Sages of the Underpass

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  Monique stepped down the stairs. Adrenaline spiked her system. Yowza, it felt good.

  This cambion was unique, troublesomely so. Daemons rarely murdered. They never planned an ambush. Yet, Monique had the sense that it was luring her into a trap.

  That would be interesting. She reached out with her fingertips for light and started down the steps. The amount of energy in the basement made her prana prickle. The hair on her arms stood straight up.

  She paused to wonder if her Whitney unit could contain the daemon. She slung the backpack around, dropped it to the floor, and retrieved the box. She’d already prepped the Whitney. Theoretically, it should be able to hold the cambion.

  She turned the corner.

  Her light spilled out of her, taking a bit more prana, but she had plenty. She’d exceeded the Jupiter Belt ten years prior. After that, she’d tried to keep track of her power, but at some stage, trying to measure her Studies became more work than it was worth.

  Something was in the corner, something dark. A second later it shimmered, growing brighter, a ball of dim light, seething. It lashed out with bright tentacles.

  She used Summon Armor and Summon Weapon from the Metallurgy sign, a Harmonic sign to her natural Masonry abilities. Her robes turned to steel and from her right hand emerged a steel sword. She slashed through the tentacles. They fell to the ground, wriggling there before vanishing into a smoke which then dissipated.

  The thing rolled to her right, a ball of translucent energy with coils that caught her light and prismed it into brilliant streaks of color. More tendrils emerged out of the creature, striking her prana, which made her wince. Her sword vanished but her robes continued to protect her from other slashes.

  Back to Masonry, she pushed the concrete up into a rough bowl, drawing dirt up with it. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. She continued to raise the concrete until it wasn’t just a bowl—it became a globe, sealing the daemon inside.

  Or most of it. The thing was mostly manifested prana, but there was a physical component to the creature, and its tentacles whipped out of the concrete orb. Those were blind attacks, though, and she easily avoided them. She stepped around the flapping coils. As she walked, she triggered the Whitney. The blue lights flashed as the device took hold of the daemon’s energy and siphoned it in. The Whitney whined as it converted the prana into electricity, which filled the coils of the containment matrix.

  That whine turned into a scream. She set the Whitney on the floor.

  Monique sensed the attack seconds before the shadowy fist appeared behind her, sweeping toward her head.

  She used the Luna ability, Ethereal Dissipation, to change her body, so when the fist punched into her skull, she’d turned her entire sharira self into pure prana. There hadn’t been simply one cambion in the basement, but two. Ha, she’d sensed the baking soda in the cupboard but not the existence of the second daemon.

  The new thing was man-shaped and shadowy, which was unusual. Ninety percent of daemons were made of light, shapeless, but this thing was something else. It had used the tentacle cambion to distract her before attacking. The shadow man smelled like rot and something slightly spicy, a spice she couldn’t quite place. Cinnamon? Maybe. But it was like cinnamon sprinkled liberally on the corpse of a sea lion.

  Monique created another steel sword and blocked the next attack, but didn’t strike right away.

  The Whitney made sounds she’d never heard before, a piercing scream, technology that was seconds away from catastrophic failure.

  She wasn’t going to succeed in the hunt, that was clear, and so it became a research mission. Which was equally important.

  The shadow man punched at her, and she avoided each attack easily. The thing was powerful, but it was sloppy, unrefined, a beast of a fighter. She eventually let go of her sword and let the prana flow back into her, cycling it easily. She reached out. The shadow man had a definite presence, almost something like a prana core inside him. This was a completely new entity.

  Monique didn’t need her steel robes and let them become cloth again. The house was doomed. The Whitney would explode, and she’d might have to deal with the fire. She’d lose her phone. Of course, everything was backed up on SoulFire’s Cloud, and the company would simply buy her a new one. That would be the least of the paperwork she’d have to file.

  Ethereal Dissipation from Luna, coupled with a Wind Walk from the Sky sign, allowed her to float up through the ceiling and into the living room, leaving the fighting behind. She jogged out of the house and walked out into the middle of the street.

  She touched behind her left ear. “Status.”

  Sharira is one hundred percent. Prana is eighty-five percent.

  She’d been efficient at least, and her skills had kept her safe. The technology, however, had failed her.

  Just in case, she used Bull Wall to draw the asphalt up in front of her as the house exploded outward. Debris struck her wall, pinging off it. A bathtub struck the street behind her, fracturing into a million pieces of porcelain. Drywall dust hung in the air. The natural gas had been turned off, so there was no fire.

  She closed her eyes and once again used Awareness. Both the tentacled cambion and the shadow man were gone.

  Her poor Mother Hen. He would’ve seen the explosion through satellite feeds, and he’d worry. Mother Hen was a worrier, very detail oriented, and most of the time, that was beneficial. Yet sometimes detailed people had a hard time seeing the big picture.

  Monique didn’t have that problem. Her encounter with the entity would have long-lasting effects. It seemed the Cambion Crisis that had emptied out large sections of rural America was not getting better. The shadow man proved that it was only getting worse.

  It would only complicate the world further. Monique’s life wasn’t about to get any simpler anytime soon. And she was already juggling so much. She wasn’t sure she could add a world-altering discovery to her already complex existence. It was a problem.

  That made her grin. She loved problems.

  Solutions closed doors. Problems opened them.

  The Call

  NIKO WALKED WITH TEDDY to his van, parked way at the back of the Marriott’s parking lot. It was an oversized vehicle, a pain in the ass to drive, and even harder to park. It had been white for a while, but then Pete insisted on his friend painting a bad logo on the side, Fix-It Shoppe, with the extra “p” and the extra “e.” An impish, smiling daemon, purple and blue like the letters, popped out of the “O” in Shoppe.

  That all wasn’t terrible. But Pete’s friend had painted the whole van pink. They called it the pig now, because of the color and the size of the vehicle’s big butt. They powered an engine with a level-five drode, which was overkill, but they’d come across the daemon right around the time Pete’s friend had massacred the paint job.

  Pete’s friends were terrible. Pete, Niko’s little brother, was barely tolerable, though he could be charming and funny when he wasn’t trying to destroy both of their lives.

  Teddy walked with his hands in the straps of his backpack. Every once in a while, he shook the pack, adjusting it. “Andrew J. Coffey did everything that our buddy Stan Howling failed to do with you. COFFEY worked the Cyclone, worked him, I tell you. Andrew’s technique is as efficient as it is sick to watch.”

  Niko could barely keep his eyes open. The Arena Assistant had adjusted Niko’s sharira, using a Fourth Study Luna skill, but still, the fight, the entire day, and then the long conversation with Coffey had drained Niko. “Wait, the guy’s name was the Cyclone? How did I miss that?”

  “Yeah, the Cyclone.”

  “Niko Black is not sounding bad to me. Do you mind driving?”

  “Never.” Teddy got behind the wheel while Niko walked around the back. Pink. Peter insisted it was salmon. It wasn’t. The air had grown chill, the fog had hit the city, and that cool wet air had blown south. The murky smell of the flats drifted over.

  Niko got into the passenger seat. He drove a lot, so any exc
use had him tossing the keys to his friend. Yet there was more to it than that. Niko didn’t like cars, highways, and the death toll they caused. He religiously wore a seatbelt, and made sure everyone else did too, but seatbelts could only do so much.

  Teddy rolled away. The Fix-It Shoppe’s van was stuffed full of electronics on shelves built with lips and hooks to keep the components secure. There was a pushcart Whitney container for large jobs and a bunch of handheld units for smaller ones. The whole van shook precariously—it felt like the entire back cargo would come slamming forward every time Teddy braked. They’d be crushed then drowned in electronic components.

  Teddy wasn’t a stranger to driving the Pig, though. He didn’t mind the current state of the front seat—Taco Bell wrappers, a stack of plastic cups, and a fine layer of driving debris.

  A lot of cars were still in the parking lot, people were still partying, and they could’ve stayed, but Niko wanted his bed. Scratch that. He needed his bed.

  Teddy was okay calling it a night at 10:30 pm. He’d go back the next day for more matches. Coffey would sign autographs, charge twenty bucks a picture, and then fight again the next night. It was going to be a Triumvirate match, and Niko was tempted to buy another day pass.

  Watching Coffey fight, his skill, his flawless technique, had captured Niko’s imagination. That was why he’d missed the name of the opponent. Coffey had bested him quickly and efficiently. Seeing him fight on a team would be a treat.

  Coffey was a Sanguine, a fire sign like Stan Howling had been, though Niko’s opponent had been Sunfire, born in August most likely, while Coffey was a March sign. It was March 23. That was probably why Andrew fought so well, though the Zenith Spin supposedly shifted the energy in the Arena. Even if that was the case, there was something about fighting when your sign was ascendant. Niko was a cusp, but every June, he just felt better, and things went his way. Most people attributed it to a placebo effect. Your thinking changed even if the energies didn’t. There was a great deal of controversy there; people liked to argue about things they didn’t understand.

  Teddy drove toward 101. They’d take the freeway north to Apricot. Or that was the plan.

  Niko’s phone went off. He grabbed it, and his heart sank. It was his dad. Friday night? After ten? There was only one thing it could be, barring any sort of emergency, God forbid.

  Niko answered. “Hey, Tato.”

  “Nikodemus, your brother, he has the on-call phone, but a client couldn’t reach him.” His father’s Polish accent was still there, even though he’d been in the U.S. for twenty-odd years. Enough to birth three sons, each two years apart. Aleksy was twenty-five, Niko, the middle, twenty-three, and Pete was twenty-one. Just turned twenty-one. That was probably why he was blowing off his on-call hours—Pete would be in a bar, half-drunk, talking to all the girls. That wasn’t ideal, yet it was better than Pete doing the harder stuff.

  “Tato, can’t it wait? I’m exhausted.” Niko knew that was never going to work.

  “It’s a good client, son. South Valley. It’s Mrs. Villareal. It will be simple. I promise.”

  Niko winced. “Let me check. I’m with Teddy.”

  “Say hello to Teddy for me,” Tato said.

  From the background, Niko’s mother asked, “The boy is not driving, is he?” Mamo’s tone wasn’t exactly accusatory, and Teddy had a license, it’s just that the business insurance got funny if the driver wasn’t part of the family. Mamo Kowalczyk was always thinking about the business. In truth, they all were.

  “You know I don’t like to lie to you,” Niko said.

  “Busted!” Teddy pulled off into the parking lot of a post office. He must’ve heard “South Valley” over the phone. “I’m okay with a little side trip. I took the whole weekend off. It’ll be fun.”

  Mamo rattled off full paragraphs in Polish.

  Tato translated. “Please, Nikodemus, please. You drive. If there is an accident, it could go poorly on us.”

  Niko wasn’t going to argue. He was going to take the call, and that meant he was bound for South Valley. That late on Friday, traffic would be okay. Still, it meant his bed was at least an hour away, if the call went well. If it turned sour, it might be a lot longer. “Sure, Tato. I’ll drive.”

  “Very good. And Mrs. Villareal, she has a big family, this is important.”

  Before his father could say it, Niko was singing the party line. “And our only real value is our service, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

  “Three hundred and sixty-six on leap years.” That was Tato’s line. Always had been. Always would be. It was one of the universal constants. “You have the address?”

  Niko couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “Mrs. Villareal? I could find it blindfolded.”

  “Thank you, son. I’ll talk with Pete.”

  This time Niko kept his bitter laughter to himself. He said goodbye and hung up.

  “101 South?” Teddy asked.

  “101 South.”

  They pulled out of the parking lot and got on the big eight-lane, cutting through South Valley City, and took off for South Valley South, near where the relatively new 85 hit 101. They passed Adobe Software’s headquarters off Park Avenue near Woz Way.

  Teddy kept the van in the right lane, going well below the speed limit. Cars flashed by them. The engine grumbled like it was resentful that it wasn’t in the fast lane, screaming along. Teddy didn’t want an accident, and he knew that Niko wasn’t exactly comfortable in cars.

  Teddy started the inevitable conversation. “So, this critique group in the City. You’re going to go, right? Sounds like a sweet deal. And if you go in with a personal invitation from Andrew J. Coffey, they might just worship you.”

  Niko wasn’t sure what his plans were. He’d heard rumors that BCBA events could be a little rigid.

  His friend took his silence for what it was. Indecision. “Niko, you saw how that crowd responded to you. You got them going. Even during Coffey’s match, I heard people talking about you. Maddy wants to highlight you for next year’s MudCon. It was a thing, a definite thing.”

  Niko pressed his eyes closed. “It was one match. Which I lost. Pretty definitively.”

  “There’s losing. And then there’s losing, you know?”

  Niko did know. But how honest did he want to be with his old friend? It was late. He could easily say something he’d regret. “It felt good. I won’t lie. But I’m already strapped for time. You know, my dad doesn’t do calls anymore, and Pete is...” The word was worthless. That was a hard thing to say about your own brother.

  “Niko, my Eastern European immigrant friend. What else are you gonna do with your life?” Teddy shot him a side glance. “I mean, yes, it won’t be easy. But all the great fighters have tragic backstories. It’s a thing. You see, that’s why I was never destined to become a Battle Artist. I’ve lived a very untragic life.”

  “My life has not been tragic. It won’t be tragic.” Niko leaned back in his seat, trying to relax, but it was difficult, being on the highway, going fast. “I’ll take over the family business. No one else is going to do it.”

  Teddy frowned. “Hey, I’m a big fan of the Fix-It Shoppie.”

  “It’s shop. The extra ‘pe’ are silent. But you were saying?”

  “As I was saying, your family business isn’t going to be around forever. SoulFire is offering a monthly service for repairs. That right there is bad news for your shoppie. Even worse? It’s ridiculously cheap. Less than five dollars a month. This little trip is going to cost Madam Villareal at least sixty bucks—that’s a year of SoulFire techs at your house, day or night.”

  “Fee for service,” Niko said quietly. “Yes, you’re right. But we have really loyal customers. We have at least another ten years.”

  “Five at most,” Teddy replied. “Money beats loyalty any day.”

  Niko pointed. “Next exit. Then take a right.”

  Teddy exited. “Okay, fine. Let’s s
ay you have ten. Then what?”

  Niko didn’t like to think about that. It was just easier to keep his nose to the grindstone, working, playing video games, hanging out. He figured the future would take care of itself. “Professional Battle Artists are few and far between. The competition is brutal. Coffey said it himself. There’s talent everywhere. I’m just a cusp, a crippled cusp at that.”

  “Crippled.” Teddy’s frown deepened. “Not that you’ll tell me what happened, those many, many years ago.”

  That’s exactly right, Niko thought. “Left up here.”

  Teddy took the turn, then switched gears. “So, Coffey’s suite. A personal meeting. I’m still kinda blown away by that. You said he gave you wine? Did he, like, touch your knee? Was it a casting couch kind of deal? Come on, Niko, you can tell me. Did he touch you in your no-no zone?”

  Niko found himself laughing. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “But you’re so pretty.”

  “He did say I had a certain amount of charisma.”

  Teddy made a clicking sound. “Coffey has had some issues with the ladies in the past, though it seems he’s cleaned up his act. Even at his worst, though, he wasn’t as bad as Will Yellows.”

  “Whatever happened to that guy?”

  Teddy knew. When it came to the Arts, Teddy was a walking, talking tubby version of Wikipedia. “His agent dropped him. Word has it, he’s trying his luck in the Southeast Asia leagues. What a total scumbag asshat. I’m telling you, power corrupts, and Battle Artist power corrupts absolutely.”

  “Which is why I shouldn’t get too much power. I’m extraordinarily weak-willed.” Niko motioned to a little house dwarfed by new mansions in the quiet suburb. The edge of South Valley South was still miles away.

  The lights were on, and Mrs. Villareal was on her front porch, wrapped in a robe.

  Teddy mimicked a starstruck fan of the female persuasion, “Oh, Niko Black, you’re my favorite. Maybe you could tutor me privately?” He laughed. “That’s the life. Fame, fortune, and babes, man, lots of beautiful babes.”