Yep,” I agreed. “So, diamond supplier?”
“No, I think I’d rather know where you get equipment like this. We’d like to get some of our own.”
“Oh. Well, that makes sense, I suppose. If you must know, I have it custom-made. I could get all-new stuff, but it takes a while. Is there something in particular you would like? I can get some made for you.”
“I believe we may need to discuss this amongst ourselves.”
“Yeah, I figured. I hate dealing with committees. Isn’t there one person in charge? Can I speak to him?”
“Yes. That would be me.”
“All right. Here’s the thing. My issue is time. I’d rather have it all back now rather than wait for new ones. So here’s my offer. If I can have my things back, I’ll happily provide up to twelve items later. Armor manufactured to your measurements, for example, since you can’t all wear my underwear at the same time.”
“How do we know you’ll hold up your end of the bargain?”
“I’d offer you my word, but you won’t take my word. You think I’m one of the soulless monster breed of vampire.”
“This does present something of a problem.”
“How about this? I was recently ambushed by a bunch of religious zealots. They’re alive and recovering well from their injuries. I’ll bring all six of them with me. I’ll give them to you—give, I said. Don’t bring my stuff. Don’t even show up until later. You take possession of my prisoners and see to their safety and well-being. Once you’re satisfied they are who I say they are, you can decide whether or not my word is any good. How’s that?”
“How do you know I won’t just take your prisoners and give you nothing?”
“How do you know you can give me my stuff and trust me to give you a reward?”
“Hmm.”
“Look, the prisoners are worth more to you than my underwear, surely. I mean, think about it. If I were a horrible monster, I could make demands with the threat of murdering six men. You’re not going to sacrifice their lives for the sake of a set of underwear.”
“I don’t think—”
“No, no; I wasn’t finished. I’m saying an unethical, immoral individual would make such a threat. Like I said, I’m going to give them to you and remove the possibility, thus showing my good faith. Of course, this is also more convenient for me. They’re unlikely to tell me where they want to be dropped off. You, on the other hand, can take them home without all the fuss. Besides, you’ll have a whole group of vampire-hunting fanatics you can meet.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Not knowingly, no. You have to keep a sense of humor when you’re immortal. But I’m quite prepared to do exactly as I’ve described.”
“All right. You give us six vampire hunters you’ve captured and I’ll think about it.”
“Deal. I’ll find a place and call you back.”
“Hold it. We pick the place.”
“I’ll let you pick an area,” I countered. “I’ll pick a spot within ten miles of it.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“I don’t see why. My idea is to turn them loose on a road and let them start walking toward town. You can drive by and look them over before you decide whether to pick them up.”
“We pick the location,” he stated, flatly.
“You’re being unreasonable,” I chided. “You have a lot to gain, here, but you’re trying my patience. So, I’ll call you back and tell you where I put them. If it’s in Vegas, L.A., or ’Frisco, it’s your problem.”
“Wait!”
“Well?”
“All right. If you want to leave them on a road—do you have a map?”
I pointed at the main holographic display and Diogenes threw up a map of the region.
“Yes.”
“Do you know Indio?”
“I can find it.”
“Take Dillon Road north. You’ll come to Berdoo Canyon Road on your right.”
“Found it.”
“When should we expect you?”
“It’ll take a little while to transport them. I’ll get on it now and call you back when they’re dropped off.”
I hung up on him and reflected how killing people is ever so much easier than negotiating with them.
Mary rubbed my shoulders.
“In my experience,” she offered, “vampire hunters are rarely reasonable.”
“Your experience agrees with mine. Frankly, I’m wondering if all this is worth it.”
“There’s a lot of effort involved in our amulets,” she pointed out, still rubbing my shoulders. “If they hold up their end, you’ve saved several days of dedicated, concentrated work. If they don’t, as I expect them not to, we can write it all off.”
“I’m tempted to write this whole world off. Start the process to liquidate all the assets, buy a load of raw materials for Diogenes, and destroy the shift-booth.”
“Well… I’d rather go back and settle some personal business with the Templars.”
“You’re a vicious critter.”
“I’m old, vengeful, and sometimes spiteful.”
“I never noticed.”
“You never try to wrong me.”
“I’m glad,” I agreed, sincerely. “I do try to stay on your good side.”
“Good idea. But I want to stab someone over there. Preferably several someones. Salvatore, definitely. Maybe Lorenzo, too, if he’s involved with the Templars.”
“I think Lorenzo is more an independent vampire hunter, not a religious fanatic.”
“I still might want to introduce my knife to his aorta.”
“I’m not objecting. I have my own notions of things to do in that world.”
“Like what?”
“Argue with angels, or some similar sort of entity.”
“Oh?” she asked, clearly surprised. “Why? And why there? And is it a good idea?”
“I haven’t met one anywhere else. No, I take that back. Apparently I met one in Karvalen, but I don’t want to talk to it. It’s too powerful to chain to a chair while I lecture it on being racist. I think.”
“We’re undead. Wouldn’t that be ‘wraithist’?”
“You think you’re funny. Sometimes you are.”
“But not this time?” she guessed.
“I’m still grumpy.”
“Poor sweetheart. Let’s dump the prisoners. Then we can go to bed.”
“I’m not tired. Oh.”
“Not tired,” she agreed, “just a little slow, sometimes.”
I gave Diogenes instructions about our prisoners and Mary went off to help. I printed off a map of the region I intended as their drop point and had Diogenes bring me a portable shift-booth.
Much like portable gates, I have couple of portable shift-booths. They’re made out of an electrically-reactive material I don’t understand too well—we copied it (Diogenes copied it) from another high-tech world. It forms a rigid structure when electrically zapped and looks like a big black tent, which it is. It’s stiff as steel and covered in magically-significant stitching. Diogenes makes them to exacting specifications to maximize the congruence. I supervise the robotic stitching of signs, sigils, and symbols on the things. Once enchanted, each pair are tied together with a dedicated connection, the same as with the f
ixed-position shift-booths.
Why bother to use one? Because the place Mr. Intelligent selected was a big, open area. It was quite appealing, provided your taste ran to deserts with mountain views and a thick scattering of rocks. A handy cave opening was not available. A smaller sort of opening was possible, though, perhaps formed in the angle of a rock and the ground. All I needed was a simple, geometrical plane where a physical representation of a border existed.
I tried it with the variable-aperture gate, aiming for a spot well up the canyon road. I didn’t get a hit anywhere within a mile of my target point.
Well, okay, that’s not an insurmountable obstacle. With the variable-aperture gate already wound down to something the size of a fist, I could brute-force it and cause the plane of the gate to appear in both locations. Size is a factor, so, instead of rolling through the dufflebag-sized package of a portable shift-room, I forced open the small gate and shoved through a portable gate package. I waited a minute to let it deploy legs, unfold, and form a larger gate. Then it was easy to connect to it and step through, carrying the portable shift-booth. I triggered it and it unfolded into a rigid cube about ten feet on a side.
Once I was sure it was up and running, I moved some rocks around, drew a circle in the dirt, and prepared a manhole-sized spot. It wasn’t ideal, but it was adequate for an escape hatch. It didn’t need to be a complete gate, just a spell-circle attuned properly to receive one. With it ready for later, I left it intact, folded up the portable gate and shifted back through the booth.
I told you it was involved. “But,” I hear you ask, “why go to all that trouble?” Rather than open a man-sized gate and shuffle through six unconscious bodies—a tedious process and exceptionally profligate of magical energy—loading them all into the local space-shifting booth and firing it once was quicker and cheaper. This way minimized the brute-force gate work between universes, which is pretty much always the big kahuna of power costs.
The hatch to the silo opened and Mary followed as Diogenes—in the form of robot hospital orderlies—carried in six unconscious forms. We laid them out in the portable booth on the Apocalyptica side.
A click, and we all shifted. Unload them, lay them out by the side of the road… good, good. The sun was going down here, so they weren’t going to sunburn too badly. With a marker, I drew a crude map on one guy’s forehead. Hard to lose and hard to miss. I even added a line of rocks to the road shoulder, laid out to form an arrow in the proper direction.
Mary shifted back before I took down the booth—it contracts and self-folds and I don’t know what else to form a compact package. Alone again, I stood at the edge of my magic circle.
“Diogenes?” I asked, on my new Diogephone.
“Yes, Professor?”
“I’m shifting the link. Ready at the drop-through?”
“Ready.”
The micro-gate transferred to the magic circle. The magic circle opened, the view through it rippling like the distortions in a disturbed pool, settling rapidly into stillness. I stepped forward, dropped through, and cancelled the gate spell. If all went as planned, the self-destruct spell made a small whirlwind in the dirt to eradicate all signs of my passage.
The things I go through because someone steals my underwear.
I called my old phone and let them know to pick up the zealots. They promised to call back.
They did, too, a couple of hours later, to report they found the guys and would be talking to me again when they confirmed everything. Diogenes took the call and agreed with them while Mary and I were busy.
Along about sunset, I unlatched, unbuckled, and untied. Mary and I shared a cycling whirlpool, a decent alternative to a shower. Water comes in from several jets down at the bottom. It rises, whirling around, and flows out around the overflow edge. The water in the tub stays clean when we’re being supernaturally filthy.
I think I still prefer a shower, but you can sit down and relax in the whirlpool.
Once we were dead, dried, and dressed, Mary insisted on setting up a gate in Flintridge again, this time in Las Vegas.
“We’re going to need to get back and forth,” she pointed out, “and the old shift-room is a compromised location.”
“Yeah. It’s inconvenient, but we’re going to need to separate the sites for Diogenes’ cargo shifters and our personal shift-booths. No more stacking them next to each other.”
“Agreed. Actually, I’m surprised we haven’t run into this kind of problem before.”
“I’m not. I have a high opinion of your skills. I’m the one who gets followed, not you.”
“I see your point. Yes, you’re probably right,” she teased.
“Thank you. You’re such a boon to my ego.”
“Sometimes it needs the help. Can you drop me in Flintridge, somewhere near our shift-site? I’d like to see who’s looking it over before I set up a portable gate in Vegas. And I’ll want a tracking unit for the implants in the Templars you gave back.”
“You think they’re already at their base of operations?” I asked. Mary shrugged.
“I don’t think it matters if they are. I’d still like to know where they went. It might be the base of operations, or a safe house of your current playmates, or even on a plane headed for the Vatican. Which reminds me. Diogenes?”
“Yes, Mistress?”
“I don’t recognize that voice.”
“John Leeson,” Diogenes said, just as I said, “That’s the voice of K-9.”
“The robot dog?”
“Affirmative.”
“Good impression. So, what’s the range on the radio tags you implanted in the prisoners?”
“With a handheld unit, they can be tracked within a hundred miles. With the addition of a portable antenna array, five hundred. A satellite network can track them anywhere on the globe.”
“Good to know. I’ll take a handheld and the antenna.”
“They will be waiting in the gate room.”
“Thank you.”
“By the way,” I added, “where’s the variable gate aimed? The one here, in the residence.”
“It is still set up for Flintridge, Professor, from your Templar delivery.”
“Perfect.”
We dressed and headed from the residential rooms to the gate silo. As we walked, Mary had a question.
“Something just occurred to me.”
“Oh? Is it dangerous?”
“No. Or, I hope not. You’re the expert on gates. I just use them.”
“I’m not much of an expert. I’m not sure anyone is.”
“Sweetheart,” she said, taking my arm, “if you’re not an expert, I don’t know what to call you. Maybe you don’t think of yourself as an expert, but to us merely-competent wizard types, you’re an obsessive genius who learned everything from everyone and then went into research.”
“Huh,” I replied, brilliantly. “I guess I never thought of it that way. See, I know there’s a lot more to—”
“Yes, yes,” she cut me off. “You know there’s so much more to know. I get it. To the rest of us, it’s all lumped under ‘arcane mystery.’ Can we get back to my question?”
“Sure.”
“How does a gate find anything? I mean, I know I can target a location—like our old shift-base in Flintridge—and it will find an opening near that. I can even, sort of, find things with it. If I want a portal to open by an ocean, I generally get one. How does it work?”
“Partly it goes back to the observer effect of quantum mechanics. The short answer is that you visualize what you want and the gate tries to match what you visualize with what you see through it.”
“I don’t follow,” she admitted.
“Do you want the math or the metaphor?”
“Oh, god, the metaphor,” she moaned. “Never try to give me the math again!”
“It’s the quantum key calculations that get you. Even I don’t understand what’s going on in multiversal indeterminism. But the N-dimensional geometry is m
uch simp—”
“Metaphor!” she snapped, and pointed a finger in my face.
“Okay, okay!” I agreed, raising my hands in surrender.
“Think of it like this. When you start a gate… hmm. Before a gate can open, it has to bring two locations into congruence. It doesn’t open until it locks on—opening up is the last thing a gate spell does. The initial phase of a gate spell is defining a primary locus, the plane through which it affects anything passing. Between these two events, the spell extends a… a tendril, if you like, out into the everything. If you’re focused on what you want, it will only react with what you specified. So it lashes about in the quantum foam of possible realities, seeking matching criteria. When it gets a hit, it latches on, then starts expanding like a bubble. The bubble gets bigger until it overlaps a suitable locus. Assuming it finds one, it grounds out like an electric charge, locking on to the locus, and you have a gate.”
“How does that relate to the thing you were talking about? Quantum keys?”
“Hypothetically, they’re a simplified—” I started, but broke off at her withering glare. “Um. I mean, it’s a… more efficient method? Yes? Good. A more efficient method of accurately addressing a gate location between alternate realities.”
“And how is that different from the altered universal constants?”
“Ah, that,” I replied, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to admit I goofed a bit.”
I opened the hatch and ushered Mary through into the local gate room. We entered and I started setting the variable-aperture gate for her destination.
“Stop dialing,” she instructed. “Before I step through another interdimensional gateway—”
“Interuniversal.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Inter-universal. A dimension is an axis, like length, width, or height. The gates can reorient you in dimensions—up-down versus left-right—but what you’re thinking of is inter-universal gateways. Travel from one universe to another, not dimensions.”
Mary stood silently, looking at me with an expressionless expression.
“But I know what you meant,” I finished, lamely. “Please continue.”
She gave me several more uncomfortable seconds of zero-face before she continued.