Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “As I was saying. Before I step through another interuniversal gateway. I want to know what you mean by ‘goofed’ in conjunction with gates. Your most recent goof involved a mushroom cloud. You can understand my concern.”

  “Yes, dear. I’m sorry. I should have clarified.”

  “Indeed. Do so, please.”

  “When I was studying the gate spells of Zirafel, I found a subroutine to alter the qualities of everything passing through the gate. I assumed this was to tune it, change it to resonate, to match the conditions on either end of the spell. I didn’t have a way to test exactly what it did, but my hypothesis about the function was correct. I goofed in leaving it at that.

  “Later, Diogenes obtained the technology to study the effects more closely. While a gate does tune whatever goes through it to match the destination, the dialing plaques aren’t exactly defining any specific universe. What I think we’re doing with our dialing program is inadequately defining a random quantum signature and our gates connect to the strongest match.”

  “Am I supposed to understand that?”

  “I wish I did,” I told her, mildly.

  “We’ll discuss it later. But there’s nothing wrong with the gates? They’re in perfect working order?”

  “Yes. The… um. It doesn’t matter what strange symbols are on the telephone. The call goes to the same phone as long as we use the same symbols in the same order.”

  “Good. Now, I think the main thing I wanted to know was how we can use a gate to find things we want. Diogenes is random-dialing universes and cataloguing them. You and I concentrate on something and a gate opens near it. How does that work?

  “Hmm. Well, Diogenes, as he’ll point out, isn’t a truly sapient being. He’s a complex complex of programs, but, as far as observing quantum effects goes, he doesn’t seem to count as an observer. He can’t visualize a place—at least, he doesn’t have the circuitry to project his visualization of a place—on a gate spell directly. He can only designate one by using arbitrary combinations of symbols. You or I picture something, remember?”

  “And the difference between an observer and a non-observer? I need an example.”

  “Okay, remember how you wanted to have a night out in the Roaring Twenties? It took a couple of tries, but I found one you liked.”

  “I remember. How did you do it?”

  “I searched for cars, mostly,” I admitted. “I pictured a brand-new Model A Ford and sent the gate out to look for a suitable opening near one. Found a few in museums, private collections, and the like before we got a hit on a Ford dealership selling them.”

  “That’s the part I don’t get. It just finds them?”

  “It flails around until it does, yes. Imagine I fill an aquarium with ping-pong balls. You can reach around in it until you find the one filled with water and frozen solid. That’s what it’s doing. Mind you, it’s an aquarium of infinite size, but it’s filled with frozen ping-pong balls. We specify the cold, hard ping-pong ball and root around until we get a hit. It would be faster if we could look, instead of just root around for things, but that would require passive scanning.”

  “Is the explanation about passively scanning other universes a long rabbit-trail, or can you do it succinctly?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I can’t look into other universes. I have to flail around, feeling my way through them when I look for something. Once I find the universe, I can use other methods to search and seek, but from outside the universe, I don’t know of any way to use radar or infrared to look inside.”

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Mary admitted. “I even think I followed it. But what about the times you got Model A’s you didn’t want?”

  “We can get false results. In the aquarium analogy, it could be an icy-cold ball of glass and we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. It’s a balance between being specific and taking forever or being too general and getting the wrong destination.”

  “Speaking of balls, could we use a gate to find your Black Ball of Doom?”

  “Wellll… maybe. See, the problem is, there’s only one of those.” I paused for a moment, entertaining a horrible notion. “That is, in an infinite array of possible universes, I hope to hell and back there’s only one.”

  “Me, too.”

  “With only one Black Ball of Bad to find, it’s a unique, singular, individual object. Finding any of a billion worlds with brand-new Model A Fords is easy. Finding one world out of infinity, with a unique object unlike anything else in the cosmos, which is probably trying to shield itself from detection with every magical resource at its command… Let’s just say it’s a bit more problematic. It’s like reaching into the jumbo aquarium full of ping-pong balls and rummaging around to find the frozen one, yes, but the target is wearing a sweater and swimming away from us, possibly hiding in the little treasure chest and holding the lid closed.

  “I’ve already spent some time at it,” I added. “I spent several nights trying to get a lock on it. I’ve even imprinted my visualization on a gate spell. We have a dedicated probe-gate seeking it continuously—it’s been running for… eleven years? I think. Diogenes?”

  “Allowing for protein brain imprecision, yes.”

  “That’s unheard-of in wizardly circles,” I added. “Most mages—or even a meddle of mages—can’t manage to maintain that kind of focused, continuous searching for more than a few days. I admit, there’s a lot to search, but it has to be protected from routine detection.”

  “Routine detection,” Mary repeated.

  “Generalized scanning. Specialized detection requires me to know what universe it’s in. Again, the problem is reaching out of one universe and into another. I don’t have a good way to do that. I can be much more invasive and troublesome at close range.”

  “No doubt.”

  “It’ll show up,” I concluded. “Probably at the worst possible time, but it will. There’s a certain inevitability to immortality.”

  “I guess I’m still not clear on how this works.”

  “We can step into my headspace and I can give you math lessons.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not going to try and teach me any more math. I’m good with the spells I know. I’m not going into research and development. I don’t want to invent more, just use the ones I have. Besides,” she added, “I got through calculus at university and I’m completely at home to never getting into a fight with an integral again. They cheat.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I have said it. Now, find me a spot to land and kiss me.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  With Mary dropped off, I checked on the progress of my solar conversion panels. They were migrating more rapidly than expected. I suspect I failed to account for the existing magical energy they already dumped on the planet. With a slightly-higher background charge, they had a better movement rate.

  I also checked in with Bronze. She was in the Denver region, galloping everywhere, enjoying the capabilities of a light, agile body. I watched her go up a rocky hillside like a mountain goat. The Black models have cyborg claws between those cloven hoof-toes. They’re not meant for climbing, but they do help quite a lot. She’s definitely got the hang of those.

  Would it be better to be bludgeoned by a metal statue or ripped open by a cyborg horse? Tough call. I think it depends on many factors, but in general, it probably doesn’t matter. Besides, if she likes the velociraptor claws, no doubt she’ll include them in the statue.

  Still, if we’re likely to get into a firefight, any organic body she wears probably needs a horse blanket or the equivalent. Quilted barding is probably the closest thing, as long as we make it out of high-tech super-materials. There’s already a layer of special fibers grafted into the skin of the Blacks, providing some protection against physical damage, of course. The physical structure is more robotic than organic, so it takes m
ore of a beating than a regular horse, as well. Even with all the upgrades, they’re not bulletproof. Arrows, sword and axes? Pretty much, yeah, but a high-end handgun is likely to do at least some damage.

  I had a word with Diogenes about it. He assured me future models would be better protected.

  “Phone call from Mary, Professor, in Flintridge.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey. I’m home. Nobody seems to be paying any attention to the place.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I know. Whoever was outside activating the cross on the garage door, he was the only one to get away. He may be in hiding, afraid we’re looking for him, but he’s definitely not hanging around here.”

  “Good to know, sort of.”

  “By the way… can I have the Impala, please? It’s a long way to Vegas.”

  “Oh. Sure. Diogenes? Do you have anything that can drive a car?”

  “Not yet, Professor.”

  “I’ll park it in the garage,” I told them both.

  “Thank you!”

  A quick shift to Denver and I was soon confronted by an Impala being carried by four low-slung robots. They were squat, sturdy things with small, solid wheels. They reminded me of a carpenter’s miter box, only made of steel and motorized. One was under each wheel. They drove themselves over to me, bringing the car with them.

  “Diogenes?”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “Please park the car in the appropriate shift-room and send it through.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  I sighed and went back to the residential compound. Technically, the little robots weren’t driving the car. They were carrying it. Was that Diogenes’ humor algorithm? Or a communications failure on my part?

  I sat in the media room and waited for the vampire-hunting numbskulls to call. I was halfway through Rockula—and wishing I could sing—when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Hello. Is this, uh…”

  “Yeah, it’s me. You can call me Dave. What do I call you?”

  “I’m Ted.” The voice belonged to the smart, older one, so I assumed it was an alias. “So, Dave, we found your friends. Are they drugged?”

  “They were sedated, but it should have worn off by now. Give them lots of water to flush it out of their systems. It seemed more friendly than wrestling them into handcuffs. I didn’t want to damage them.”

  “There’s a cast on one foot.”

  “His ankle, yeah. It happened when they ambushed me, but I did go to the trouble of setting bones and putting a cast on. I think they’re in surprisingly good condition, all things considered.”

  “I have to give you that one,” he admitted, reluctantly.

  “So, I demonstrated good faith. How about you stuff my things in a sack, plunk it down beside the road about where I left the guys, and drive away?”

  “I’d be happy to, but I still want to talk about getting these sorts of things for us.”

  “Did you get a tailor to take your measurements?”

  “No. When would I have had time?”

  “You have a point. Tell you what. Keep the phone. Give me back the rest of my things and we’ll work something out.”

  He thought it over for several seconds. I can imagine the internal debate. Blood-sucking monster. Good faith. Soulless killer. Six live hunters. Creature of darkness. Faust and Mephistopheles. Potential gains. Potential problems. Risks and rewards.

  “All right. I’ll send someone out to drop it.”

  “Wonderful. Call me back when you’re done.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I heard him snap the case shut and I muted my end. He clunked the phone down on something and started giving orders. I found it interesting that one of the voices called him “Dad.” It was an adult voice. Was the child’s voice Diogenes heard a grandchild? Was this a family business? Possibly.

  I wondered what the Templar types would make of them, and vice-versa. Ted was obviously quite capable of using at least some ritualistic, divinatory magic. Was he particularly religious or merely pragmatic?

  Sadly, from the clunking and sliding noises, Ted eventually put the phone in a drawer or box, ending my eavesdropping. Diogenes put the phone into standby to conserve battery power.

  “Diogenes, please patch him through if and when he calls back. Since Mary says the drop point in Flintridge isn’t staked out, I’m going to be there for a while.”

  “Of course, Professor.”

  I collected some power crystals from the charging room and headed for the Hall of Doors.

  Flintridge, Friday, September 26th, 1969

  It was only an hour or two past sunset on Friday night when I arrived. Mary’s arrival must have cut it close on the night and day borders.

  I did a quick sweep of the place, tendrils coiling out around me in all directions. Nothing larger than a microbe was going to slip past me. I was alone.

  Good.

  A little work with a scraper took care of the cross hastily smeared onto my garage door. Then I started adding my own symbols, this time on the floor. I wasn’t sure it was going to work, but the principle was sound. Besides, if you don’t test your hypothesis, you never get to theories or laws. There comes a time when sitting and thinking has to be helped along with experimentation.

  That’s when it gets dangerous.

  My biggest worry was how to spell “Valan” in magical script.

  The tricky part of any magical writing is the definition of the target. Normal names, like “John,” “Fred,” or “Milton,” are nothing but arbitrary tags. They don’t define the entity. Elvish names, at least in Karvalen/Rethven/Flatland, do a better job of defining the thing they name, but still aren’t quite up to snuff for a truly targeted spell. For my purposes, “Valan,” as a name, was a good starting point. I still had to add in everything I knew about the structure of that specific entity.

  Never summon something based only on the name it gave you. That’s imprecise and likely to be ineffective. Always go for the… I hate to say “true name.” Maybe “fundamental identifier.”

  Another problem in my spell construction was the physical writing. It’s a long, laborious process to write something in a strange alphabet. It’s less a matter of writing and more a matter of drawing. Less literary, more artistic. It’s not printing; it’s calligraphy. And magical symbols vary from world to world so much it’s like trying to learn every single character ever made, in every dialect. Magical symbols aren’t really meant for spelling out words, either, but I tackled it from a phonetic and energy-pattern standpoint for the proper name and went with magical descriptors everywhere else.

  Then there’s the paint. You don’t just run down to the hardware store for a bucket of Sherwin-Williams Brilliant White and get busy. It makes a decent base, and it’s probably fine for most spell work. But I was about to try summoning—and, if necessary, containing—something that might qualify as one of the Karvalen gods.

  I mixed paint, enchanted lines, and painted symbols with exacting care.

  I was reminded of my days as an apprentice to Jon, the wizard who trained me in the Rethven ways of magic. How long ago was that? A lifetime, I suppose, because I’m not the person I was back then. I’m not sure I recognize the person I was back then. It’s like looking at an old photo album and wondering who the goofy-looking kid is… and realizing, with a shock, it’s you.

  Would my younger version approve of me? Interesting question, and one I didn’t expect. I haven’t been so introspective in a long time. My guess is Bronze is responsible.

  I didn’t answer my philosophical question. I had other things to focus on.

  Of course, no plan survives contact with the enemy. Some of them don’t even survive the planning phase.

  The summoning I planned involved a linear design, starting at the door and running most of the length of the warehouse. It wasn’t a big warehouse; it didn’t need to be. It was only a drop point for the local deliv
eries. It wasn’t like the place would ever fill up. But as I drew and painted on the floor, working my way along, building a magical runway for celestial landings, someone screamed.

  There are many different types of screams. Trust me. I know screaming. This was the female sort, moderately distant, and went on for several seconds.

  Several seconds was plenty. I put the lid on the paint pot, set the brush down on it carefully, and started shifting into hyperdrive. I left the building carefully, not wanting to break doors, as the world continued to slow down around me. I know it’s a perspective thing. I’m moving and reacting faster and faster, but everything looks slower. I sprinted after the source of the sound, now on its second breath and continuing. Down the street, hook a left—carefully, with tendrils extending from my feet to seize the pavement and keep me from sliding—and leap, up through an open third-floor window. I landed well, but was immensely glad my leap killed most of my momentum. I went through the window and landed gracefully on my face.

  Rug burns, for the record, regenerate as quickly as any other wound. I regretted my amulet with the inertia-altering spell was still in the hands of Ted and Company. Whether I get it back or not, I do need to make a spare.

  I sprang to my feet and spun around. The room was a bedroom. A bedside lamp provided illumination, along with a little, spinning device to throw slow-moving stars of light along the walls and ceiling. This was for the occupant of the crib, without doubt, over whom the screaming woman was standing. She had just picked the infant up when I made my entrance and gave her something new to scream about.

  Oops. Okay, I don’t know screams as well as I thought. I figured she was being murdered or something.

  “My bad,” I told her. “Sorry about the dramatic entrance. What’s wrong? I heard the scream.”

  She fainted.

  Well, to be fair, I was still in dark mode. Without disguise spells, my skin is a deep charcoal grey and my eyes are unreflecting orbs of black. On the plus side, no one would believe her. She wouldn’t recognize me later, either.

  I caught her and the infant, eased her to the floor, and examined the kid. He wasn’t breathing and was somewhat blue, but I could clearly see life still inside it.