Chapter 1
Having read in the Codicils of the Hierarch Alcmaeon that he should “conduct his affairs with graceful haste, acting in all things circumspect,” Victor Alonzo approached the appointed column in New York Penn Station quickly and confidently. He screwed the intensor box to its smooth concrete surface with a cordless drill. The box hung at eye level, facing the rounded room of the oldest part of the station. No one paid any particular attention to him as he worked, but he repeated the Charm Against Discovery under his breath anyway: “Awareness diminishes. Memory dissolves. Eyes and ears dull. I am a mist, a vapor, a smoke, nothing more.”
The device looked like a birdhouse: it was simply a wooden box, about nine inches tall and five inches wide, with a hinged lid on top and holes for screws at the top and bottom. The inside was another matter. Attached to the back of the box, the side that would face the surface of the pillar, was a Van de Graaf generator, which produced static electricity by means of a battery pack, a small electric motor, some wires, and PVC piping. The rest of the inside of the intensor box was carved and painted with a diverse array of magickal and alchemical signs and incantations. Numerous small mirrors also decorated the inside walls: if one viewed the mirrors from the correct angle, the impression was one of a vertiginous multiplication of the space within the box, of mirrors within mirrors. The bottom of the box was left open, so that air could enter the box and receive a static and a magickal charge. The box was one of a number along the remains of the A, C, E subway line that would create a ley line along the North-South axis of the city, a psycho-spiritual spinal cord for Manhattan to be used by the members of the Order.
Then he heard the drone’s approach, the whir of its motor and the faint squeaking of its rubber wheels against the floor. Not twenty feet away the I-2 police drone approached, its camera eye already recording Victor’s form. It looked like a white plastic trash can on wheels, with the exception of the small silver gun swivel-mounted on top. The light on its ‘face,’ which was really no face at all but an expanse of white plastic, shone yellow, which meant that the drone was observing potentially unlawful activity and that Victor should stop immediately, lest he be shot with a paralyzing dart and sprayed with fluorescent orange paint. If he should be paralyzed and tagged by the machine, it would only be a few minutes before a real, live NY Militia officer carted away his immobile body to the nearest impound. In the legal black hole of New York City, he might not see the light of day for years. Maybe an officer was already looking through that camera eye, memorizing Victor’s form and features. The Order of Hierarch Alcmaeon, to which Victor belonged as a postulant, was supposed to have paid the proper bribes; apparently something had gone awry.
Victor stepped away from the box and raised his hands, as if to submit. He mumbled to himself, “The instructions explicitly said, ‘Expect no interference from the authorities.’ And what of the incantation? Damn. Should have known it would not work against a robot.”
He turned and ran as fast as he could. The dart clipped his left ear as he turned behind the pillar. He hoped it had not made enough contact to deliver its dose of neurotoxin. The paint pellet fortunately struck the front side of the column of concrete to the left of the now fully-installed intensor box, splattering the column with day-glo orange. A few onlookers gasped and moved away from the drone. Victor headed for the stairs to 31st Street, knowing stairs to be a particular weakness of the I-2. Pushing aside commuters, he went up the “down” escalator to the street above while the impotent I-2 drone vainly tried to climb the moving steps. His long legs still churning, Victor crossed 7th Avenue diagonally, dodging taxicabs, and darted behind a falafel cart on the opposite corner. He then made his way into an alley that reeked of garbage, finally daring to peek behind him. He saw three militia officers in fatigues exit the station, looking left and right. They then headed straight for the falafel cart and the alley, as if they suddenly knew exactly where Victor had gone. He looked overhead and saw the polarized reflection of a camera dome mounted to a lamppost ahead. So they did know exactly where he had gone!
The following ten minutes or so were a blur of activity. His boots splashed through the reeking puddles of the alley and then the oil-slicked puddles of 6th Avenue, the Avenue of the Americas. Despite the enormous cost of gasoline, cars and trucks still crowded the avenue, especially since the subway only worked in fits and starts, with some tunnels still flooded from the Collapse and other lines not working because of the corruption in the city government. After narrowly avoiding a passing bus, Victor darted into another alley on the opposite side of 6th. This time he scanned overhead for cameras. Victor knew that if he emerged from this alley, another camera would await him. He found a pile of black plastic garbage bags and hid inside, making sure that every scrap of his clothing was covered. A few minutes later, the three militia officers entered the alley, now accompanied by another drone, this time a more sophisticated I-3.
The officers talked into their headsets and watched camera footage via monitors mounted in the peripheral region of the left eye. Each officer was connected via the web to dozens of cameras and two or three drones. By toggling a handheld dial, each officer could scroll through the available surveillance devices and cover the entire precinct. Response times in New York City were now lightning fast, even though the size of the Militia was much smaller than the old NYPD. The drones could be left on autopilot or they could be steered via remote control by any officer or by the central switchboard in Queens.
“This is Penn Station South 36, we have a CPD, code 100,” one officer said. The officers proceeded slowly through the alleyway, firearms at the ready.
Victor stilled his breathing underneath the trash pile, desperately trying to recall an incantation for invisibility or suspended animation. All he could remember was a pod commercial for a frozen dinner. The jingle from the commercial became his incantation, helped him to steel his nerves. “Crispy cutlets, fun to eat! Crispy cutlets, a beefy treat! Crispy cutlets, one, two, three!” He willed his heart to slow down, his rapid breathing to become calm.
Victor could hear the I-3 drone moving toward the trash pile, the whine of its motor and servos. A probe extended from its plastic abdomen and into the trash bags. Victor could hear and feel the probe moving into the pile nearby. He wasn’t sure if it was a heat sensor or a motion detector or some sort of sniffing device. He could hear the crinkling of plastic, the shifting of trash, a heightened pressure near his left shoulder. His left ear stung with the cut made by the dart. And then his salvation came in the form of a rat darting out of the pile and into the alleyway ahead. He heard the repeated pneumatic puff of the dart gun, the squeal of the rat as it met an overdose of neurotoxin.
“Stupid robot!,” one of the officers said. “Doesn’t know a rat from a human!”
“Good job, Sparky!,” another officer said, using the affectionate name for this particular drone.
“You know what,” the third officer said, putting his hand over the microphone to the Queens command center, “this guy will turn up on the monitors sooner or later, and he’s just a cult weirdo anyway. Let’s go get some Chinese food.” He talked into his headset once again, “Subject fled on foot, no visuals. Terminating pursuit.”
The three men and the drone left the alley by the way they had entered. The drone swiveled its head briefly backward, as if to say, “I know you’re in there,” but it obediently followed the humans nonetheless. Victor did not dare to breathe a sigh of relief. He felt a numbness radiating down his left side; he dared not leave the trash pile in this condition. Soon he fell unconscious.
The device looked like a birdhouse: it was simply a wooden box, about nine inches tall and five inches wide, with a hinged lid on top and holes for screws at the top and bottom. The inside was another matter. Attached to the back of the box, the side that would face the surface of the pillar, was a Van de Graaf generator, which produced static electricity by means of a battery pack, a small electric motor, some wires, and PVC piping. The rest of the inside of the intensor box was carved and painted with a diverse array of magickal and alchemical signs and incantations. Numerous small mirrors also decorated the inside walls: if one viewed the mirrors from the correct angle, the impression was one of a vertiginous multiplication of the space within the box, of mirrors within mirrors. The bottom of the box was left open, so that air could enter the box and receive a static and a magickal charge. The box was one of a number along the remains of the A, C, E subway line that would create a ley line along the North-South axis of the city, a psycho-spiritual spinal cord for Manhattan to be used by the members of the Order.
Then he heard the drone’s approach, the whir of its motor and the faint squeaking of its rubber wheels against the floor. Not twenty feet away the I-2 police drone approached, its camera eye already recording Victor’s form. It looked like a white plastic trash can on wheels, with the exception of the small silver gun swivel-mounted on top. The light on its ‘face,’ which was really no face at all but an expanse of white plastic, shone yellow, which meant that the drone was observing potentially unlawful activity and that Victor should stop immediately, lest he be shot with a paralyzing dart and sprayed with fluorescent orange paint. If he should be paralyzed and tagged by the machine, it would only be a few minutes before a real, live NY Militia officer carted away his immobile body to the nearest impound. In the legal black hole of New York City, he might not see the light of day for years. Maybe an officer was already looking through that camera eye, memorizing Victor’s form and features. The Order of Hierarch Alcmaeon, to which Victor belonged as a postulant, was supposed to have paid the proper bribes; apparently something had gone awry.
Victor stepped away from the box and raised his hands, as if to submit. He mumbled to himself, “The instructions explicitly said, ‘Expect no interference from the authorities.’ And what of the incantation? Damn. Should have known it would not work against a robot.”
He turned and ran as fast as he could. The dart clipped his left ear as he turned behind the pillar. He hoped it had not made enough contact to deliver its dose of neurotoxin. The paint pellet fortunately struck the front side of the column of concrete to the left of the now fully-installed intensor box, splattering the column with day-glo orange. A few onlookers gasped and moved away from the drone. Victor headed for the stairs to 31st Street, knowing stairs to be a particular weakness of the I-2. Pushing aside commuters, he went up the “down” escalator to the street above while the impotent I-2 drone vainly tried to climb the moving steps. His long legs still churning, Victor crossed 7th Avenue diagonally, dodging taxicabs, and darted behind a falafel cart on the opposite corner. He then made his way into an alley that reeked of garbage, finally daring to peek behind him. He saw three militia officers in fatigues exit the station, looking left and right. They then headed straight for the falafel cart and the alley, as if they suddenly knew exactly where Victor had gone. He looked overhead and saw the polarized reflection of a camera dome mounted to a lamppost ahead. So they did know exactly where he had gone!
The following ten minutes or so were a blur of activity. His boots splashed through the reeking puddles of the alley and then the oil-slicked puddles of 6th Avenue, the Avenue of the Americas. Despite the enormous cost of gasoline, cars and trucks still crowded the avenue, especially since the subway only worked in fits and starts, with some tunnels still flooded from the Collapse and other lines not working because of the corruption in the city government. After narrowly avoiding a passing bus, Victor darted into another alley on the opposite side of 6th. This time he scanned overhead for cameras. Victor knew that if he emerged from this alley, another camera would await him. He found a pile of black plastic garbage bags and hid inside, making sure that every scrap of his clothing was covered. A few minutes later, the three militia officers entered the alley, now accompanied by another drone, this time a more sophisticated I-3.
The officers talked into their headsets and watched camera footage via monitors mounted in the peripheral region of the left eye. Each officer was connected via the web to dozens of cameras and two or three drones. By toggling a handheld dial, each officer could scroll through the available surveillance devices and cover the entire precinct. Response times in New York City were now lightning fast, even though the size of the Militia was much smaller than the old NYPD. The drones could be left on autopilot or they could be steered via remote control by any officer or by the central switchboard in Queens.
“This is Penn Station South 36, we have a CPD, code 100,” one officer said. The officers proceeded slowly through the alleyway, firearms at the ready.
Victor stilled his breathing underneath the trash pile, desperately trying to recall an incantation for invisibility or suspended animation. All he could remember was a pod commercial for a frozen dinner. The jingle from the commercial became his incantation, helped him to steel his nerves. “Crispy cutlets, fun to eat! Crispy cutlets, a beefy treat! Crispy cutlets, one, two, three!” He willed his heart to slow down, his rapid breathing to become calm.
Victor could hear the I-3 drone moving toward the trash pile, the whine of its motor and servos. A probe extended from its plastic abdomen and into the trash bags. Victor could hear and feel the probe moving into the pile nearby. He wasn’t sure if it was a heat sensor or a motion detector or some sort of sniffing device. He could hear the crinkling of plastic, the shifting of trash, a heightened pressure near his left shoulder. His left ear stung with the cut made by the dart. And then his salvation came in the form of a rat darting out of the pile and into the alleyway ahead. He heard the repeated pneumatic puff of the dart gun, the squeal of the rat as it met an overdose of neurotoxin.
“Stupid robot!,” one of the officers said. “Doesn’t know a rat from a human!”
“Good job, Sparky!,” another officer said, using the affectionate name for this particular drone.
“You know what,” the third officer said, putting his hand over the microphone to the Queens command center, “this guy will turn up on the monitors sooner or later, and he’s just a cult weirdo anyway. Let’s go get some Chinese food.” He talked into his headset once again, “Subject fled on foot, no visuals. Terminating pursuit.”
The three men and the drone left the alley by the way they had entered. The drone swiveled its head briefly backward, as if to say, “I know you’re in there,” but it obediently followed the humans nonetheless. Victor did not dare to breathe a sigh of relief. He felt a numbness radiating down his left side; he dared not leave the trash pile in this condition. Soon he fell unconscious.
