conspicuous in contrast to the rest of the decor. She pulled out her digitab and synced it with the door’s intercom system, waiting for the other side to pick up.
“Alina,” a tinny voice spoke out of the digitab. “It took you four minutes and twenty-five seconds longer than traffic suggests to get here.”
The Pitcher looked up to a small camera lodged in the corner of the doorframe. “We stopped to get a drink for him,” she said, pointing at Tribe. The auric waved sweetly at the camera.
“Very well,” the digitab said. “Come in.”
The door unlocked and swung ajar. On a hunch, I enabled my lenses’ nonvisible spectrum analysis, and could see a grid of beams criss-crossing the entryway. An alarm sounded ridiculously as we each entered the building, cataloging each of us as being armed and chiming for each registered weapon. I counted eleven beeps.
“Ignore that,” the voice on the digitab offered. “Outdated system; next version will just kill intruders on sight.”
We continued into the interior of the building, which was in every way the polar opposite of its exterior. Cold stone walls lined the entry corridor, lit only by working pieces of computer gear piled up on either side of the walkway. Machines whirred, beeped, and clicked, echoing through the building in a strangely soothing cacophony. The air was dusty but dry, smelling sharply of metal and plastic.
Alina took us deeper into the house, down a few levels and around a few turns. The hodgepodge of electronic products increased like a breadcrumb trail, leading us to a central room that I estimated to be two floors directly under the backyard garden. Over twenty display monitors lined the walls directly ahead of us, fanned out in a semicircle around a huge leather chair. Several different kinds of antiquated keyboards and other input devices littered a large metal desk in between the chair and monitors.
“Welcome, guests,” the voice from the digitab called from behind the chair, still a little tinny. “Why do I only get a visit when you’re in trouble?”
The chair swiveled around, revealing a tiny bespectacled auric sitting cross-legged on its vast brown cushion. Wisps of white hair and long, perky ears peeked out from under a faded Santa Clara 49ers cap, and a secondary single-eye display jutted out in front of his glasses. His simple t-shirt and jeans were old but neatly pressed, and his abnormally large, sandaled feet poked out from under his legs. A rounded Canterbury cross rested at the hollow of his throat, standing out against his ebony skin.
“Hey, Glory,” Alina said as she moved to embrace him. I used my lenses to quickly scan for any information about the gnome, and came up again with nothing. I was beginning to doubt my local database, and made a mental note to search again for him and the assassin when I was back on the network.
Tribe also went over to give the technomancer a fist bump and exchange pleasantries. The gnome turned his attention towards me, cocking his head to the side like a parrot considering a treat.
“What brings you here, Nightpath?”
“Gloric Vunderfel,” I began stiffly, clearing my throat. “My associates here tell me-”
“I’m just kidding,” he interrupted me with a chuckle. “I know why you’re here.”
The gnome spun in his chair back towards the desk and monitors, tapping with one hand at a mechanical keyboard and with another at an augmented reality holodisplay. Scenes from the past evening began to pop up on random monitors, from closed circuit cameras outside of They Might Be Giant to my lenses’ current view of the back of Gloric’s chair.
“What?” I asked, bewildered. I moved to the table next to the gnome, watching footage of myself stalking through the dispensary. “How do you know…” I trailed off.
“Ha!” the little auric exclaimed excitedly, typing away. “You can know anything if you have the right
“Alina,” a tinny voice spoke out of the digitab. “It took you four minutes and twenty-five seconds longer than traffic suggests to get here.”
The Pitcher looked up to a small camera lodged in the corner of the doorframe. “We stopped to get a drink for him,” she said, pointing at Tribe. The auric waved sweetly at the camera.
“Very well,” the digitab said. “Come in.”
The door unlocked and swung ajar. On a hunch, I enabled my lenses’ nonvisible spectrum analysis, and could see a grid of beams criss-crossing the entryway. An alarm sounded ridiculously as we each entered the building, cataloging each of us as being armed and chiming for each registered weapon. I counted eleven beeps.
“Ignore that,” the voice on the digitab offered. “Outdated system; next version will just kill intruders on sight.”
We continued into the interior of the building, which was in every way the polar opposite of its exterior. Cold stone walls lined the entry corridor, lit only by working pieces of computer gear piled up on either side of the walkway. Machines whirred, beeped, and clicked, echoing through the building in a strangely soothing cacophony. The air was dusty but dry, smelling sharply of metal and plastic.
Alina took us deeper into the house, down a few levels and around a few turns. The hodgepodge of electronic products increased like a breadcrumb trail, leading us to a central room that I estimated to be two floors directly under the backyard garden. Over twenty display monitors lined the walls directly ahead of us, fanned out in a semicircle around a huge leather chair. Several different kinds of antiquated keyboards and other input devices littered a large metal desk in between the chair and monitors.
“Welcome, guests,” the voice from the digitab called from behind the chair, still a little tinny. “Why do I only get a visit when you’re in trouble?”
The chair swiveled around, revealing a tiny bespectacled auric sitting cross-legged on its vast brown cushion. Wisps of white hair and long, perky ears peeked out from under a faded Santa Clara 49ers cap, and a secondary single-eye display jutted out in front of his glasses. His simple t-shirt and jeans were old but neatly pressed, and his abnormally large, sandaled feet poked out from under his legs. A rounded Canterbury cross rested at the hollow of his throat, standing out against his ebony skin.
“Hey, Glory,” Alina said as she moved to embrace him. I used my lenses to quickly scan for any information about the gnome, and came up again with nothing. I was beginning to doubt my local database, and made a mental note to search again for him and the assassin when I was back on the network.
Tribe also went over to give the technomancer a fist bump and exchange pleasantries. The gnome turned his attention towards me, cocking his head to the side like a parrot considering a treat.
“What brings you here, Nightpath?”
“Gloric Vunderfel,” I began stiffly, clearing my throat. “My associates here tell me-”
“I’m just kidding,” he interrupted me with a chuckle. “I know why you’re here.”
The gnome spun in his chair back towards the desk and monitors, tapping with one hand at a mechanical keyboard and with another at an augmented reality holodisplay. Scenes from the past evening began to pop up on random monitors, from closed circuit cameras outside of They Might Be Giant to my lenses’ current view of the back of Gloric’s chair.
“What?” I asked, bewildered. I moved to the table next to the gnome, watching footage of myself stalking through the dispensary. “How do you know…” I trailed off.
“Ha!” the little auric exclaimed excitedly, typing away. “You can know anything if you have the right
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