Alliance (2 page)

Sir Alart glares at me. “What did I say
about joking?”

“
That joke was from
Hagan's
Secrets of Humor
,” I explain, because I can see that
Sir Alart clearly did not 'get' the joke, as most comedians say.
“Chapter three, under the section 'Jokes You Can Tell Jerks Who
Can't Take a Joke.'”

“
I liked you better when
I thought you were just another stiff robot,” said Sir Alart. He
rests his sword on his shoulder, turns, and walks to the entrance
leading from the roof of this building into the
interior.

I follow quickly, but do not make any more
jokes. This is partly because this is not the situation to be
joking around in, but also because I now wonder if I 'botched' the
joke, as the books say. Perhaps I need more practice, which the
books say you should do if you want to become a great comedian. I
have no aspirations to become a comedian—I much prefer law
enforcement—but I resolve to tell better jokes nonetheless.

Sir Alart opens the door and peeks inside,
even though I could just as easily have told him that there is no
one in there thanks to my sensors failing to pick up any signs of
life. Still, he pulls his head out and says to me, “It's safe,”
before disappearing within.

The door almost closes itself behind him,
but I catch it with one hand and enter. We stand in a dark, narrow
room, with holes in the walls, ceiling, and floor from years of
neglect. My optics catch a tiny spider of undetermined species
crawl into a hole on the floor, but I do not allow myself to be
distracted by that, because Sir Alart and I are in the enemy
territory now, which means that we have to be on high alert at all
times to avoid being taken by surprise.

The ceiling is low enough that Sir Alart
must crouch to avoid scraping the top of his helmet against it. I
do not need to, but I do so anyway in order to avoid giving our
enemies less of a visible target. Though I doubt that our enemies
could harm me much; aside from Jornan, the rest of her minions do
not seem to have any skyras rings of their own, which means they
likely rely on old-fashioned weapons like swords and cudgels and
knives, weapons that pose a tiny threat to robots like myself.

We soon emerge onto one of the two
catwalks extending across the ceiling of the warehouse. We do so
very slowly, because both of us are heavy, Sir Alart due to his
armor, I due to being constructed entirely out of metal. We manage
to make very little noise as we walk across it, but I am prepared
to fight the moment someone notices u; though our keeping silent
isn't entirely necessary, because below us come the loud—almost too
loud—conversations of Jornan and her minions even before we see
them.

Her minions are mostly dwarves, which is
why my audio receptors pick up such loud and hostile tones, as my
records say that dwarves generally speak in gruffer tones than most
Delanian species.

“
Come on, come on,” says
a woman's voice, which I quickly match with the audio file of
Jornan's I have downloaded into my memory. It is harsh and
impatient, which is a good description of the witch in general.
“You dwarves are so slow. We need to get this shipment of super
speed out
tonight
, and if you idiots don't get all of this
packed and through the Portal soon, we'll miss our deadline and the
Founder will be beyond angry.”

I understand most of what she says—for
example, super speed is a Delanian drug that is popular on both
Xeeo and Dela and is smuggled between worlds by a variety of
criminal gangs. Jornan has been known to work alongside the Red
Ring Smugglers to help smuggle the drug between the worlds, though
I had thought she was going to try to keep low after the busting of
her earlier vampire feeding ring. Then again, Xeeonite
psychologists often say that criminals usually return to crime
quickly because they have made a habit of it.

I also understand the reference to the
Portal. Xeeo and Dela are connected by thousands of Portals that
allow individuals from both worlds to travel between them. Most
Portals are overseen by the governments of both worlds; however, it
is common among criminals to have their own illegal Portals that
they use to commit all sorts of crimes. That Jornan and her minions
have one—possibly more, as most criminals generally have anywhere
from two to as much as fifty, depending on the size of the criminal
operation in question—surprises me not in the least.

The reference to the Founder, however,
makes no sense to me at all. I do a quick search of the mobile
Database files, but find no reference in Jornan's bio of any being
named 'the Founder.' Possibly a hitherto unknown partner-in-crime?
Unknown.

I glance at Sir Alart and whisper,
“Founder?”

But Sir Alart shakes his head. “No idea.
Keep listening.”

I nod as we continue to walk along the
catwalk. As it turns out, there is some light in this place; on the
floor, near a dozen empty old crates, are portable floodlights that
show a sight I had expected to see.

There are at least a dozen dwarves in all,
hauling large crates full of super speed in pairs through a
larger-than-normal Portal. The Portal appears to be a custom
design, possibly made by Jornan herself, because it does not match
any Portal design I know of; however, it may actually be an older,
discontinued model, because it has a thick layer of dust over it,
as if it has not been cleaned or used in a long time. Bluish-white
energy crackles within it as dwarves enter and exit it in an
orderly manner that prevents the dwarves entering from bumping into
the dwarves leaving. A short wooden ramp allows the dwarves to
climb up to or down from the Portal easily. I see no power source,
though if my readings are correct, I suspect that this Portal has
skyras energy coursing through it.

Standing ten feet from the Portal is
Jornan ah Kona herself. I snap a picture of her face and compare it
to a picture from the mobile Database files. The two look the same:
Pale, almost sickly skin, with blackened, rotted teeth from too
much super speed usage. Her hair is stringy and graying already,
even though her files indicate she is in her late thirties.

I peer over the side of the catwalk to get
a better look at Jornan. Though she is not walking, her body shakes
and shivers as she watches her minions move the super speed drugs
through the Portal to wherever they are sending them. Another
common symptom of super speed over-usage is that the user's body
shakes uncontrollably, though I do not take that to mean she is
weak. On the contrary, records indicate that Jornan is a master
witch, as she has ten rings on all of her fingers, which is five
more than the typical Delanian witch or wizard has.

Jornan has her hands on her hips, tapping
her foot against the floor impatiently. Her men are clearly moving
as fast as they can, but dwarves, due to their height and weight,
cannot move very fast. That is good news for us, because it will be
that much easier for the Knights and I to capture these criminals
once we begin the attack.

“
By Waran-Una's name,
you dwarves have to be the slowest dwarves I've ever had the
displeasure of working with,” Jornan snaps. She points sharply at
the Portal. “Go faster, faster, faster, or do you think you can
just take it nice and easy, as if we
don't
have a deadline
to meet? If we don't get all of this super speed delivered on time,
none of us get paid a cent. Do you hear me? Not one
cent.”

None of Jornan's dwarves respond, but I
suspect it's less to do with not having anything to say and more
having to do with their fear of her. Mobile Database records
indicate, based on the confessions of her arrested ex-partners,
that she does not take well to minions who talk back to or disagree
with her.

But then one of the dwarves unexpectedly
puts down the crate he was lifting and turns to face Jornan. His
partner, who lifts the backside of the crate, stares at him in
shock and says, with a thick dwarfish accent that even my universal
translator has a hard time deciphering, “Rok, what are you doing?
Do you expect me to lift this damn crate myself?”

“
No,” says the dwarf
named Rok, shaking his head. He looks at Jornan and folds his arms
over his chest. “I'm just sick of Jornan bossing us around like
this. You're treating us like pebbles, even though we're working
our hardest.”

“
Do you think I care?”
says Jornan in exasperation. “Or do you not realize that we have a
strict deadline to meet?”

“
I just think I'm tired
of working for you,” says Rok. He begins listing his grievances off
his fingers. “First, you're demanding and unappreciative of our
hard work. Second, you never pay us well enough to put up with your
crap. And third—”

Jornan raises her right hand before Rok
can finish complaining and the ring on her middle finger glows red.
While I am not a Delanian witch or wizard myself, I have done
enough research to know that a glowing skyras ring means that it is
in use.

As soon as the ring finishes glowing, Rok
stops speaking. He stares blankly at nothing for a few seconds, as
if something has caught his attention. I look to see what he's
staring at, but I see nothing but the floor.

Then Rok begins to hyperventilate and back
up. He is so terrified by whatever he sees that he trips over his
own feet and falls on his behind, but he keeps crawling away even
then. I still see nothing coming after him; his fellow dwarves are
simply staring at him in confusion, while Jornan watches with an
amused expression on her face.

Then Rok begins screaming, “Get away from
me, you beast! Get away, or I'll—”

He doesn't finish his sentence because he
then curls into a ball and begins sobbing and kicking at whatever
he thinks he sees. He grabs at his long beard and pulls at it,
screaming something almost incomprehensible about how the thing
wants his beard. One of his fellow dwarves looks away in disgust,
but the others continue to watch and stare as if this was the most
horrifying thing they have seen in their lives.

I feel no horror at this sight, but I
notice Sir Alart's heart rate increase and his sweat going down his
temple. I know enough about Sir Alart to know that he dislikes
criminals, but apparently he has enough empathy left in him to feel
disgusted by this display of horror.

The spectacle is over as quickly as it
began. Rok now lays on the floor, panting like he has run ten miles
in a minute, while his fellow dwarves stand around and look at each
other uneasily, none of them making eye contact with their fallen
friend.

Jornan, on the other hand, appears to be
the only organic being in the warehouse to be entirely unaffected
by Rok's morbid display of fear. Mobile Database records indicate
that Jornan has a severe lack of empathy, indicating possible
sociopathy, though Xeeonite criminal psychologists disagree.

“
What are you idiots
staring at?” Jornan snaps at her other minions, who start when they
hear her voice. “Get back to work. Rok will be all right in a few
minutes. He just needs to take some time to remember why
I'm
the boss and
he
isn't.”

Her other minions do not even hesitate to
resume working. In fact, they work harder and more efficiently than
before, hauling their crates into the Portal quicker than they did
earlier. I have never thought that fear to be a great motivator
before, but perhaps that is another thing about organic beings that
I don't understand.

Then Alart nudges me and I look at him. He
holds his communicator up and says, “Think it's time to
attack?”

I nod. “Yes. We will take advantage of
Jornan having taken out one of her own men for us. It should make
it easier for us to defeat the rest.”

“
All right,” said Alart.
He raises his communicator up to his mouth and speaks into it, but
in a very low tone so neither Jornan nor her minions below can hear
us. “Everyone in position, attack now.”

We wait for a response from everyone;
however, there is no answer, not even from one of the Knights. That
is odd. The plan is for everyone to attack as soon as Alart orders
them to. That no one responds at all makes no sense.

“
Men?” Alart repeats
into the communicator, the worry in his voice rising with the
tension in his body. “Sir Yaron? Sir Gako? Is anyone there? Hello?
Lady Waya?”

Again, there is no response. The
communicator is as silent as if it has been turned off, but I know
it is active because the green glowing light that signals its
activation is on.

Alart looks at me in worry. “What's going
on? J997, do you know what the problem is?”

“
Without access to their
specific communicators, I cannot say for certain what the problem
is,” I explain in a low whisper. “Did you make sure that everyone's
communicator was on?”

“
I did,” says Alart in
annoyance. “I double-checked to make sure that everyone had their
communicators on. And yes, before you ask, I made sure they all
knew how to use them as well.”

“
I will try connecting
with them,” I say. “I know the frequency their radios are tuned to,
which is a frequency I have access to.”

I go silent, concentrating on connecting
to the Knights. Searching … searching … searching … connection
fails.

“
Hmm,” I say. “Perhaps
there is something in this warehouse that is blocking radio
signals. It is likely magical, whatever it is, because you
Delanians rarely use technology to achieve these kinds of
feats.”

“
Does that mean we're on
our own?” says Sir Alart. He swears. “Let's retreat. Head back out
onto the roof and try to contact everyone again. Maybe the roof is
somehow blocking the signal. We can do that because no one even
knows we're here yet, so we technically still have the element of
surprise on our—”