Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  They’re gonna need a bigger power line.

  I wondered about the flowers around the fountain, though. When the King of Faerie says he’s handing out a reward, the one thing you do not do is ignore it. I don’t know what’s going on with the flowers, but they have a terrible appetite for magic.

  I gathered up the enchanted discs I’d built and took a jog around the property. At various points, I dug down and buried one, setting them in the proper alignment around the edge of the estate. Once activated, they would raise twin domes of power over the place. I didn’t have enough power lying around to simply activate them all, though. I had to cheat a little.

  Starting with a solar-conversion spell over each of the discs, magical energy would flow into them. The ones in the outer ring, when they had enough charge, would produce a small, triangular piece of the dome and lock it into the others. Together, they would slowly build a geodesic dome, bit by bit. Once completed, it would feed the second set of discs, charging it up until it could activate. It would form a power containment shield, keeping the magical level inside higher than outside—about halfway between Karvalen’s magical environment and the normal level for this place, if I did it right.

  I watched the thing working, absorbing a trickle of moonlight. That was in good shape, so I added to it by hand until it fired. The triangle of force appeared and integrated into the system. Everything seemed to be on track.

  Back by the fountain, the flowers were still gulping down whatever power they could get. I added a conversion panel over the fountain area, just because. I’m sure it has something to do with Trixie, but I don’t dare guess what a fairy king might consider a good idea.

  Then came my least favorite chore: Clean up the electro-fried mess Trixie made.

  The biggest of the electromagical transformers was fried completely, shorted into a quasi-molten lump. The current alone couldn’t have done it, so I presume there was some sort of magical feedback loop involved—probably a bloody damned determined pixie who wouldn’t let go of her sword.

  Damn Nazis! And damn me, while I’m at it, for not thinking! Shooting down German planes? What did I think was going to happen? They would ignore it? They wouldn’t notice?

  What I did wasn’t thinking at all. I didn’t plan. I didn’t anticipate. I just drew a circle around my spot and destroyed anything that crossed it. Of course they investigated! The Germans figured out there was an auto-kill zone in enemy territory. They had to find out why!

  What I wanted to do was get Firebrand and Bronze, drop in on the German High Command, and see who took over from the charred, crushed remnants. Then drop in on the new High Command and repeat the process until nobody wanted the job.

  Trouble is, there’s no shortage of power-hungry lunatics who think, “It can’t happen to me.” I would never run out of people. It would disrupt the war effort, yes, but the generals in the field would still cause untold amounts of damage. And what if I did succeed? What if the latest set of rulers decided to stop the war? Germany would be a major power, occupying far more area than it should, possessing far more resources. Yes, I could conceivably stop the war. And in ten years? Twenty? Once they sorted themselves out, would a Nazi Germany truly stop? Or would they wait, build themselves up, and prepare for the next phase of a global war? This time with a competent leader, instead of a charismatic madman?

  What would stop them then?

  I’ve listened to Diogenes review the histories of multiple worlds. In every world where the second world war took place, there had to be a complete victory. There had to be a crushing defeat. There had to be a final, definite end. Without that, it was first world war all over again—the defeat was nothing but a setback to the Axis powers, and every bloody death was in vain.

  Atrocities were committed. Death, torture, brutalization and barbarism. It all had to happen, because it’s a key war across countless Earths. It decided which way the world would swing. True, there were other decision points afterward, but the second world war was a major event. In every case where it didn’t decide—forgive me—decisively, it all went to hell in a handcart.

  Reduced to simplest terms, the world had to look into the face of evil, recognize it, acknowledge it, and give it a fistful of freedom and brass knuckles. Being wishy-washy let it smile and bide its time.

  I feel certain that with six months, a couple of cargo gates, and a little help from me, Diogenes could crush the German army like a tank rolling over a soda can. They don’t have the technology to detect his stealthier drones. The things they can detect, he can build too tough to hurt—kind of like shooting a battleship’s armor with a handgun. You attract a terrible amount of attention and far too much firepower. The whole German army simply doesn’t have the technology to handle Diogenes in full-on Skynet mode.

  But now I’m thinking. Dammit. What happens if I unleash Skynet-level hell on the Axis powers? True, the Nazi regime goes kaput in record time… and the opportunity for mankind to come face to face with its own evils evaporates.

  It’s hard to see something terrible and still know it’s right. Not good, no, but right in the sense that it’s necessary. I hate that.

  This is what it’s like to know the future. To know how sacrifices made today lead to a better tomorrow. It may look as though the world is on fire and falling apart, but the good things that are burning are taking bad things with them, and both are allowing something new to grow.

  I hate knowing it. Millions will die. Misery will walk like a god across the face of the world. If I stop it, if I interfere, if I change it… I’ve seen examples of worlds where the war ended quickly and easily, either with Germany regrouping as an intact nation, or with Germany obliterated. The results are different, but they’re still ugly.

  Is this the nature of humanity? Does every generation or so need to have a… a… a trial by fire?

  Oh, god. Is this what it’s like to be a parent? A real parent, I mean, not the fake version I am. To see someone young rush toward disaster and not stop them? Save their life, sure. Keep them from breaking anything important, yeah. But let them discover for themselves—to learn the lessons that can’t be told, only taught?

  Sometimes I hate knowing too much. The rest of the time I hate being ignorant. I’m ambivalent about the whole thing.

  On the other hand, I can’t sit back and do nothing. I can’t. Not after what happened at the school. Not after Trixie. Not after Angus Gillespie. It’s just not in me to let those things go unanswered.

  I hauled out the Diogephone.

  “Diogenes?”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “Talk to me about armed stealth drones.”

  Then I was on a motorcycle, scorching the road on the way to London. They could keep the car and truck. They weren’t anachronistic and might be useful. I was sorry I didn’t get around to giving the school all the bicycles it would need, though.

  After a brief stop to body-bag my way through sunrise, I finished my trip and hit London like a litigation blitz. War or no, the lawyers—the solicitors—were still in business. Businesses were open, after a fashion. The city was still a city, working away at being a city with all the machineries of civilization.

  There was enormous paperwork to handle. Assets needed to be allocated and placed in trust. A formal charter for a school needed drawing up. Contracts, pay scales, tuition, fees, exceptions, scholarships—there’s more than just homework in the paper chase of academia. It’s all about the paper. Some say civilization is founded on farming, others say it’s the cities that make a civilization. I’ve always said a good measure of a civilization can be taken by its plumbing. Maybe all that is true, but the blood of civilization is paper. Well, it’s really information, but for much of human history, that means paper.

  I despise paperwork. I’m no lawyer. I’m not that kind of vampire. I’ pretty sure I still have a soul.

  Money is often a kind of paper. I spent piles of it. I signed almost as many documents.

  As a res
ult, late on Friday afternoon, Applewood Hall was Applewood Academy and a legal entity. Two trust funds supplied it. One was a regular fund, paying part of its profits to the running of the school. The other was more secret, left to grow without withdrawals until it might be needed. There was a school charter, listed rates of pay, instructions for wartime management, a statement of principles, a method of establishing a supervisory board, requirements for teachers and administrators…

  Aspirin has been around for quite some time. I was glad of it.

  Yesterday, Angus Gillespie died. It was also the last day anyone saw the Squire of Applewood Hall. There are doubtless numerous rumors. Maybe they’ll think I killed Angus. There certainly aren’t any Nazi soldiers around to take the blame. Maybe they’ll remember something of the faerie revel in the yard and wonder. I have no idea how it works. All I know is Mrs. Gillespie has a note granting permission to bury him anywhere she likes on the grounds, assuming she doesn’t want to send him home. I have no doubt he’ll be buried in the garden and that she’ll someday join him there.

  As for the mysterious lord of the manor, I only hope they’ll assume he’s gone with the faeries, wherever it is they went. In the meantime, they have a new school. Graves and Blake will sort themselves out, I feel sure.

  I will regret missing Angus’ funeral, though.

  After sunset, it was off to Liverpool and the cargo-shift building. Diogenes had a prototype stealth combat drone ready.

  “Self-powered?”

  “It recharges through solar power. The service life should be in excess of five years.”

  “Plenty of time,” I decided. “How does it stack up against combat aircraft of the period?”

  “It has a higher ceiling, is practically invisible, and can shoot down an enemy airplane at twelve kilometers.”

  “Good. How does it do as an anti-personnel or anti-armor unit?”

  “Professor, it is not designed for these purposes.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. How does it perform?”

  “In simulations, it serves adequately as an anti-armor unit against tanks of the period, but the heavier armor reduces the number of kills before entering a recharge cycle. Also, due to greater numbers of tanks and personnel, its effectiveness is more limited.”

  “Can it pick out officers on the ground?”

  “No. However, I can upgrade the sensor package to include enhanced optical reconnaissance.”

  “Good. Send this one up and let it patrol the Channel. Any Axis aircraft with a jet engine, blow it out of the sky.”

  “What should they do regarding prop-driven aircraft?”

  “Not a thing. Assuming the Germans catch on and start using their older designs, the Brits can handle those.”

  “As you say, Professor.”

  “The next two drones can sweep over Europe picking off Axis officers and sergeants. Put another drone on resource destruction duty—hunt down and destroy things like fuel depots, ammo plants, train engines, and the like. Anything giving off a radiation signature needs to be hit hard.”

  “The drones are incapable of winning the war, Professor. Ground forces will be required.”

  “We’re not going to win the war. We’re going to put a thumb on the scales of the war, tipping it in the Allies’ favor. They’ll still have to fight. They’ll still have to sacrifice. They’ll still have to man up, look evil in the face, and spit. But they will kick the teeth out of those uncivilized Evolutionsbremse even if I have to come back here and run Firebrand through Goering’s guts. I’m taking the assault on the school personally, Diogenes.”

  “I have noticed, Professor. With the addition of the combat drones, if the rest of the war goes according to the most common schedule, the probability of Allied military victory approaches unity.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on the place and let me know if things don’t go our way.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  Flintridge, Thursday, October 30th, 1969

  Mary has almost everything wrapped up and ready to go. I signed a stack of papers and helped her mail them off. Diogenes has finished transferring most of the bulkier goods through the cargo shifters. We won’t account for every dollar, but, all things considered, the place turned us a profit on resources. We should be gone forever come the weekend.

  On the other hand, it’s Halloween tomorrow night.

  I admit it. I have a weakness for dressing up on Halloween. I was deprived as a child. Sue me.

  The reason I gave for staying in Flintridge wasn’t Halloween, however. I promised Ted I’d get him a better grade of vampire detector—Boojum-type vampires, anyway. I bought a pocket telescope and got to work on it. Mary, meanwhile, followed up on the phone number they gave her after the vampire kidnapping. It wasn’t Ted’s number, but the people on the other end knew his number and were willing to give it to her. After that, it was only a matter of tracing down the new address. There are good points to being in the pre-cellular age.

  Once the sun went down, Bronze occupied another rental car—a metallic-blue Chevy Camaro, vintage 1968. She revved it a bit, flipped up the headlight covers, and settled into a low rumble. She liked it, therefore I liked it. Someone had kept the body and interior in good shape, but the engine had a few problems. Bronze started repairing it and I fed her my power crystal to hasten the process.

  “Problem?” Mary asked.

  “Rings and valves, mostly. A little bit of transmission.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Don’t sweat it. It’s a lovely car, Bronze approves, but the rental place probably bought it from someone who didn’t treat it well. It’ll be fine in an hour.”

  Bronze rumbled.

  “But the mileage is going to be awful for the first tank of gas,” I added. “Let’s go fill her up.”

  We stowed everything in the trunk and Bronze roared off down the road. With a hundred miles of metallic regeneration behind us—and two tanks of gas, not just one—Mary gave us directions to Ted’s new place. I felt a little superfluous, sitting behind the wheel and not touching anything. We need someone sitting in the driver’s seat for appearances, but if you’re not doing the driving, the pedals and the wheel are kind of inconvenient. Maybe next time we’ll get a car with tinted windows. That might work out.

  Bronze parked at the curb in front of Ted’s new house. Mary started to get out, but I stopped her.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “It happens.”

  “Quite a lot, actually. Why did Ted pack up his family and move?”

  “Because his house was identified. He can’t raise a family in a target. No matter what charms he’s got on the place, someone’s going to do something awful.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s the matter? Afraid we’re going to lead the Boojums to his door?”

  “No, we’ve all got the full cloaking package running. I doubt anything can find us at the moment, even things actively hunting us.”

  “So? Where’s the problem?”

  “We’re the problem. If I go knock on his door, he’ll have to deal with his wife. I’m a vampire and he’ll know I know where he lives. Then he’ll have to pack up and move again and that’ll make his wife want to kill him.”

  “Ah. Feeling a bit of sympathy for the husband?”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I can.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Could be I’ve been thinking about how you would react. Shop for a house, pick one, do paperwork, box up everything, hire a moving van, haul it all, sort it into the various rooms, start unpacking, and immediately have to do it all over again.”

  Mary nodded along at each step, right up to the last one.

  “Ow.”

  “Ah, you see my point.”

  “I think so. What’s the solution?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “Think while we move. If you want to be inconspicuous, we shouldn’t park in front o
f their place.”

  Bronze dropped into gear and gently drove away, cruising while I considered.

  “Okay, I have a few ideas.”

  “Hit me,” Mary said.

  “Not now.”

  “Later, then, when we have more room. What’re your ideas?”

  “I could drop off the package along with an apology for forcing them to relocate again, as well as a pile of money or valuables to make it easier. They’d still move, but at least it wouldn’t be a major financial burden.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Thing is, they’d have to wonder how I found them. It won’t do their peace of mind any good.”

  “And you’re so big into making hunters feel safe.”

  “It’s not that. Ted was… well, originally, Ted was a pain in the keister. He still doesn’t like me, but I think he respects me. He got to observe the religious zealots up close. I think he saw a little of his own attitude—taken to an even greater extreme—and didn’t like it. He even warned me about the ambush in the facility. Not because he disagreed with it, in principle, but because—I think—he keeps his word. We had a bargain, a deal, a trade. The zealots wouldn’t hold to it, and he felt bad about it.”

  “So you feel bad about making his life harder than it is.”

  “I guess,” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s a feeling that such behavior should be rewarded.”

  “Fine. Got any other ideas?”

  “I could go to the Cosmo and ask for Ted.”

  “You do know people there will detect you as a vampire, right?”

  “Not if I do it during the day.”

  “And they’ll want to discuss with you at length why you want to talk to one of their secret operatives, right?”

  “Ah… yes, they will, won’t they?”

  “Next idea.”

  “Hmm. I guess I could box up the Spyglass of Vampire Observation and simply drop it off at the Cosmo, with Theodore’s name on it. He’d get it eventually, I suppose.”

  “I like this idea better. It’ll make the Cosmo’s secret society of vampire hunting hooligans nervous, though.”