by Garon Whited
“Yes, but I don’t think I like the taste of stoners.”
“Stoners?”
“The guy I drank was a regular user of marijuana. I don’t care for the taste.”
“Oh. Well, it’s better than possum, isn’t it?”
“Definitely. So, our job is to take the souls of the dying and drain the blood from the evil?”
“Well, I ate their souls, too,” I admitted. “I do it faster.”
“Yeah. You’ve got hidden talents, Ancient Monster of Darkness,” she giggled. The way she said it reminded me of Seldar’s joking about, calling me by humorous titles. I wonder where he is, how he’s doing, what he’s become. He’s had years to go from a young man to a grown man. How has he changed?
“You’ll grow into it,” I assured her. “I only do this part because I can’t always find someone both eager to die and physically accessible. Hospitals have the first part, but if you kill someone in a hospital, all sorts of alarms go off. It’s like they’re concerned with patient safety, or something. These guys, on the other hand, volunteered to be dinner.”
“Couldn’t you skip the hospital?”
“I could.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because, while these guys may be unwitting volunteers, the people in the hospital don’t have a choice.”
“Ah. You’re being a nice guy.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re taking a risk when you don’t have to in order to relieve the suffering of others. You’re a nice guy.”
“Shut up,” I muttered.
“Why hasn’t anyone else ever told me about this doorway-of-death thing?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know. Maybe something got lost in translation during the dark ages. Or maybe someone thought it was obvious and never bothered to mention it to his children. Who knows? You may have something to take to the Elders and show them. They might appreciate it enough to forgive you for helping me.”
“Maybe. I’d rather keep helping you. It’s more fun.”
“Well… so would I.”
“Good.” She squeezed my arm and pressed close as we walked along. “Someday, will you try giving me a drop of your blood? Just to see what happens?”
“If you insist.”
“No hurry. I’m curious about how it might affect the things I just learned. Could I reach farther, maybe drain someone’s soul at a distance without help? Or win at craps? I can already clean up at blackjack.”
“Really? How do you do that? Watch the dealer’s emotional state in his aura?”
“Nope. Professional dealers don’t care if they win or lose; it’s a job, that’s all. They flip cards for a living rather than play the game. What I do is feel the cards. I know what the dealer has and what’s next in the shoe, so I know how to bet.”
“See, now you’re making me envious. You say that casually. I have to really concentrate to feel something like that with a tendril. I doubt I could do it fast enough to be useful. I’d probably cheat with a spell.”
“Yours feel more like steel cables,” she pointed out. “Mine is…”
“More feathery,” I supplied. “Delicate. Also more sensitive and responsive.”
“Exactly.”
That made me wonder if I could split a tendril into little pieces, feathering it out into finer and finer strands. Could I turn a tendril into an even finer sensory organ? Can I duplicate the feathery sort of thing Mary has? Something to think about, surely.
Mary showed me around some of the city, pointing out her favorite hangouts without going into them; someone might be watching for her. She also showed me a couple of places where Tony sometimes had formal meetings with the heads of the other tribes in town—Conrad for the Phrygians and Bruno for the Constantines.
“My guess is we’re pretty safe in public,” she told me. “Nobody wants to tell the world vampires are living among them. We’ve all heard stories about how vampires were hunted, and some of them from not so long ago. I, for one, don’t relish the idea of having blessed silver buckshot burning holes through my torso.”
“It stings,” I agreed, and left it at that. At least, I presume it does. Blessed silver knives sure do.
“…right. Anyway, nobody’s going to start something in front of a load of bystanders. But we could be spotted and followed. That’s why I’m not taking you into these places.”
“I understand. Thank you for thinking ahead.”
“I am a little nervous, though,” she admitted. “Everybody has employees of some sort, and the Phrygians have, uh, servants. We stand a better chance of being spotted in the city.”
“True, but this is where the hunting is.”
“We’ve hunted. I feel great. Can we go home?”
“Of course.”
I called a cab and we went through an interesting dance number—watching for tails, switching cabs, and repeat—until Mary was satisfied we weren’t being followed or tracked. Then we went home. I went out to the barn to do some more deconstruction on a gate spell; Mary stayed in to do some cybershopping.
A kerosene lamp burned on the workbench. I kept it there, not for the illumination, but for the potential flame-call. Nobody came through on the lamp-flame, but you never know.
A little after midnight, Mary came out to the barn. I was right in the middle of a tricky bit, so I didn’t look up. She waited until I finished, then spoke.
“I need an account number. I don’t want to charge anything to mine if it’s going to be delivered here.”
“Good thinking.” I fished out my wallet and handed her a card. “Use that one.”
“You know, most men would ask me what I’m buying and how much it costs.”
“Most men didn’t see the pile of cash we stashed. Which reminds me, did you pick out a gun you like?”
“I did, thank you. I put the ones we picked up tonight in the arsenal.”
“Thanks.”
“Still working on your spells?” she asked, lacing her fingers together over my shoulder and looking at the workbench.
“Yes. It’s going to be a pain making all the ideograms, then making copies of them.”
“How many copies do you need? I’ll help.”
“It’s a big project. I’m trying to break the spell down into all its basic elements—no shorthand symbols, no loops, just a complete run-through. It’s easier to comprehend fully when it’s all laid out like an exploded-view diagram. That’s tough with something this big. Once I feel I’ve mastered it, I’ll shorten it wherever I can to make it easier to use.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So, you need multiple copies of individual symbols? Is that the problem?”
“Think of it like setting moveable type. I’ll need dozens of copies of each, at least, to make even one paragraph.” I sighed. It didn’t help. “I suppose I could make molds and pour them… then all we’d need to do is grind them down and polish them.”
“Do they have to be metal?”
“No, I wouldn’t think so. At least, not for my experiments. Later, I’ll want metal ones for the durability, but it’s not necessary for this part. Seems like a waste of effort, though, to make fragile ones when I know I’ll need the tough ones.”
“Okay. You go ahead and keep making your ideograms. Let me know when you have a complete set so we can copy the set.”
“There are thousands of the things! It’s like… like…”
“Chinese ideograms? A logographic script where each icon represents a word or concept?”
“Exactly. This is a language.”
“Don’t worry about it. I said I’d help. You work on a vocabulary list. I’ll see if I can speed things up.” She went back into the house and I watched her go, wondering what she had in mind. If Tort were here, she’d be carving symbols on her own; she knew what she was doing.
I miss Tort. I try not to think about her while there’s nothing I can do about it. It hurts.
I got back to work.
I was going to keep missing Tort as long as I stayed here. It was becoming more and more important to establish two-way communication and travel between my farmhouse and Karvalen. It wasn’t urgent, but if I waited until it was urgent, it would be too late. That seems to be a rule.
Sunday, November 8th
Mary cut her hair again, so I stayed out of the basement. She has some weird thing about me seeing her with a shaved head. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a female thing. Maybe she has a treasure map tattooed on her scalp. I wouldn’t know.
First thing this morning, I took down the stand. I had my cordless drill holstered on my tool belt as I walked down the street toward where the stand stood. It stood its ground like a tree, though it knew its time had come. All I needed was a set of jingling spurs as I approached.
“You’re goin’ down,” I told it. Whistling the theme to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, I got to work. Disassembling the charity stand didn’t take as long as I anticipated. It helps when “disassembled” is a relative term. I broke it down to four main parts and lugged them back to the barn.
Francine stayed behind to guard the house. We’ve gone over what to do about general people on the property, people near the house, and Myrna in particular. I also put up a “No Trespassing” sign on the front gate. We’ll see if Myrna continues to be a nosy neighbor.
The Four were in the barn shortly after I put up the sign. They climb the driveway gate rather than go through the walkway gate. They might not have seen it, or they might not think it applies to them. They’re right; it doesn’t.
Once I stood down the stand, I went into the city to play with people who like beating on each other—that is, my martial arts class and the medievalists. This also gave me a chance to invite people out to play at my house on the weekend. It would save me a trip into the city, and I have enough property to host a war. Besides, I’ve been working out rules for battle chess and need people to playtest it. Maybe I should write down the rules.
While I was in the city, I made a detour to see Mark. Since it was during visiting hours, they let me. He was doing much better. He was conscious, he recognized me, and he was well on his way to walking again. I told him about the charity drive and assured him he was going home to a real house. He seemed pleased and mentioned Fred already told him.
There were four cards on his side table, including the one I sent. I didn’t bother to look at the signatures; I knew where the other Three came from. I wondered why none of the adults in the neighborhood sent him a card. Maybe they only knew him as the beer-breathing angry guy.
I also took the opportunity to juice up his healing spell, but I didn’t tell him.
When I got home, Francine reported no incidents, aside from losing a ball in the long grass and one exceptionally fast rabbit got away from her. She also reported some terrible monster in the hayloft—she heard it wailing and screeching and banging while the Four were up there. Francine has no appreciation for their musical talent.
The Four spent the afternoon in the barn when they weren’t playing with Francine. If they think it’s their barn and their dog, I’m okay with that. They’re kids. They should have a place to play and a dog to play with.
They also refilled Bronze’s manger with charcoal. That was nice of them, especially since they didn’t ask for explanations. Bronze certainly appreciated it. Could be they think she’s a steam-powered robot. On the other hand, they also watched some video with her. I’m not sure how well that stacks up with the idea she’s a robot horse.
Knowing my luck I’ll get nasty comments from parents about it. “My kids want video in their own rooms and say if your horse gets one, so should they.” I really hope that doesn’t happen. It’ll be awkward. Maybe they’ll keep quiet about it and watch video with her when they can.
Sebastian called while I was in transit. He wanted to know the progress on my schedule; the client in Mexico was asking. I assured him I was working on it. Then I called BitRate and had a completely innocuous conversation, mentioning I was planning to get a passport soon and I also needed to start thinking about my Christmas shopping—did he have any suggestions? He did, and we left it at that. I expect a passport to show up soon. He’ll have an envelope show up in his mail.
I got Diogenes to look up the place in Mexico, someplace called Puerto Peñasco, and compile a report on it. He hummed to himself, a little bit of “Back In Time,” by Huey Lewis and the News, I think. Diogenes isn’t a strong AI—that is, a true artificial intelligence. He—okay, it—is a collection of really good weak AI’s. A weak AI is a program designed for problem-solving within a narrow field, such as interpreting human speech. He understands what I say and can speak to me in response.
I downloaded a voice template that sounded like Paul Bettany, or this world’s version of him. I think it’s the most wonderful thing. Yes, I’m a geek. I admit, I’m easily entertained, but it’s the perfect voice for a computer.
Other programs in his system include a cybersearch AI, data integration tools, and all that stuff. He even includes one to make him develop human-like touches over time, which probably explains the humming. It didn’t really mean anything; it was like hold music on the phone.
But he sure seems real when I talk to him. Could I upgrade him magically? I’d need some sort of spirit—not only vital energy, but a living spirit of some sort—to make him truly think, I think. What would his code look like after that? Could it be copied? Would the copies be alive, as well? Can I create code for a strong AI by giving a computer a spirit of its own? How would that affect his programming in other ways? Would I wind up with Cameron’s Skynet or Weber’s Dahak? Forbin’s Colossus or Heinlein’s Mycroft?
Someday, when I’m feeling brave, maybe I’ll find out.
Puerto Peñasco was on the Gulf of California, in Sonora. It was a nice vacation spot, large enough to have all the amenities, small enough to not feel like a tourist mill. Population near sixty thousand, here’s a map, the address you asked about is marked on it, and any of these three hotels are ideal for your stay, sir. Would you like to drive or fly? According to Diogenes, it could be done on a power road the whole way and would take about twelve hours. Or we could fly and take about four.
It was an impressive dossier on the city, made even more impressive by the fact it was compiled in under thirty seconds by an automated series of programs. At least, it impresses me. Back where and when I come from, that’s travel agent territory.
Diogenes told me about the city while I scrolled through the digital map. He even added restaurant recommendations when I pointed out I’m not fond of strongly-flavored food. That’s an important consideration when visiting Mexico.
I think I’ve underestimated the usefulness of modern computer programming. I gave Diogenes a list of things to look up and briefings to prepare—crystal structure of gemstones, for example, and some medical questions that bugged me while I was developing healing spells, just to name two.
With that in progress, I checked on my gems again. I already pulled them once for the raid on Tyrone’s house; now they were back in their growth medium. I’m thinking if I get some carbon black, I can generalize the spell for growing diamonds. If I put several diamond chips into the carbon, apply heat and electricity, and tell the crystals to grow… as long as they don’t grow into each other, they should all grow independently and at about the same rate. Maybe I don’t have to do this one gem at a time.
Therefore, I broke the largest one into pieces, planted them in a tray of charcoal powder, and started the process. We’ll see how they’re doing in a few days.
Meanwhile, I wonder if Mary wants to take a vacation in Mexico?
Tuesday, November 10th
Puerto Peñasco is even nicer in person than on-line. The streets are clean, there are no homeless cluttering the alleys, the buildings are colorful, and the natives are friendly. It’s a lovely Mexican resort town.
Is the place so nice because a family of magi live here? Or do they live here beca
use it’s so nice? I don’t know how to tell.
Mary and I drove down. It’s hard to bring firearms aboard a plane and she really wanted to bring a gun. Mary assured me the border cops don’t care. We went across the border at night so we wouldn’t have to explain a corpse. The guy who found the gun—in a case, unloaded, with a locking device on it—also found some loose folding money in the case with it. We breezed on south without any trouble.
Mary likes the town. She’s itching to steal something. I can tell. She won’t, though. International travel has too much in the way of records. We show up, three or four places get burglarized, and we leave. The Federales can do the math without even reaching for a pencil.
Instead, she’s enjoying the night life. There’s dancing, shows, outdoor recreations of all sorts, even midnight swimming in the Gulf of California.
I’m okay with most of that, but I had to explain about my weight problem. I can’t swim; I sink like a brick. I sink like a lead brick. As a result, I don’t swim; I walk on the bottom. She was disappointed, not only that I couldn’t come along, but someday she might have the same problem. She likes swimming, the weirdo. I thought vampires were supposed to hate open water. I know I do.
She did show me a neat gizmo, though. Someone’s come up with an artificial gill. The mouthpiece is like a snorkel; you hold it in with your teeth and breathe normally. Water flows over a mask-like thing that covers the lower half of your face. Oxygen comes out of the water, some of your breath is recirculated for air volume, and you breathe pretty much normally. Oh, maybe you have to breathe a little harder, but it really is that simple. They even have a full-face thing combining a scuba mask with a breathing gill. I had to get one. I love gadgets and despise drowning.
During the day, Mary curls up in the modern version of a steamer trunk. It locks, and we’re staying in a five-star hotel. She says she feels pretty safe. I didn’t think so; I added a little aversion spell to the trunk to keep people from being too curious about it. It’s not that I don’t trust the housekeeping staff… well, okay, no, I don’t. The possible price for an accident is too drastic to take chances.