by J Jordan
When the man spoke, Romney remembered. It was a commercial for the newest VoPhone.
“No,” said the photography professor from the TV commercials, “this will not do. The board wants to keep control of the Andar facilities.”
Devon smiled.
“Let’s take a break for a second,” he said. “I wanted to introduce you to some new friends of mine.”
Devon turned to Romney.
“Romney, this is a close friend of mine.”
“Garn Vock.”
This came from Cora. Specifically, it had the kind of shaky treble that marked a longtime fan of Vock products preparing to freak out. This tone was generally reserved for celebrities and famous authors. And Garn Vock was a celebrity of sorts. If you invented the modern personal computer in your garage and then went on to revolutionize music and telephony within five years of each other, then you too could be a celebrity. The real star, the reason for his celebrity, was in Cora’s pocket. The VoPhone. Specifically, the VoPhone 6S.
Cora was clutching the VoPhone 6S in her hand, conflicted on whether she should have him sign the back.
“That is me,” said Garn Vock, “the one and only.”
Romney frowned at this. For once there was someone in the room competing for largest bravado. They were equally matched. Romney decided to take the initiative.
“Romney Balvance,” he said, offering his hand.
Garn nodded at it. Then he looked to Cora. She was slowly disintegrating underneath his stern gaze. Romney regarded her hands fidgeting around the sleek touch-screen phone, as it nearly slipped from her grasp. He tried to price the VoPhone in his head. The number was large, even with a data plan.
Garn nodded to her and gave what cool photog profs consider a genuine smile, warmth and dry ice in equal measure. He even managed a halfhearted wave, which nearly destroyed Cora’s tenuous grasp on the situation. Then he turned to Tykeso. There was a mutual nod, a brief battle over who was less interested in the other, and then Garn turned back to Romney.
“Glad to meet you all,” he said. “This is the new research team, I take it?”
“Yes we are,” said Cora, with all the cool of macaroni art coming unglued.
“We are a little smaller than the last one, but we get the job done,” said Romney, making another save.
“More than you could say of the last one,” said Garn. “I understand you found a Katarin stone here, in Lanvale of all places.”
Cora nodded. Her fear had moved into the realm of numbed calm. Her eyes became placid lakes of clarity.
“It was a matter of finding references to prayer necklaces,” she explained, “which, the stone is basically just a prayer necklace if you don’t know what you’re looking at. There were several mentions, but none of them seemed to add up to anything. So, I used the new Anya Search function on my VockBook Pro to cross reference those with discussions regarding investments or inheritance. Plus, I had her dig into other search engines that aren’t on the grid, so to speak.”
Garn nodded. He was clearly impressed.
“Interesting. Would you say Anya’s current search methods were insufficient for the task?”
“No,” Cora choked, “no. No, she’s great. I just needed an unconventional method.”
“I would like to know about those unconventional search engines, so we can put them into her next upgrade. We’ve been receiving complaints that her current methods are inadequate.”
Cora blinked, and then nodded, and then blinked a few more times. Her brain had just suffered a major shock and was trying to make sense of this. Garn Vock had just asked her for advice.
“For now, I would like to return to our business. Devon, the Andar facilities are off the table. I cannot negotiate them.”
Romney had just noticed that Devon was standing beside him. His smile was particularly menacing. Or maybe it was just the lighting.
“Let’s put that on hold for a little while longer,” he said. “I wanted to show off my collection. And I thought you could talk them through the technology.”
“These are pressing matters,” said Garn, “and there are many more to go over. We should address them now.”
“We’ve been at this for thirty hours,” said Devon. “We could both use a break.”
Garn frowned and ran a hand over his head. Romney could see the fatigue sagging at his shoulders and his eyes. The cool photog prof was running on fumes. Garn’s conclusion was instant.
“All right,” he said, conceding, “show them the way.”
They moved to the small gallery, where paintings sat at attention in the dim light. Garn moved to each one, naming them off like a laundry list. Devon followed closely behind him, glowing with pride.
“The Portal Remains, Girl Plus Boy, Riding in Alta Mirra, Hirna Alda Reposa, The Highs of Atterak, Andrea’s Course Revisited.”
Cora and Tykeso stopped at the first, The Portal Remains, and were marveling over the brush work. Garn turned to the two stragglers, waiting for them to return to the tour group. Cora was still gaping.
“This is real,” she said.
“Yes,” said Garn, “but this isn’t the collection. Move along, please.”
He motioned them over to the last painting. Judging by Cora’s stare, it was more impressive than the others. Romney looked it over the way any amateur appreciator would: top to bottom, nodding, occasionally saying “mmmmm” and “ah.” It was a good painting, even by Romney’s standards. The man within looked real. The artist had taken special care with his face. Every line, every crease, the light, and the shadow; all were made with crisp lines.
It was a young man in war gear, circa Classical era, with a sword planted into the cold earth and leaning toward his left leg. Cora knew the exact date of its setting, which was 1320 CE. She also knew the crest emblazoned on the man’s tabard. It was a black dragon rearing on its haunches and roaring straight up into the sky. The dragon that burned the world. The symbol of the Atterusian Empire. The darkest days of Camerran history.
Many know the general events that took place in this time. The campaigns on elven cities, the ruthless expansions into Tambridesian territory, the mass slaughter. This painting had always been a controversial piece and had survived countless attempts on its long life. It wasn’t popular, especially among elven communities. Many argued the painting should be destroyed, because of its heroic depiction of villainy. Others wanted it preserved, regardless of its subject matter; it was a piece of history, a reminder of what comes at the end of peace. Both sides of this argument are compelling. Surely villainy such as this should be cast out of humanity. And yet, we have much to learn from their terrible deeds, lest we become inclined to repeat them.
Cora, and a handful of other scholars, knew the significance of the piece did not lie in the symbol, but the man who wore it. The man in the painting was a paladin, one of many Atterusian paladins, but he was more than a tyrant's soldier. This was the paladin, the man who turned against his order and beheaded their dragon king. This paladin brought the mighty Emperor Atterus to his knees and ended him in front of his armies. The paladin’s deeds would live on in stories told by elves and humans alike, all those who survived the Atterusian Empire and their children. But as time passed, his name and his deeds were lost. The modern world knows him only as another paladin of the Atterusian Empire. Another villain.
Romney knew nothing of these things, and for once we don’t blame him. The paladin is an enigma, even to the experts. He is a legend kept living by the most esteemed scholars, and no one else. He is indisputable proof that you should always write things down.
Don’t ever burn a book, even one you don’t like.
These details were also lost on Garn and Devon. They were fiddling with a placard to the right of the painting.
“It didn’t stick like this last time,” said Devon. “Honest.”
“That’s because you’re forcing it,” said Garn, swatting him away. “It’s a single motion, light and quick. You
’re turning a page, not wiping up a stain.”
Garn ran two fingers lightly over the placard. The resulting clicks jolted everyone out of their reveries. In a single motion, the paladin rose into the ceiling and revealed a small passage. Cora ran after it. She looked up to see the painting sitting in a groove in the ceiling, between two panes of glass. Garn joined her in looking up at it.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “the chamber is properly sealed. Humidity, temperature, air pressure, all controlled by Vock computer systems.”
“And that’s just the door,” said Devon. “Follow me.”
They stepped through the new passage and into a larger room. In the bluish fluorescent light, Romney made out a mirrorlike tile floor and polished steel walls. And nothing else. It was a nice room, thought Romney, very sleek and futuristic. It didn’t have anything. Then Devon stepped into the room and smiled. There came a soft hum from the walls, possibly an air conditioner, accompanied by the faint whirring of small machinery coming from the floor. He raised a hand up to the ceiling, then pointed his index finger at the floor. The tiles rose.
A column appeared. It was an Azerran granite pillar with a large glass case on top, wearing its shiny floor tile like a cap. Inside was the Katarin stone, resting on a velvet pillow and lit by a small cluster of LED lights. Devon pointed and another pillar rose. This one was wider, holding a mannequin’s torso adorned in golden full plate, with pauldrons propped on its shoulders and bracers wrapped around its wrists. Garn was pleased and a little smug. He had an image to maintain.
“You know the stone,” said Devon, “but this here is a nice decorative piece from eighteenth-century Camerra. Probably decorative. Am I right, Cora?”
Cora approached the case. She peered in at the armor, circled it, and took in every detail. She stopped at the chest plate and examined it closely.
“It is decorative,” she said, “although someone tried to use it for war, judging by the bracers.”
She was pointing to places in the armguards, where the surface was scarred with deep cuts. The gold was gone from the broad lines, revealing the shining steel underneath. Her finger brushed against the glass.
The display case chirped. Cora jumped back.
“Security measures,” said Garn. “Fine heat signatures, proximity detection, acoustic triangulation. The case can see you, hear you, and, to allow for a little poetry, it can feel you.”
Cora gaped at Garn. Then she looked to the case. Its four granite sides were mirrorlike walls, without any apparent openings or subtle grooves. She waved her hand in front of the glass, then tapped it with a finger. It chirped again.
“The best security for the best collection,” said Devon, elbowing Romney in the side.
“But that says nothing of what goes on inside,” said Garn, approaching the case. “Temperature, humidity, light exposure. There are tiny sensors inside there, watching this old suit. The slightest change is marked, reviewed, considered by the greatest preservationists in Ontar, and adjusted as needed.”
“We have two teams monitoring these pieces, seven days a week, holidays too. And we have another team on call, in case anything needs a restoring touch,” said Devon. “It makes OMANH’s setup look ancient. Barbaric, even.”
Devon rounded on the group and raised both his hands, fingers pointed at the ceiling. More displays rose up and clicked into place.
“The system runs on generators off the grid, accompanied by solar cells. If the Reymus Building lost power right now, then we could run this room, and all of its equipment, for five hundred years. Assuming no one’s around to fuel the generators.”
“And with our people,” said Garn, “we can maintain this collection forever.”
“Fancy,” said Romney.
Devon laughed.
“Fancy?”
“Yeah,” said Romney, “not bad at all.”
Devon slapped him on the back and laughed again. He tried to play it off, though it stung.
“I like you, Balvance. You are one difficult guy to impress.”
“So they keep these artifacts safe and running on solar power. It’s a cool idea. And that thing with the arms is pretty fancy too.”
Romney tried raising his hand and pointing to an unraised part of the floor. There was no reaction.
“Another security measure,” said Garn. “You’ve had cameras watching you the moment you walked into this room. Those scan facial structure, voice patterns, manners of speech, your body heat, among other things. They can tell who you are and whether you’re happy or sad. Or if you’re under duress. It’s the next level of the VeriVock system.”
“Right now, only Garn and I have access to the display cases. We’re going to work on mid-level permissions to get you guys some access. In case you ever want to look at one of these pieces. For research.”
“Is there any plan to release this to the public?”
Cora had joined the group once more. Her arms were crossed. Garn smiled at this.
“This was a very costly endeavor,” he said. “Each of these cases has a price range in the millions.”
“How do you propose showing these artifacts to the public?” asked Cora. “This is a secret room in a private office on the top floor of the Reymus Building. It’s designed to be inaccessible.”
She approached the glass case displaying the Katarin stone. She tapped it with her finger and it chirped at her.
“Fancy, yes. A technological marvel, absolutely. OMANH might very well be in the Iron Age when it comes to its preservation methods, but it has one thing on all of this.”
This time she flicked the glass. In defense, the case shrank into the floor, chirping as it descended.
“They give public access to their collections. History is not something you keep in a vault. That’s how you forget it.”
“OMANH destroys history a little every day,” said Garn, his cool, disaffected voice gaining bite. “We preserve it.”
“Go ask anyone on the street about Katarin stones,” said Cora. “Statistically speaking, only two in ten will know what a Katarin stone even is. If you have no way of showing them, then they have no way of knowing. That makes all of this pointless.”
Garn nodded. His photog prof’s smile had a genuine glow to it.
“All right, Cora. How do you propose we educate the masses? How should I give worth to my creation?”
Cora was jolted by this. She smiled and nodded. Garn Vock was asking her advice again.
“You have cameras in these cases, don’t you? Post pictures online or stream live video. Tell them what these things are and where they came from. You can give people something to look at, but they need context.”
“Oh man,” said Devon, “that is genius.”
Garn brushed his stubble thoughtfully. He raised his free hand, then pointed to the Katarin stone. It rose back into place with a muted whir. He began to pace around the case.
“You would need bandwidth for broadcasting, plus servers for hosting it all. And a website, something sleek and minimalist. Accessible.”
“We can get that stuff,” said Devon. “Hang on a second. Mila!”
Devon darted from the room. Romney poked his head out into the art gallery and watched him disappear down the hall toward Mila’s library. He waited just to make sure. Then he approached Garn and pretended to be interested in the display case too. And then he found the opening he was looking for.
“Impressive,” he said, and then seeing he was losing the initiative, went for the gusto: “So, how long have you known Devon?”
But Garn didn’t hear him. He mumbled something about secure encryption methods. So Romney cleared his throat and asked again.
“Since he was a boy,” said Garn. “But you would need some way to make the connection secure without limiting its capacity. There could be millions of people watching at a given time, depending on whether we want to expand it globally.”
“Ah,” said Romney, and then after a pause, “so you’re like a fami
ly friend?”
“I knew his father,” said Garn, “and his mother, to some extent. Though few really know Thera Reymus. Perhaps we keep it a provincial release, until we have hosting platforms in other parts of the world. But we still need bandwidth. Tell me, Cora. How you would plan to maintain these systems? Are we offering this as a paid service? Or do we offer it for free?”
“Actually, free is better,” said Romney, “as a public service. You could establish a company for the Reymus Collection, have it file a COA, a Charitable Organization Arrangement, which is a piece of cake to get. Then you name Reymus Industries and Vock Technologies as co-parent organizations. You split the expenses down the middle and then you both get tax credits. Sure, you spend a little from your own pocket to maintain it, but the tax exemptions alone will make up for it.”
Garn looked at Romney. He was giving the same smile he had given Cora moments ago. Then he looked to Tykeso, who was examining a knife in one of the cases.
“And do you have any surprises?”
Tykeso looked up, thought for a moment, and then shrugged.
“I’m a martial artist.”
“Fantastic,” said Garn.
The group returned to Mila’s library, where Devon was sitting on Mila’s desk and going through the specifics of the Reymus Collection Online. Mila was swiping and tapping at her tablet, trying to keep up with his rapid pace. After a pause in Devon’s thoughts, she looked over the contents of her tablet and sighed.
“Is now the best time to implement this? Right in the middle of a merger?”
“Well, no,” said Devon, “but now is a great time to get the specifics down. We gotta know how to attack this before we send it out.”
He turned to Cora.
“Hey, would you mind putting all that stuff into something more official? See, Mila, now it looks legit. Cora’s the researcher slash programmer, Romney’s acquisitions, and Tykeso is consulting. This works even better.”
“Listen, Devon,” said Romney, “this is all exciting stuff, but there’s something else we need to discuss. Like the recent acquisition.”