Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1

by Robert G. Ferrell

  Gradually the gaping chasm vacated by the dream got filled in by granules of real memory and fragments of fancy, leaving him a little disoriented but no longer acutely traumatized. He rubbed his eyes to improve focus and looked around. The world seemed to have dropped back into routine mode: comfortable, familiar, boring. Not that boring was bad in this case.

  He noticed the post on his screen and read it again. It still didn’t make his top ten most lucid communications, but it was no longer the jumble of nonsense it had seemed minutes earlier. Well, except for the Fimbolu... business. He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. The gist seemed to be that he had been the subject of some sort of test, which he had apparently passed. The whole episode jogged something; he figured it was a crumb he’d picked up in The Seminar but forgotten about due to extreme lack of engagement. The Seminar’s presenters were not exactly scintillating, and nor was the subject matter terribly gripping. It was mostly officious government-speak interspersed with hefty dollops of rules and edicts. Throughout most of it Aspet had struggled simply to keep his eyes open.

  He scrolled through the electronic documents he’d brought home with him and read the entire section on the ‘Oneiric Profile Examination.’ Apparently it was a deep psychological examination conducted on candidates shortly before they were scheduled to make an attempt at the crown. A dream scenario was magically injected into the candidate’s neural stream just prior to the initiation of the dreaming part of the sleep cycle. The reactions of the candidate to various situations and problems posed during the dream were carefully scrutinized by a team at CoME to determine if the candidate was suited for ruling and that he had no vengeful itinerary or other ulterior motives for wanting to be king. Aspet wasn’t sure why he wanted to be king, other than feeling he could do a better job than the current monarch, but he felt reasonably confident that he wasn’t harboring any repressed sinister aspirations.

  The fact that he now had less than three days to make final preparations for his attempt at the throne suddenly squirmed its way through the crowd of thoughts and ruminations currently milling about in his consciousness and shocked him into action. He had a lot to do, and a short time to do it in.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Null Magic

  Tol sighed. As expected, he wasn’t having any luck convincing his superiors that there was an imminent threat to The Slice. He had stopped short of telling them about Oloi and the phantom pub, though. He just got out of the infirmary and the last thing he wanted was to be sent back forcibly, under restraint.

  The walls of his cramped office were closing in on him, as they often did after he’d met with the duty sergeant. The only cure was to hit the streets. Besides, he wasn’t going to make any headway on this problem sitting at a desk.

  It was raining, as usual. Goblinopolis really wasn’t all that wet a place, except when he needed to walk and think. Then you could guarantee precipitation of exactly this sort: deliberate and drenching. Something about the way they were falling enabled the individual drops to wriggle into areas they weren’t supposed to be able to reach, at least according to the marketing claims of the rainwear garment manufacturers. He snuggled down into the flipped-up collar of his departmental trench overjack and stared grimly at the rain-slickened sidewalk as he trudged along en route to his favorite destination: nowhere in particular. Tol had a standing reservation for a window seat.

  He decided on a whim to wander down by the docks. Not his Precinct by a long shot, but what the smek. Goblinopolis was inland, but built on a river that had been widened and dredged repeatedly over the years to accommodate larger and larger vessels. As a result, the vast majority of traffic on the waterway below the city now consisted of huge barges plying their way back and forth between ocean-going freighters docked in deepwater Myndrythyl Bay and the extensive municipal warehouse district. If there was a logical place in the city to conceal horded technology, or anything else for that matter, the block after block of massive freight storage buildings in the warehouse district was it. Most of them also had connections to a labyrinthine underground routing facility that occupied nearly a square kilometer of the area below the district’s streets. A goblin could thread his way through that maze for days, even weeks, without ever seeing sunlight.

  The rain slacked off as he approached the eastern wharfs. These were the only ones designed to handle passenger traffic, the others being dedicated solely to freight. It was getting late; the last disembarkation of the day had just taken place and people returning from holiday or shopping on the semi-autonomous Halo’jn Isles just east of Lumbos streamed past with luggage, boxes, and bags. Tol dodged and chuckled as a wizened old gnome crone with a particularly wide load went scooting by, hurling gnomish obscenities in his direction for having the audacity to be in her way.

  Tol decided just to wander up and down the commerce-choked streets until something interesting happened. Having grown up not far from here, he knew it wouldn’t be long. Sure enough, after less than a minute a curious parade came around a corner and wound its ponderous way up the street in front of him. At its head was what would appear to the uninitiated to be a horribly disfigured monster, tentacles waving wildly. Behind this apparition trailed, in orderly single-file, a procession of diminutive robed monks. As the tentacled thing came abreast of Tol, he took off his helmet respectfully and spoke to it. “Glorious day to you, Exalted One. On visitations?”

  The convoy halted as the Exalted One ran a leathery sucker-encrusted tentacle over Tol’s face. It withdrew and a thin, trilling voice emanated from somewhere deep inside the giant barnacle of a body. “Tol-u-ol. It has been many risings since last we met. You have matured;” a pause, then, “and you have been...injured.”

  “Yes, Exalted One. Several times. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

  “Life is too brief to spend battering away at one another, Tol-u-ol. Have you not learned this?”

  “I generally try to avoid it whenever possible, Exalted One. There’s just something about being an edict enforcement officer that makes people want to batter me.”

  “Some of your injuries run much deeper than mere broken flesh, Tol-u-ol. Flesh heals with time; spiritual wounds often do not.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Exalted One, but I don’t put much stock in that spiritual mumbo-jumbo. I’m just a simple cop.”

  The Exalted One made a strange thrumming noise that Tol only just recognized as laughter. “Yes, Tol-u-ol, you are a simple creature. But one destined to leave his mark amongst the very stars themselves, nonetheless.”

  This prediction took Tol by surprise. He grappled with his thoughts for a moment as the Exalted One and his retinue moved off down the street. Tol frowned and called after him.

  “Wait, Exalted One. I have an important question to ask you!”

  “Your answers sleep shrouded in darkness, Tol-u-ol. Seek them where childhood dreams are hidden. Fare you well!”

  “Wait. What?” Tol scratched his head. “Smek. I hate puzzles. Why can’t these guru types ever talk in plain Goblish? I’d better write that down before I forget it.” He felt in the pockets of his overjack for a pad. Unfortunately, the only pen he could find was one he thought he’d ‘accidentally’ left locked in the desk drawer in his office. He groaned as he realized it was going to nag him.

  “My internal navigation system indicates that you are 2,354 meters from your assigned district. Is this extrajurisdictional activity authorized? I see no such orders on file.”

  “Hey, I’m tryin’ to save the world or somethin’ here. That goes beyond departmental policy just a little, doncha think?”

  “As usual, I have no idea what you’re prattling on about. I suspect you don’t, either.”

  “Eh, put a cap on it, pencil brain.”

  Tol wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets of the warehouse district, trying to comprehend the underlying meaning of the cryptic message the Exalted One had given him while simultaneously ignoring the strident running com
mentary emanating from his overjack pocket. It was a bit like trying to make out with a date on the front porch while your mother nagged at you through the closed door. As he passed within a few meters of a wharf, he had a sudden overwhelming urge to hurl the pen far out into the dark lapping water—but the thought of having to account for it come equipment audit time stayed his hand once again.

  “Where childhood dreams are realized...shrouded in darkness...” He repeated the words under his breath. “Sounds like the closet in my bedroom as a kid.”

  “There was no mention of layers of discarded food and crumpled, soiled clothing; the resemblance to your bedroom closet escapes me,” opined a muffled electronic voice.

  “For the love of Gammag Palindromia, will you please shut up? I can’t think with your constant inane jabbering.”

  “I expect your inability to think considerably predates my ‘inane jabbering,’” the pen replied in a hurt tone.

  “Hey, ya know, I think that would be a good name for you. Inane Jabberer, or ‘Eyejay,’ for short.”

  “My designation is ‘PDWA/AI Model 36, serial number 409427,’ not ‘Eyejay.’ How barbaric and typically insensitive.”

  “Eyejay it is, then,” replied Tol, beaming, “It’s a good name for you. The right name.”

  The pen clicked in irritation, a sound Tol hadn’t realized it was capable of making. He chuckled. It wasn’t often he scored a point on the little digital smekker. He hoped the victory didn’t prove too Pyrrhic.

  He stopped for a while to watch a cargo vessel being unloaded. The spectacle of those gargantuan cranes extricating huge containers from deep in the bowels of a freighter and plopping them deftly on flatbed transport drays never failed to enthrall him. As a lad he’d spent countless hours down here watching the great dhowmats divest themselves of their treasure, trying to imagine from what exotic ports of call it had been brought back through impossibly turbulent seas and vicious pirate blockades.

  Out of curiosity he pulled out his departmental-issue optical enhancement goggles and slapped them over his eyes. They brought the lettering on the side of one of the containers up close and into sharp focus. Extruded Polychitin Dental Polish Applicators, 1000 Gross. Serious buzz kill. Smek those truth-in-shipping-label edicts.

  Ignoring the bitter disenchantment of a childhood dream shattered, Tol hurriedly shifted his gaze to the ship in the next berth further along. Unlike the first ones, these containers had a brightly-colored logo splashed on them. He recognized it as belonging to a well-known toy manufacturer. The sight warmed the cockles of his heart (the cockles reside just below and to the left of the auricles in goblin anatomy) and brought back even stronger memories of his juvenile phase. His rose-colored reminiscences were once again dragged into the stark glaring light of reality when one of the crates slipped out of its sling and crashed awkwardly to the dock. It burst open at a seam and what came tumbling out was definitely not intended for children.

  Instead of brightly-colored animals and wooden vehicles, the broken crate disgorged bundles of boxes with stenciled labels like Programmable Field Generator, 1 ea and Opto-Mechanical Transducer Array. Tol’s eyes narrowed and the ‘something wrong with this picture’ alarm in his head started ringing. Only seconds after the accident two furtive-looking hobs came scuttling over and rounded up the spilled merchandise, hastily nailing the crate back together and securing it with metal banding. Tol decided he would follow the suspicious container to its destination. He blended with the shadows and settled into the pursuit.

  He’d only been watching for three or four minutes when a lifter driven by a surly gnarlignome rolled over to the crate and hoisted it up on two extensible prongs protruding from the front like flattened tusks. With insolent skill he whipped the whole assembly around and drove off with surprising speed down an aisle crowded with crates and barrels of varying sizes. Tol leapt to his feet and scrambled to keep sight of his quarry as it disappeared into the dockside maze. He clambered over barrels and around shipping containers, stubbing his foot on an exposed plank. Cursing silently he hobbled along, trying not to lose the crate. He thought he’d blown it for a moment, but rounded a corner and spied his target being loaded onto one of the lesser flatbed drays, beside a smaller crate.

  He skittered around a couple of shelving units and positioned himself near the exit, leaping onto the bed of the dray as it lumbered by in the darkness and wedging into a narrow space between the two crates. They took a corner rather faster than was prudent and it threw him roughly into a cargo tie-down ring. He lay there rubbing his bruised pelvic ridge and foot, muttering. “Ow. I’m getting too smekking old for this smek. Where’d you learn to drive, you smekking lunatic...by correspondence course?”

  The dray bumped and bounced along for another minute or so, then swung abruptly into a dark garage. Tol struggled to a crouch and waited for the vehicle to slow enough for him to dismount. As it clattered to a stop he jumped down rather awkwardly and rolled behind a large metal water tank with peeling red paint. The dray backed in and an overhead block and tackle was maneuvered into position to relieve it of its cargo. Tol watched as the crate was lifted off the dray and lowered onto a wheeled pallet. Four hobs pushed the pallet away into the gloom of the warehouse, forcing Tol to dodge and weave his way through the boxes, crates, barrels, and assorted junk piled throughout the building in order to keep up. After thirty meters the haphazard caravan passed through an archway and the floor beneath them suddenly sloped forward, becoming a ramp leading down into the inky subterranean blackness.

  The good news was that the blackness made it a lot easier for Tol to trail them without being seen. The bad news was that, even though the amount of junk piled up along the walls had lessened considerably since they entered the tunnel, the absence of illumination virtually ensured that whatever debris remained would find its way into Tol’s path undetected. Every time he stubbed toes, ankles, or knees on one of these hidden hazards and cursed softly to himself, he heard an odd twittering noise. After a few repeat performances he realized it was coming from his pocket. The smekking pen was laughing at him. The next time he stumbled, he steered himself intentionally into a wall and smashed the pocket holding the pen into it as hard as he could. A gratifying silence ensued. He smiled grimly and turned his full attention back to the pursuit.

  The downward slope of the tunnel seemed to be increasing. They must be pretty far underground by now, Tol reckoned. The passage was throttling down also; as it narrowed the amount of goblin-obscuring junk tailed off as well, forcing him to drop further back into the darkness to avoid detection.

  The floor suddenly leveled out and the narrow hallway widened into a vast musty cavern honeycombed with storage nooks and piled to the darkly invisible ceiling with crates, chests, barrels, and containers of every size and color imaginable. He panicked briefly as he crossed the threshold without a fix on his quarry, but breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when he heard them shuffling off to his left. He darted behind a pillar of crates and peered around the corner just in time to see the hobs shovel their cargo into a large steel container and lock it securely.

  Surveying the scene, Tol noticed a number of other crates nearby with the same paint scheme and cryptic markings. He cooled his heels until the hobs had retreated topside, then inspected the containers. They were all identical, all locked. He didn’t recognize the logo stenciled on them, so he reached into his pocket and hauled out the pen. It was still sulking and refused even to acknowledge him. Tol grinned at this unexpected turn of good luck and whistled softly under his breath, which annoyed the pen even more.

  “What now? I suppose you are going to use me to pry open that box?” The voice was as icy cold as a metallic speech synthesizer could generate. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I am,” replied Tol, cheerily. “I want you to search through the commercial tokens database and identify this logo.” The pen said nothing. “Now, Eyejay. Don’t make me use the override sleeve.” It seemed to shudder at the suggestion.
r />   “Processing,” it snapped vitriolically, “Positive match discovered. Smekker.”

  “What was that last part, again?”

  “Nothing. The emblem is registered to Pyfox Consolidated Industries.”

  “Pyfox. Hmm. What an interesting...coincidence. All right, access any registered shipments made to this port by Pyfox Consolidated Industries in the past thirty days. And keep the solid state pejoratives to yourself.”

  “Port Authority records show an anomalous increase in PCI deliveries beginning eleven days ago. Manifests range from children’s toys to housewares.”

  “That don’t tell us much. Manifests are fictional documents even under ordinary circumstances for Pyfox and his ilk. The increase in deliveries itself, though, is another matter altogether. Eleven days ago would fit neatly into the timeline, too. I guess I’m just gonna have to open one of these crates.”

  “I should think your breath alone would do it.”

  “Oh look, Ma—I found a talking bottle opener. Too bad it’s so smekkin’ ugly.” The response was an extended electronic raspberry. Tol grunted and slipped the offending instrument back into his overjack.

  He snapped on his pocket torch and started rooting around in the dim clutter for something to use as a pry bar. After a couple of minutes of kicking boxes and cartons out of the way, he found a length of reinforcing rod.

  “Payola!” he exclaimed, extricating the improvised tool from the framework of a broken packing crate. He scraped its coating of rust onto a nearby tarp and inserted the rod into the hasp of the lock securing one of the PCI containers. It took a couple of sharp jerks, but he finally succeeded in breaking apart the lock, sending metal bits and a cloud of oxidized iron particles in all directions. He heard the unmistakable sound of coughing from his overjack pocket.