The Grand Attraction

by Enoch Enns

  He felt the edge of a blade clip his heel.

  Carls took a fist to the face and three more knots to his now-exposed chest. The one mishap cost him a valuable position and he stumbled backward. No time. The Nightingale was next to him, a scythe swinging his way. Carls forced every bit of him to the floor and drilled his blood-dripping heel against the Nightingale's footing. They came empty. But at least he'd redirected the Nightingale's blow.

  With the same motion, he twisted to his feet—lifting himself before another blast of pain to his back hit him down. The blade stopped at his coat.

  “Interesting,” the Nightingale remarked, his agile body landing a few feet before Carls. “Where did you get such a garment?”

  Carls didn't allow himself the time to converse. He couldn't. I have to save her... no matter what....

  He was to the side and behind a near structure. Good, he's following. Carls crouched low in the dining suit. He needed string, but where?

  A blade cut into the ground where he'd been, his body barely managed to clear the counter; his coat folded to the currents that bent around him. He found a roll of string along the floor and quickly wedged his gun between the counter and stove (barrel first and reaching out into the room beyond). But being this low had exposed him. The Nightingale swung downward and Carls caught the hilt—but didn't stop it. The force dug into his left shoulder and for a moment he felt trapped and at loss, and yet a sliver a hope forced a smile. He still had hold of the weapon and he used it to his advantage, pulling his feet from beneath him and forcing the Nightingale to pull away. In that time, he was back over the counter and facing the empty tables and chairs of the dining suit. The Nightingale was up and over in no time, his speed racing towards Carls as he bent over a table and spun across it. He regretted the choice of using his wounded shoulder as prop, but sent the table launching to its side.

  The Nightingale cut through with such ease and un-phased. It was now or never. String still in hand, Carls pulled with all his might—and it triggered.

  POW!

  The Nightingale toppled in confusion, struggling to regain stance. Carls picked himself from the floor and made no waste of time. His boot dug into his opponent's jaw. But that was all he could do before his own exhaustion flooded in. He toppled as well—crashing against one of the chairs.

  “What... did you do?” the Nightingale scoffed, blood dripping from his waist and mouth. Smoke still rose from the shrouded barrel. It had worked. Carls had wedged it just upright enough so as to hit center mass. He'd also wrapped the string's end about the hilt and trigger and held it loosely till he'd needed it. And it hadn't fired just once. The whole chamber had released (for better or worse). He could see five or so had broken skin on the Nightingale—and one had struck Carls as well. He hadn't noticed till now, but his thigh bled a steady stream.

  “Curse man's intent of power,” the Nightingale coughed. “You see an invention and turn it sour; you claim greatness but bring ruin. You desire freedom but not its cost. How sick, how pitiful...” his words trailed off and he resolved to looking up at Carls. “You... had better be different than they. I entrust you with what I guard, but only you. Your move to put yourself in the way that you might prove something better is capturing. Take heed to my words: chose carefully those you give authority to. They so often go bad....”

  He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small fold of cloth. “Take this as well,” he said, placing it between them. “As for my vow, I have served its call and now depart. Farewell, strange man. And I pray your words hold true.” The Nightingale collapsed to but the cloths that had clothed it.

  The Reward of Risk

  The same pews stretched beneath the chandelier. Everyone had emptied. Everyone but Dyrdrik and Norwick. The light reflected upon the two as they confronted each other-- both their faces downcast and tense.

  “It's been a while... friend,” Dyrdrik mumbled.

  Norwick reached into his coat and withdrew a small envelope. It wrinkled open and fluttered to the floor. “They took her too,” he said.

  Dyrdrik looked at the fallen piece of paper and then back at Norwick. “You knew better, I thought. Is it really that important to you--”

  Norwick's hand was already gripping Dyrdrik's vest as the philosopher was pressed against his stand. “Gone! She's gone....”

  “Relieve your grip, friend. I will not harm you. Now tell me, was it really worth this much?”

  “I almost had it... the cure. She would have been fine... but then...”

  “What Norwick? Then what? You knew Friedelock despised your work in secrecy, so why did you continue?”

  Norwick loosened his hands. “I had too,” he said, stepping back and retrieving the paper. “And now, my wife is gone as well.”

  “So... they took her too?”

  “No, not they. Not Friedelock.”

  The expression on Dyrdrik's face dropped. “Don't tell me...”

  “I had to. Please, old friend, help me now. Don't let all I have done add to nothing!”

  “Fool, he will pursue you to the end, you know that! So why prolong it?”

  “I must.”

  “You've crossed the line already. I told you not to.”

  “Please, Dyrdrik. I only ask this once. He plans on crippling me from his movements, and I must foresee his plans.”

  Norwick handed over the envelope.

  Dyrdrik folded it up, raising his head to his long separated friend. “Only because I consider you a friend. Remember this though: nothing material can remain hidden forever. Either your work will decay or be put to use.”

  “I only need more time. As you've said, 'To clear one's lungs, you need only to take a deep breath and let it out.' Give me the time to find that breath, and this all shall clear.”

  “Then what do you insist on me doing?” the philosopher asked as Norwick took off his coat and held it before him.

  “To become a friend of my enemy...”

  Carls could barely make out the blur of objects as his eyes focused in on the mess. Slowly his senses returned to him as he woke. Where? What? Who? He had overcome the Nightingale. The blood on his leg had dried and he saw the fold of clothes covering something. But who was he, the Nightingale? He remembered the card. The vision. Had Norwick summoned him? Was that even possible? If Norwick had access to them then did that mean Hensers were nothing new to this place? That dealer... who was he? Pamela had asked of him... he had come from nowhere... Carls felt to his pocket, palms brushing against his Hand-Pal. Of course, he'd already used his Hensers. The first against the... dark. The second to his daughter.

  Joanna, he recalled. Yes, he was getting closer. But now ran the question as to what he should do with Friedelock's demands. He reached out and pulled the clothes from their resting. There lie a brown folder and two tapes. He withdrew the first and played it into his Hand-Pal:

  “I am at loss of words. I know now what Dyrdrik had been fearing. Somehow, he knew of the consequences and yet went with it. I should have known. A philosopher always knows more than he will speak. A good one at least. And Dyrdrik was just that sort of man. I cannot believe my most securing measure will also be my undoing. They come for me. I can only hope they get to me before Friedelock... that what I might avoid the prolonged death and interrogation. Only God can save us now...”

  (The second tape played) “Have we truly come to this? Is man's striving for accomplishment really what brings his ruin? My daughter was all I cared about. My daughter. But she is no more. Friedelock, in his obsession, forced me into my tombstone and I am not responsible for her death! Indeed he seeks the peak of humanity, but he shall have none of it! I have personally seen the forces at work here... there is much more than meets the eyes. There is more to our slumber than any could have guessed. If only we had stayed awake. Had actually suffered through and through... maybe then we could have seen better the rifts opening to us. They come, and because we brought them...”

  Who were the others Norwick s
poke of? The ones that brought his death... Carls knew that Friedelock's men hadn't reached him first. The room, the body, the blood-- Norwick had taken a risk to protect his work that exceeded anything Friedelock could have foreseen. It's the Hensers, it has to be, Carls thought. He knew there was something wrong with them. They were sorcery. Black magic.

  They were man's undoing.

  But how? How had they been used? Was the dealer behind it all? Was he responsible?

  Carls’ eyes lifted to a figure before him. He was still numb on the dining suit floor, but he was not alone. Xavier resided behind the counter from his he had placed his gun.

  “It's been a while,” he said with a smirk.

  “Enough games, why did you appear to me before?” Carls asked. “Not in the shop, but while fighting the Nightingale. I saw you standing there and you gave a vial.”

  “Are you sure that was me? Illusions can be quite convincing you know...”

  “I need answers, Xavier.”

  “Need? Are you sure? Wouldn't it be more correct in saying you want answers? I admire your curiosity, Locke. Coversate with me. What have you found?”

  “Is this some sort of game to you?” Carls lashed. “I don't have time to fulfill your need of company! My daughter is still dying!”

  A flicker of appearance and Xavier now posed beside Locke, kneeling low. “Trust me, young sleeper, you are still just awakening. As for your daughter, you are right. I shall not keep you. But know this: your actions as to how you save her will affect everything, be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I speak of. You know that a man desperately wants what you have uncovered, and yet so desperately has it been kept from him. Is it truly wise to unite the two? Do you really want to know what happened and what is to happen?”

  “I don't--”

  Xavier was gone. He looked down upon the folder before him, hands shaking. Was he to return it? Was he to actually hand it over?

  “Carls,” his Hand-Pal buzzed. It was Antoinette. “Listen to me. I have the cure. DO NOT return to Friedelock that folder. Your daughter is safe with me... at least for now. If you have it, come find me and I will give the cure to you. Hurry, time is running short.”

  A prayer answered or a nightmare sprung.

  Saving Joan

  He was on his feet and running. So much going through his head. Friedelock, Norwick, Antoinette, Dyrdrik, the Nightingale-- they all had ties somehow. They all fit into a much bigger picture and Carls just wasn't seeing it. What had happened to this place? What was this place? Who were these people? These things? The group he'd found dead with leads to his daughter, who were they? They had obviously been against Friedelock, but were they with Antoinette? And TAP... what was TAP's connection to everything? Why did they keep showing up?

  It was assured that Norwick had once worked for Friedelock. He recalled the tape he'd stumbled upon when he first went to the place: “Strange, is it, that a man could know so much yet be content with so little. The Big Man himself said that our research was sufficient, yet he always asks for more. Could it be he has something else in mind? I came here to take part in a great work, not further it.” The Big Man. He'd been on the walls in the Holstein Sector as well.

  Altogether, it was nearly just too much. All Carls could think about for now was saving his daughter. But even then, the plan had changed. He was no longer to deliver the package to Friedelock, but to Antoinette. And who, exactly, was Antoinette? Did he even have Locke’s daughter? Was he any better than Friedelock? From his current standing: yes. Friedelock had been the one responsible for this to begin with. He was the one who had stolen his daughter and brought her this suffering. Friedelock—he hated the name, yet knew nothing really of it. I will save you, Joan, I am coming for you and we will leave this place. But was that possible? He had tried... The doors, the screams, the stairs, the room, the fall-- it all flooded him instantly. No, he was not use to any of it yet, but he carried on. He still forced one foot in front of the other. He still held the gun with no shots in it. He still held the folder.

  And the cloth. Take this as well, the Nightingale had told him, giving him a small fold of cloth. He'd opened it, but found nothing surprising. Only a stick about a foot long with one end bent slightly. What it did, what it was, he did not know. All he did know was that if the Nightingale had made an effort to give it to him, it had value. Even if he didn't know how to use it, he would keep it.

  Carls Locke made his way around the curve leading down the hall of the e-Company's expanse. Antoinette, I have come for you. You had better still have my daughter. And you had better not abuse what I bring in exchange. “Chose carefully those you give authority to,” the Nightingale had warned. I am giving you this, I can only hope for my daughter's life in return. Please, do not lie to me. Do not be as Friedelock. Do not tangle me in this mess.

  The large steel doors lifted and Locke entered as a single figure to towering skyscraper of industry within the mall of mystery. Antoinette's voice came across the COMM, “Good, you have come. Make your way to the Observatory Chambers, where we first met, and we shall converse man to man, face to face, once again. Do not be alarmed, your daughter will be near there as well. You two shall yet be reunited.”

  He stood before the glass, a chill through his veins as he held the folder before him. The mechanism that had once bound him lay vacant as he stared through the glass and upon the figure of an old man. Philis Antoinette—an enemy of his enemy.

  “So,” the man began, turning his wheelchair to face Locke, “you have indeed found it. I am sorry it had to be this way—that your daughter had been used by Friedelock. Rest assured, she is here.” He played with a switch on his armchair and a door slid open to Carls' right. It led into Antoinette's room. “Come in,” he said, “I trust you enough.”

  Carls stepped into the room, the air seemingly flowing between the crevices in his coat. Antoinette was an old frail man, head strapped upright, legs shriveled but arms steady at his side. Steady and firm. “Your daughter, as promised.”

  The door behind him opened to a small table on which a girl rested. Not just any girl-- not just any five year old-- but “Joan...” Carls called out, hesitant to believe his eyes.

  “Go to her,” Antoinette reassured. “I have already treated her injuries.”

  And he ran to her. His heart beat with an insurmountable sense of joy. “Joan!”

  Her body was still. So innocent. So unaware. So tired.

  “Will she make it?” Carls pleaded a glance at the old man.

  He nodded.

  Her eyes peeled open-- her dark hair sliding from her forehead as she made her first breathes. “Daddy?”

  Carls embraced her. He held her tight in his arms, his chest weeping, his mind easing, his muscles relaxing. “Joan.”

  She was crying. But who could blame her? She had been through so much. Too much. Was Antoinette to really be considered a friend? Was he to be trusted? Choose carefully those you give authority to.

  He could have stayed there forever with her in his arms. His only care in the world had finally been met. She was safe. She was alive.

  And she was two years older. He recalled the chambers, the flashing lights and toxic gas-- but now he at least held her as his. But Antoinette still waited for the folder. He was give it to the man, however unknown the results would be. Antoinette had kept his daughter safe. And healed her. Or at least that's what he was seeing.

  “You wanted the folder,” Carls said, tossing it across the floor to Antoinette's feet. The man directed a robotic arm from his stash and withdrew it, confident.

  “My work with you is done,” Carls added. “I wish to leave this place.”

  The man smiled bitterly. “Don't we all? I understand if you desire no longer to help, but leaving this place is not currently possible.”

  Not possible?

  “However, you should seek out Sherlin if you want a place to stay within here.”

&nbs
p; “I have had enough, why can't I leave?”

  “I myself ask the same question. Do not lose yourself, Carls. Find Sherlin and he will most certainly talk. As for me, I am running too short on time to answer all your questions. Giving up the tarsh lilies has not furthered my project by any means.”

  What? He'd used the tarsh lilies on his daughter? “Why?” Carls asked.

  “Because we are not all that different. And I owe it to-- well, never mind. Go now, my watcher will lead you to him.”

  Another man rounded the bend into the room. Carls was surprised he recognized the face. “He's the watcher?”

  Part III: Purpose

  In Need Of A Place To Stay

  Antoinette slid his wrist and arm so as to turn his wheelchair. “So you're acquainted? Yes, Kit works for me.”

  He still didn't know how the man had warded off the Shem... how he'd come from nowhere; how he safeguarded the e-Links. Kit still wielded proudly the bow that had shot it.

  “Haven't been getting into more trouble have you?” Kit smirked, implying on when they had first met.

  “Those vials, what are they? How do they work? What are they for?”

  “You may ask him on your way,” Antoinette spoke, ushering them on their way. Carls held his daughter atop his shoulders (as she was still weak) and followed Kit down and out of the e-Company's lairs. Kit, the watcher. What did that all mean? He remembered his first encounter with the drugs-- the illusionate that had misled him. The tripper. Yes, it had been a tripper. And he'd completely fallen for it. He'd taken the drug. He'd felt its liquid coarse through him, fill him, tunnel him. But not the same as when he'd fought the Nightingale...

  Kit hadn't said a thing. The man stood tall and fluid in steps. His leather pattered boots made no sound as they slid across the tiles of the grand mall. That's right, I'm trapped in this place. But was there really no hope? He still ached from the thoughts of his helpless pleas-- of when he had needed rescue the most. But you kept me here, he whispered. He would have left his daughter and wife; he would have deserted every bit of dignity he had in fear and disbelief. What had happened here to these people? To him?