Nightlord: Orb (37 page)

“Can I help?”

That’s an excellent question,
I thought.

“That’s an excellent question,” I mused aloud.  “I don’t think so, but I’ve been wrong about so many things in my life I’ve learned not to be certain of anything.”

“Doesn’t that make life difficult?”

“No, I just assume I’m wrong and keep going until someone points out how I’m wrong.  You get used to it.  Come with me.”

We went out to the barn for the shop tools.  Since I was going to have to build a gate in order to experiment properly, I might as well get started.  Mary actually was a help.  I drew the shapes I needed for a gate and she helped cut and file sheet metal into tiny symbols.

My new idea came to me while I was working on other projects.  Most of my best thinking is done while I’m doing something else.  In this case, stomping concrete slabs into the yard. 

What I should have done, rather than go wild-hareing off on my magnet idea, was make a modular gate spell.  Admittedly, the magnet thing might still be useful, but I don’t understand the practical aspects of interuniversal transit well enough to make the logical connections I need.

Right now, setting a destination for a gate spell involves visualizing and projecting that vision into the gate itself.

As an aside, I believe using a scrying device, such as a magic mirror or crystal ball, to locate the destination beforehand should act as a sort of line of least resistance, greatly enhancing the ease with which one might target a gate within a single universe.  I’m still drawing a blank about how to do that in any practical way between universes, though.  I can use the brute force method and hammer on the interuniversal boundaries until I see through them, but that method is not only exhausting, it’s also likely to attract the attention of Things From Beyond.  Maybe even attract Them.  Bad idea.

Back to the gate spell.

My idea is that the subroutines—for lack of a better word—within the larger gate program have specific functions.  What those functions are, I’m not sure, but my theory is they affect anything actually moving through the plane of the gate effect.  This is a transformative process to “tune” whatever goes through the gate to match the physical constants of the destination universe.

As an example, if the speed of light were different between two universes, it would have some rather drastic alterations on life as we know it—if that were the
only
change.  There may be an infinite number of universes with different speeds of light.  But if we change other physical constants, too, there may be dozens, hundreds,
billions
of possible combinations where matter, energy, life, even consciousness can exist in forms we can recognize and relate to.

If, of course, our own physical constants are adjusted to match.

I suspect the magicians of Zirafel didn’t know this.  What I think happened is they tried gate technology—mana-ology?  Spell-ology?  Thaumatology?  Oo, I like that one!  Thaumatology!—they tried gate thaumatology between universes and things went badly for the test subjects.  So someone added a transformative subroutine that could adjust itself.  It would “read” the home universe, “read” the destination universe, and automatically adjust a particular quality from one to the other.  Once it set itself up, the next subroutine would do the same thing with a quality not already covered by a previous subroutine.

So, for some universes, it worked perfectly.  In others, it caused nasty reactions in the victims.  I mean, “volunteers.”  So they added more subroutines and more subroutines, stacking them to affect a greater variety of possible variables.  They didn’t know what the variables were, just that they needed more of that particular function.  Then, when they didn’t have anyone die, they added some extras.  Just because.

Magicians are usually rather cautious about their lives.

My idea was to build a gate with two improvements.  First,
programmable
subroutines.  If I could open a gate to Karvalen, for example, the existing spell would open a gate, allow passage, and close.  My version—at least, what I wanted—was a spell that would
remember
those settings.  Once I opened a gate to somewhere, I could then store the pattern, the combination of conditions, and just plug it in again the next time I wanted to go there.

The other improvement was a computer code technique called a loop.  Think of a spell as a long list of instructions.  The tune-to-the-other-universe instruction handles one quality at a time, so you have it repeated, written out in the spell, ten, a hundred, or a thousand times.  This takes up a lot of space and makes the spell incredibly long.

The loop says “Do this paragraph.  Now, go back and do it again.  Have you done it ten, a hundred, or a thousand times?  No?  Then do it again.”  Then, when the spell actually has done that function however many times you want, it goes on to the next paragraph.  The list of instructions has been shortened by pages and pages—and, incidentally, made the spell simpler.

No less expensive to cast, sadly, but quicker and easier to build.

It might also be important to have a gate on hand.  With vindictive vampires trying to steal my blood, having a bolthole straight out of the universe could be vital.  So we worked on building one.  Instead of the Zirafel form—a pure spell wrapped in enough force to make it a quasi-physical structure—I settled for sheet metal.

Would it work better if it was made of iridium?  Yes, almost certainly.  But that would come later, if ever.  Proof of concept, first; elaboration second.

Also, with the individual symbols being, well, individual symbols, as in physically separate pieces to be bolted to a gate framework, I could enchant them individually.  The local variation of the
mekak
symbol, for example, means “distance,” and would become a magical representation of that concept.  The rest would be similarly empowered.  Combined in the proper order and bound together with an enchanted rim—or between two rings, one inner, one outer—they would be a gate spell.  Much more convenient than dealing with a compacted, compressed, monolithic thing like the Great Arch of Zirafel.  Possibly more precise, too.

I still wonder if T’yl was trying to put me back in the library of carnivorous ivy.  I’m not sure I’d like that world any better, but I’m pretty sure I can stay out of the way of the omnivorous ants.  Avoiding them is one of my life goals.

If I brought a gate enchanted with the symbols of this universe into another universe, would it still work?  Or would it fail completely?  Or would it
only
open to
this
universe?  Ask me again next year, but I think it would require stunning amounts of power to make it work, otherwise it would simply fail.  It might make a good target point, though, if I set it up in a foreign universe.  I could put it in Rethven and it might be exceptionally good at receiving gates from this universe.  I may have to experiment with that.

The problem, for me, was I had to break down the biggest, most complicated spell I knew into component parts.  That’s like taking apart an aircraft carrier so you can put it back together.  It’s like disassembling a human body and arranging it in an exploded view for the eight-year-old’s Home Homunculus Kit.

While I worked on turning the spell into pieces of spell, Mary was surprisingly good with a file.  I wondered if it was from doing her nails or filing through locking mechanisms.  Maybe it was the supernatural dexterity from being a vampire, but I doubt it.  I’m a lot faster than I ever dreamed of being, but my coordination hasn’t noticeably improved.  Still, Mary’s species of vampire might have advantages over my species in that respect, too.

We made a surprising amount of progress.  Perhaps most surprising, Mary didn’t ask many questions or try to make idle chitchat.  She saw I was concentrating and busy, so she focused on what she was doing.  True, she interrupted my train of thought a couple of times, but it was always relevant—Does this need to be shorter?  Is this thick enough?  Is the curve on this part correct?

She noticed Bronze; Bronze was watching a documentary on autonomous vehicles, occasionally crunching charcoal and washing it down with kerosene.  Mary kept all those questions to herself.

We worked through the night until Mary asked to call it quits.

“It’s getting early,” she pointed out.  “I still need to cut my hair and get to bed.”

“Of course.”  I helped put stuff away and stored our work.  As we walked into the house, I held the door for her and asked, “Do you want me to help cut your hair?”

“God, no!” she exclaimed.

“You said you were going to grow it all back.  I’m not sure how I could ruin it.”

“That’s not it.  I’m cutting it
off
.  I don’t want you see me like that!”

“Okay.”  I will understand women, someday.  I’m immortal.  I could live that long.  All I have to figure out is how to make it through the Big Crunch and the Big Bang when the universe recycles.  Maybe hide out in another one until the first one settles down.

Huh.  That might actually work.

Mary went to the bathroom and I went outside.  There were relatively few small animals available, but I collected them anyway; I was hoping Mary wouldn’t be too hungry until Friday night.  I go anti-mugging on weekends.

She came out of the bathroom in her robe, a towel wrapped around her head.  She caught me looking and waggled a finger at me.

“Don’t you go looking while I’m sleeping,” she warned.

“Perish the thought.  Oh!  And another thing.  Is it possible for you to wake up during the day?  Not go out in the sun, obviously, but if your coffin is on fire inside a bomb shelter, can you wake up and get out of it?  Or do you go all corpsified until sunset?”

“I don’t think I can be woken,” she admitted, thoughtfully.  “I’ve never had to, at least.  Why?  Can you?”

“Yes.”  I didn’t elaborate.  “Would you like me to try and wake you early?  It might be good to know if you can, just in case.  Besides, it may be something you can develop through practice.”

“As long as the test isn’t damaging, sure.”

“Another thing.  How often do you dream?” I asked.

“Always.”

“Always?”

“I dream every day,” she assured me.

“Well, that’s something.  I’ll see you in the evening.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.  Pleasant dreams.”

“You, too.”

She unlocked the basement door and vanished downstairs.

Interesting.  She dreams every day.  I wonder if I’m missing out by not sleeping.  But that’s a question for later.  I know I’m avoiding my personal demons.  I’ve been practicing compartmentalization, repression, and denial as coping mechanisms.  I think I’m getting good, but I can’t tell for sure; I’ve repressed it.

Right at that moment, though, I wanted to get out a candle and have a brief conversation.

I sat down in a Stall, lit the candle, and sucked up all the local power to cast a divinatory/communications spell.  It was nothing more than a beacon tuned to the metaphysical color of the goddish entity I’d spoken with, but hopefully I wouldn’t need anything more complicated. 

The candle flared immediately, the flame growing to a white flare while the candle burned quickly.

“This is unexpected,” came the voice of the so-called goddess.

“I don’t have much of time, so please listen.”

“Very well.”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m not accepting your apology,” I told her, “and here’s why.  You ordered Tamara to sacrifice my son to you.  That’s worth more than an apology; that demands vengeance.  But I love my daughter and my granddaughter, and anything I do to you is going to affect them.  I won’t do that.  So I want you to know I’m still plenty pissed off at you and I dislike you intensely, but I’ll stay out of your hair if you stay out of mine.”

“I understand,” Sparky replied.  “Before you settle on that course, you should ask Amber and Tianna why I required such a sacrifice.  You may find My reasons were sufficient.”

“You think you had a good-enough reason?” I demanded.

“Not for what you think happened, but you are ignorant, not stupid.  You will learn, in time.  I forgive you for biting me, and I forgive you for your unjust anger.  Talk to our children.  Please.”

And the candle finished burning away, leaving only smoke and confusion.

I went into the house to shower and brood.

Please?

Thursday, November 5
th

It bothers me that Sparky said “Please.”  It may be the first time that’s happened.  Not to me, necessarily; it may be the first time she’s ever asked anyone for anything that nicely.  First, she apologizes.  Next, she says “please.”  It’s like she’s trying to be… I don’t know.  If we were a pair of regular human beings, I’d say she’s trying to make up with me after a breakup.  That’s not the… case… here….

Is it?

It bothers me even more that I can’t call Amber or Tianna and ask them why she’s trying to be so… forbearing?  Tolerant?  Nice?

There are a lot of things that bother me, I guess.

This morning, I put up an awning over the stand.  The weather report predicted a rainy day and I knew Fred would be out there in it.  Once I waved to the kids on their way to school, I finished the awning and let Fred handle the stand.  He seemed both surprised and pleased at the awning.  He brought an umbrella—a big, beach-sized thing—but he didn’t even need to open it.

I went back to the barn and put a fresh spell on my expended Ascension Stall.  Bronze was watching something on racehorses.  She seemed engrossed in the show.

Maybe I should carve the ideograms into the wood of the stall.  It would save time when I’m trying to cast the spell.  If I make the carvings part of the spell structure—that is, if the spell is dependent on the physical diagrams—then I could simply re-empower it whenever I expend it.

On the other hand, it might also raise questions.  The barn isn’t exactly a secure location and I have nosy neighbors.  Well, one nosy neighbor and some kids who have the run of the place.  Oh, well.  I’ll have to do it the hard way and hose off the chalk.

With my Ascension Stall completed, I went ahead and prepared a second one.  If I needed to use one already, it would be good to have two.  General rule of thumb, there.  Besides, how do you go wrong with extra batteries?  I put up the second one, made sure they were both running properly, then applied the hose to the chalk marks to hide the evidence of unholy wizardry in Myrna’s happy little neighborhood.

Before I could get down to serious business with my new, metal symbols, someone knocked on the barn door.  I swept them into a box and answered it; it was Susan, with Olivia riding her hip.  Susan wore a troubled expression.

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she began.  “I remember hearing you used to be a handyman and general fix-it kind of guy, and I was wondering if you could come over and help me?”

“What’s the trouble?”

“The kitchen sink is plugged again.  It keeps doing that.  I’ve dumped all sorts of drain cleaners down there but it keeps stopping up.  If it’s something you can fix, great.  I’d rather not call a plumber unless I really, really have to…”

“I’ll look at it.  Give me a minute to get some stuff.”  I picked out some tools and clanked them into a toolbox, then walked over to her house with her.  The rain hadn’t really started, yet, but there was a heavy, thick feeling in the air and the beginnings of a drizzle.

While Susan cleared the under-sink cabinet area, I added some water to the sink and got out a plastic tube.  I fed the tube into the drain, as far down as it would go, and started siphoning off the water into a bucket on the floor.  No point in getting it all over me during the next step:  taking the drain apart.  Little Olivia tried to help until her mother intervened.  I didn’t mind, but Olivia did tend to be more of a hindrance than a help.  No doubt Susan was in something of a hurry to get her sink working.

Susan came back after a bit and sat down at the kitchen table to watch.  I finished taking the drain apart and applied a towel to me and then to the parts.

“Well, I found the problem.”

“What is it?”

“Do you dump cooking oil down the drain?”

“Yes.”

I showed her the elbow joint.  It had a layer of congealed grease in it.

“Save a soup can or something,” I advised, “and throw the drainage away rather than try to pour it out.  We can clean this out, and the stuff farther down the pipe will eventually wash away, but it’ll keep clogging if you keep pouring grease in it.”

We cleaned up the parts, scrubbed out the pipes, and I put the thing back together.  The water worked perfectly after that.  A few months of hot, soapy dishwater down the drain and any grease farther down should take care of itself.

Susan thanked me and insisted on feeding me.  I didn’t mind.  Sandwiches always taste better when someone else makes them.  And, of course, that’s when she made her move.  Specifically, slipped one foot out of her shoe and slid her toes up my pants leg.

Oh, great.  I’m in a bad porn flick.  Does this really happen?

Apparently so.  Oh, she didn’t “accidentally” spill anything on herself and start undressing.  She only made it clear she was willing if I was at all interested.  To be fair, Susan was quite pretty.  In other circumstances, I could be persuaded.  As it was, I had enough to think about without fooling around with a married woman.  That sounds like a project all by itself, and one that would require my undivided attention.  Complicated.  Dangerous.  Oh, and morally wrong and, at best, ethically questionable; I should keep that in mind, too.

Then again, I’m no shining example of high morals and ethical ideals.  Maybe later.

“Where’s Olivia?” I asked, looking for an excuse.

“Mei Ling’s watching her.”  Luke’s mother, next door.  Well, so much for an excuse.  Now it sounded like cautious double-checking.

“Thanks for the lunch,” I told her, “but, as much as I might like to help with any other plumbing you might need tended to, today is really not a good day.”  She was rather crestfallen.  “Can I ask if this is something Larry knows about?”

“No… but… no, he doesn’t.  And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Absolutely.  Nothing’s happened.  I can play ignorant with startling success.  What I’m wondering is, why me?  I mean, I’m no prize.  Is it something here, at home?”

“Do you really care?” she asked, smiling at me.  Maybe she leered.

“Yep,” I told her.  She seemed startled.

“You do?”

“Of course.  Normally, I wouldn’t pry, but your toes tell me I should ask.”  She drew her foot out of my pants leg and put her shoe back on.  She didn’t seem offended, though.

“Larry and I are only together because of Edgar.  Senior high, prom night, and over the summer we got married—before I started to show.  Okay?”

“I get it.”

“He gets some,” she replied, with a dash of bitterness.  “Here, when I’ve had enough to drink.  Elsewhere, when he can, and he thinks I don’t know.  I think fair is fair.  Isn’t it?”

“I sympathize.  And, someday, I might agree to help out.  You really did pick a bad day for it,” I assured her, truthfully.  Her smile came back on, full strength.

“You mean, maybe tomorrow?”

“Look, we both have difficult schedules.  You have a house full of family; I have work projects.  We both have Myrna and the Fabulous Four roaming around.  There’s not going to be many opportunities, here,” I pointed out, thinking rapidly on how to excuse myself from any implied commitment.

“That’s true.  That’s why I was hoping, when the sink stopped up, what with your reputation for being a handyman…”

“The problem was the sink was actually stopped up.  Took too much time.  Try me again when you have a nonexistent problem and, if I have time to ‘fix’ it…” I trailed off.

“Ah, I see.  All right.”

“Try calling, first.  Then you’ll know if I’m busy.  Don’t waste a perfectly good excuse,” I suggested.

“I can do that.  I will.”

“Happy to help,” I told her, and stood up.  She circled the table quickly and hugged me, then kissed me, hard.

“For future reference,” she whispered.

I gathered up my tools and went home in a reflective frame of mind.  I was kind of torn between being busy indefinitely—sorry, my schedule isn’t helping out—or poking my nose into her marriage and seeing how often Larry was “working late.”  Not that his behavior justified hers—nor mine, if I chose to agree to what she wanted—but it might make the internal accounting system I use for a conscience feel better.

I made a second lunch, ate it, then prepared a third.  Fred and I ate that at the stand.  He was happy; I brought the still-sizzling hamburgers straight to him in an insulated container.  Myrna had apparently fixed him cold cut sandwiches for lunch.  Her way of disapproving of the stand?  Or was it a side effect of her time limitations with all her other social domination—excuse me, “activities?”

Business was slow.  Not surprising, what with the cold and the rain.

“It’ll pick up on Saturday,” he assured me.

“Oh?”

“I’ve been mentioning it to parishioners, and there was a note in the church bulletin last night, at the Wednesday services.  I also let a few other folks know Saturday was a good day to come contribute.”

“Sounds good to me.  Thanks, Fred.  The kids’ll appreciate it, and I’m sure Mark will.”

“I’m just doing my job,” he replied, grinning.  “And thank you.”

“For what?”

“Well, let me see.  Encouraging the kids to do something for their friend.  Building a charity stand.  Storing the contributions.  Making a money bucket.  Handling the cash flow through your account.  Being understanding about Myrna and her little quirks, especially after the first day.  Oh, and a hot lunch.  And an awning.  And letting the kids play in your barn.  And all the other work you do around here.”  He smiled and handed me another hamburger.  “I saw you trudging over to Susan’s house with a toolbox and a plunger.  Makes me wonder what else you’ve helped with that I didn’t see.  I don’t know if anyone else has thanked you for all that.  Someone should.  So I did.”

That kind of killed the conversation for me.  I mean, what do I say to that?  Okay, “You’re welcome,” obviously, but seriously.  Would he still be thanking me if he knew everything?  He’s a minister, or a reverend, or some species of the religious persuasion.  I doubt he’d have anything good to say about a blood-drinking fiend of darkness that haunts the night by preying on human beings.

Hmm.  That reminds me.  I need to talk to Mary about why vampires exist, or if they even have a reason.  Do the local bloodsuckers have some sort of creation myth?

We minded the stand for the afternoon.  The kids came back from school and came over to join us, but Gary got right back into a cab and buzzed away.

“What gives?” I asked.  Edgar explained that Gary’s father, Mark, had some sort of emergency.  He didn’t have the details, but Susan sent Gary to the hospital to be with his dad, just in case.

I didn’t like that, but I’m suspicious by nature.

What with the weather and the slow day, Fred and I sent the kids home early.  They were in kind of a depressed mood, anyway.  Fred and I sorted out the few things we’d collected and he went home.  Doubtless, Myrna would gloat over the wasted effort.  Or maybe that’s unkind of me; I shouldn’t assume she’s like that.  Maybe she’s really a nice person underneath it all, albeit with a few really annoying faults.  We all have them.  It’s not fair to think of her as a gloater until I catch her gloating.

With a fire blazing away in the fireplace, I settled on the heaviest chair.

Busy, Boss?
Firebrand asked.

“Not at the moment.  Why?  Assassins sneaking up the yard?”

Not that I’ve noticed, but if those magi types show up, how would I tell?

“Fair point.  What’s on your mind?”

First, the nosy person—Myrna?

“Yes?”

She’s been poking around.  Came up to the door, rang the bell, and tried to peek in the windows.  Walked all the way around the house, in fact.  That porch puts the windows at an easy eye-level.

“Any idea why?”

She suspects you don’t live alone, Boss.  She’s seen lights on and stuff at all hours and assumes you sleep.

“Oh.  Did she find anything?”

Not that I noticed her noticing.  She didn’t bother with the barn.  If you let kids play in it, then there’s nothing worth seeing.  That’s her theory.

I understand Fred’s point of view on Myrna.  I kind of understand Myrna’s neurosis, or quirk, or pathological need, or whatever it is.  On the other well-taloned hand, I do not like having her nose around my house, much less pressed against my windows.

Maybe I should get a dog.

“Anything else?”

Yeah.  While you were talking with the lady corpse—

“Mary.”

Mary, right.  She’s scared, Boss.

“I’m not trying to be scary.”

She’s scared of you anyway, but that’s not what I meant.  You’re scary and exciting and she likes that.  She’s more scared of her situation.  She’s not used to relying on the hospitality of others.  Something about being utterly helpless during the day and not knowing how your household is set up.  She thinks you have mind-controlled servants roaming around the place and it creeps her out that she’s never seen them.

Worse, for her, is she’s desperate to figure out how to get out of the social mess.  Right now, her only hope is that whoever comes after you doesn’t deliberately go after her; it’s her only chance to survive.