by Garon Whited
Still, the usual process applied. Turn goods into real money. Use the money to make it easier to turn goods into money. Sell one uncut diamond to the first jeweler you find, buy a skinphone and do some research to find other jewelers. Download the French/English application and get an earpiece for running translation. Get a couple of digital money sticks. All the usual stuff. I spent most of the day walking around, converting currency, and ignoring the absolutely fantastic smell of bread.
Mmm. The French do know their bread. Don’t get me wrong. The bakers in Karvalen make a lovely loaf, but some of the shops here have been in business for longer than I’ve been alive. Sort of alive. Since before I was born. I suspect I looked very much the barbaric tourist, walking around Dijon, gawking at the signs and munching on a loaf. I don’t care. It was delicious.
Once I had a new skinphone, I found out the date.
We left this world from some state park in the Adirondacks on December 11th, 2048. I believe it was a Friday. I went back on a non-voluntary basis to have a heart-to-heart and pliers-to-groin meeting with Johann Fries. After he finished explaining his torturous logic at how all this was my fault for “triggering” him, I quasi-escaped and eventually successfully escaped. I’m a little fuzzy on how long that took, local time, but it took at least three days, maybe five. I lost track; I was distracted.
It’s now Saturday, December 19th, still in 2048.
I hate this variable time differential! Why can’t all the universes operate at the same speed? It would be nice if they had at least one fundamental thing in common!
Then again, I shouldn’t complain. The lack of time over here may be the only reason Johann hasn’t successfully summoned me or flushed me out an airlock. He’s only had a few days to try.
Oh. And in the larger sense of the world, it may be why he hasn’t successfully taken it over, either.
But it worries me. If the time differential doesn’t shift, will I spend a week here and find a year has gone by in Karvalen, or whatever the math works out to? What if it shifts to a greater differential? Lissette could be dead and Liam on the throne—or Liam’s grandson. Shifting the other way isn’t so bad. I could have a year-long magical argument and be back in Karvalen before they clean the remains of the Hand assassins off the floor.
Someday—again, someday—I’m going to figure this time-shifted weirdness out. Is it like planets? Earth rotates every twenty-four hours, roughly, to make one day. A day on Mars is about forty minutes longer because it rotates slightly slower. Jupiter has a day of about ten hours because it spins faster.
No, that can’t be it. Those are fixed, not variable. Universes seem to keep slipping gears relative to each other. Why? Are they bobbing on the surface of the ocean of Time, their relative heights on the waves determining the rate at which they experience Time’s flow? Would that metaphor even hold water?
Nuts.
I found a backpacker hostel and discovered it had a pair of private rooms. The price was low and came with a bathroom, so I occupied one for the sunset. I should have looked it over first. The curtains were inadequate and the bathroom had a frosted-glass window. It worked out, though, when I put the pillows over the window and held them in place with the bedspread. It might have been painful if the window faced west, but I was lucky there. I had a shower to minimize the power use from my ring, dressed, and fired up my human disguise.
Nobody gave me any funny looks when I bought makeup and sunglasses. Cashiers are too jaded to care what customers buy. You can go through a store and buy bananas, cucumbers, whipped cream, three new belts, and a box of condoms and the weird looks will all come from fellow customers. It’s amazing what you get used to.
I returned to my lair, donned my non-magical disguise to save power in my rings, and wished for a reflection. Ah, well. There was nothing to be done about my talons, though, without power equipment or special tools. Nail clippers were useless—whatever my nails are made of, it’s not normal. I tried a pair of scissors and successfully marked the edge of a talon, but cutting it was out of the question. Well, my nails could be overlooked as a personal quirk… hopefully.
Once suitably camouflaged and able to see right through people without using sharp implements, it was time to go hunting. My primary purpose was to find someone capable of doing work similar to BitRate’s. It didn’t need to be an iron-clad identity, just the equivalent of an ID card. If the gendarmes or gestapo pulled me over for speeding, I wanted them to respond with, “Insert your payment method here and be on your way,” rather than, “What do you mean you don’t have identification? Look into this lens, sir, and place your thumb on the scanner.” It didn’t have to stand up to an investigation, just let me get by.
Joe Citizen, that’s me. I’d settle for Stupid American. But at all costs, I wanted to avoid Undocumented Alien.
The search for the more professional members of the criminal classes—the white-collar crooks, if you will—was hampered by the need to operate a translation app. However, the unprofessional members of the criminal classes assisted me with my language problem and dinner. There were several small incidents with individuals, pairs, and trios, but afterward my mastery of the French language was much improved. Working my way up the food chain of the local criminal underworld happened much more quickly. It also provided a small contribution to the yacht fund and quite a number of smaller weapons. The drugs—presumably illegal drugs—went down the toilet, as usual.
It took most the night to find someone capable of helping me. I pressed on, however, and found two more. My idea was to get an identity from each. If one identity became wanted for a crime—heaven forbid! —I would have backup ID on hand.
Then it was back to my room for the sunrise, another shower, and identity hunting.
Sunday, December 20th
Getting a basic identity card wasn’t so difficult, once I knew who to ask. One of them was willing to accept gold and had suggestions on where to convert more. I immediately paid his friend a visit and unloaded the rest of my pockets. He wasn’t a licensed dealer, obviously, and didn’t have the best exchange rate, but he was willing to handle bulk. Convenience is always a factor.
Somehow, we neglected to introduce ourselves. Maybe the gold did. They say money talks. I was fine with that.
I ordered a moving truck from Google. Not a typical Google Van, but a big, heavy-duty thing, suitable for gigantic metal horses or a whole house full of chattels. There’s a lead time on those, for some reason. I’d have it by the end of the day.
Meanwhile, I took a Google Cab out to a spot on the highway, paid to have it wait, and jogged off into the woods. I noticed, in passing, that Bronze definitely came this way. She left hoofprints like empty buckets in somebody’s field. I really need to do something about that, but what? When that much tonnage hits the ground, it makes dents! I’ll have to give it more thought.
After recovering the rest of my mineralogical wealth—and loading Firebrand into the padded case I bought for it—I caught my cab, returned to my de facto banker, made good the trade, and was pleased at the balance on my digital sticks.
Then it was a pleasant day in a pleasant city. It was cold, even for the time of year, but the sun was out and nobody was actively trying to kill me. I spent some time in an open-air café, chatting with the wait staff. After all, I’m an American and I need to practice my French, n’est-ce pas? I would have tipped them, but apparently that’s not a thing in Europe—they were very helpful in explaining, gently, how Americans are still the barbarians of the world. I couldn’t take offense; I was the one who used the word “barbarian,” or le barbare. Besides, it’s their country. The hussies with the loose hair would be looked down on in Karvalen, to say nothing of the grown women with ponytails wandering around outside a bathhouse! It’s all relative.
My spoken French lags behind my understanding of it. I’m improving it by mundane methods, now. Maybe I should get one of those language lesson programs for my skinphone. I seem to have a terribly low
-class accent, too. I wonder here I got it from.
Late in the afternoon, the Google Truck arrived. It didn’t play my usual greeting sound, which was both reassuring and saddening. I wasn’t using my Vladimir identity and it didn’t have any scanning equipment to identify me, just one of my new ID chips. Oh, well. I told it where to go. Bronze came out of the woods, climbed up in the back, and I locked everything up.
With a truck for transport and a cybernet route planner, I decided to hit Paris, then Rome, then Berlin. We’d save London for last, then start over. If Mary hadn’t left a message for me in any of our rendezvous locations, I’d leave some for her. We’d find each other eventually, then go for a cruise. A working cruise while I set up some awful spells, but a cruise nonetheless.
I wonder if I’ll hate the boat.
Come to that, I have a skinphone. Where do people sell yachts, anyway? I looked it up. There are companies that will build a yacht or convert a boat into a yacht, but they don’t exactly have a showroom floor. Most of them are commissioned work, not factory production. As for people willing to sell their yacht, there are places online, but no used-yacht dealerships like used-car dealerships. So much for that.
But some of the yachts were fascinating. While the truck drove us to Paris, I looked them over. Luxurious things, very nice. Some of them were floating mansions. Others were nearly floating islands, complete with bubble domes. Those island-habitat yachts weren’t fast, of course, but they mounted huge banks of solar collectors, making them nearly self-sufficient. A person could drift slowly around the world on one and never have to touch land.
I got so involved in the mechanics of yachts I nearly fried in the sunset. The tingling started and I barely noticed. The hot, stinging sensation demanded my attention, though. I ducked through the access hatch to get into the back of the truck and hid there.
Sasha was right, all those years ago. The internet—the cybernet—is an evil thing.
Bronze stood over me, head lowered, watching me transform. She wondered if I was all right.
“I wonder that, too,” I admitted. Firebrand chortled. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a psychic chortle and hope not to repeat the experience.
Paris by night is lovely.
Paris by night through vampire eyes is stunning. The streets are rivers of gold. People are bright fish, gleaming, glowing, swimming through light. It’s like watching a melody of happy thoughts play through a musician’s mind.
I’m glad the truck did the driving. I wouldn’t have wanted to negotiate the Parisian streets on my own in a car, much less a truck. Anyway, I didn’t have much choice about it. Paris doesn’t allow manually operated vehicles inside the city. Bicycles, yes, but nothing with a motor.
The Eiffel Tower is impressive. Sure, it’s not the tallest thing I’ve ever seen, but it’s been standing since 1889, according to the tourist brochure. Not bad for wrought iron and nineteenth-century engineering.
The tower was still open to tourists when I arrived. The weather was cold, but otherwise unremarkable, so getting a ticket and a ride up the tower was no trouble at all.
I looked around. Firebrand looked around. We searched and sensed and scanned. We found no sign that Mary had come by here. To be fair, she hadn’t had much time to work. She might still be feeling out financing.
I imprinted magical lettering into the floor near the lift. With her training, she would be able to see it. Since she understood the degenerate form of Imperial I keep calling Rethven, she would be able to read it, too. It was simply the digits to my new skinphone.
Errand completed, I spent a considerable amount of time at the rail, looking over Paris. It was worth looking at.
Monday, December 21st
I’ll say this for robot cars and modern roads. You get where you’re going with a minimum of fuss. Ten hours after leaving Paris, we pulled into Rome. Again, no manual-drive cars were permitted inside the city, so the truck—which I nicknamed “Twilight” after the Decepticon starship—had no problem getting around. It knew which roads to take, which roads to avoid, and all the computer-synchronized traffic around us knew where we needed to go before I did.
If I had to drive a big truck through Rome, it would be stuck in some narrow street, never to move again.
Twilight parked itself near Vatican City. I took time off to have a pleasant lunch at La Pilotta, a delightful little place almost across the street from the Plaza of Saint Peter and the obelisk that was my next stop.
Of course, I don’t speak Latin or Italian, so my most recent language lessons were almost useless. I found I could get by with English and French, but my translation app was, once again, a lifesaver.
Hot Tourist Tip: For anyone with an adventurous nature, you can point at things on a foreign menu and smile. For anyone who actually wants to have some idea what to expect, look it up.
And that’s all I’m going to say about lunch. That, and I ate it anyway
The stroll to the plaza was uneventful. There wasn’t much of a crowd, possibly due to the freshening winter wind and the forecast for rain. I had some bad moments when I stepped gingerly into the plaza, one careful step at a time. My boots didn’t smoke and I didn’t feel anything untoward.
If I’d picked the places to rendezvous, the Vatican would not have made the list. I mean, seriously. What vampire picks the Catholic Holy City as a place to meet? A daredevil cat burglar with an impish sense of humor, that’s who.
But it was early afternoon, in broad daylight. My divine displeasure detectors—my feet—failed to find any negative reaction from the holy ground. I was extremely pleased.
The obelisk was taller than I thought. I walked past a fountain, through a ring of stones, and right up to it. I had my magical senses peeled, looking for any signs Mary might have stopped by. There wasn’t a spell to be seen, much less a magical message scrawled on the stonework.
Lounging around the top deck of the Eiffel Tower is one thing. Lounging around the obelisk is much easier. It’s a public plaza, after all. I decided to wait a day or two, just to pick up a little Italian to go with my French and to test the holy ground phenomenon Mary once told me about.
After a sunset inside Twilight, I used my ring, climbed out, and walked back toward Vatican City. It was drizzling hard, almost worthy of being called rain, but I ignored this. I’m dead. I can do that. My only worry was it might ruin my makeup, but I had a long, hooded coat, thanks to my miracle cloak.
I headed north along the Piazza del Sant’uffizio, reached the cross street of Via Paolo, and almost finished crossing the street.
Ever had one of those moments when you think about doing something, then reconsider? You reach for the doorknob, start to open the box, make a fist to throw a punch, start to cut the red wire… and you pause because some little part of you is screaming so loudly you can’t ignore it? Oh, you could ignore it, if you tried. Maybe you have, at some point in your life. And you went ahead and did the thing, discovering immediately how badly you needed to listen to that little voice.
My little voice was telling me not to take another step. Not one.
“Hold it,” it said to me. “Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Do not put your foot down on that piece of pavement. Don’t do it. It’s a bad idea. It’s a really bad idea. In fact, it may be the worst idea you’ve ever had in your long history of bad ideas. Listen to me. You’re psychic. You can sense these things. Search your feelings. You know it to be true!”
So I stopped, mid-step, and looked stupid for several seconds while I windmilled my arms and tried desperately not to complete the movement. I didn’t fall, but I did stagger back a pace. The important fact is I didn’t actually cross the invisible line, wherever it was.
This seems unfair. I should be able to see something. A sparkle in the air, perhaps. A spiritual manifestation of some sort. A glowing, ghostly cross blocking my path. Something.
I waved a hand in front of me. Nothing. Maybe it was purely a ground-based thing? If I could fly, would I be
safe? Could I play “The Floor Is Lava,” somehow?
Since I didn’t feel like testing any of this directly, I considered what to do. I couldn’t cut my hand and fling blood inside the area. Blood refuses to leave me without elaborate preparations to force it. Maybe some skin? Or some hair?
I plucked a few hairs from my head, crouched down, leaned forward, held out my arm, and let them fall. The weather cooperated by not being too windy, and by providing a layer of water to keep the hair from actually catching fire. The strands sizzled briefly and puffed into smoke as they tried to burst into flame, though, and gave off a stench reminiscent of rotten eggs.
That was just a few strands of hair. What would happen if I put my foot down on holy ground?
Okay, safety tip. It would appear vampires are flammable when subjected to divine energies.
My curiosity was satisfied. Maybe I, personally, am more resistant to divine incineration than a few strands of hair. Maybe the Vatican—thank you so much, Mary! —is exceptionally inflammatory. But we’ve successfully established the presence of a divine restraining order, one which carries heavy penalties. Whatever diplomatic immunity applies in Rethven or Karvalen or wherever, the local deific forces are not members of the agreement. Maybe I’ll try this some other time by poking a toe inside some minor church of some breakaway sect out in the middle of nowhere, but there is no way I’m going to walk into the Vatican at night.
I am going to have words with Mary, though.
I left the area at a fast walk, made a couple of corners, and hoped nobody witnessed my religious epiphany. The next-to-last thing I wanted to do was explain to a bunch of people in Rome why my body reacts badly to holy ground. The actual last thing might follow immediately after such an explanation.