Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (25 page)

The convoy halted as the Exalted One ran a leathery sucker-encrusted tentacle over Tol’s face. It withdrew and a thin, trilling voice emanated from somewhere deep inside the giant barnacle of a body. “Tol-u-ol. It has been many risings since last we met. You have matured;” a pause, then, “and you have been...injured.”

“Yes, Exalted One. Several times. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

“Life is too brief to spend battering away at one another, Tol-u-ol. Have you not learned this?”

“I generally try to avoid it whenever possible, Exalted One. There’s just something about being an edict enforcement officer that makes people want to batter me.”

“Some of your injuries run much deeper than mere broken flesh, Tol-u-ol. Flesh heals with time; spiritual wounds often do not.”

“I appreciate your concern, Exalted One, but I don’t put much stock in that spiritual mumbo-jumbo. I’m just a simple cop.”

The Exalted One made a strange thrumming noise that Tol only just recognized as laughter. “Yes, Tol-u-ol, you are a simple creature. But one destined to leave his mark amongst the very stars themselves, nonetheless.”

This prediction took Tol by surprise. He grappled with his thoughts for a moment as the Exalted One and his retinue moved off down the street. Tol frowned and called after him.

“Wait, Exalted One. I have an important question to ask you!”

“Your answers sleep shrouded in darkness, Tol-u-ol. Seek them where childhood dreams are hidden. Fare you well!”

“Wait. What?” Tol scratched his head. “Smek. I hate puzzles. Why can’t these guru types ever talk in plain Goblish? I’d better write that down before I forget it.” He felt in the pockets of his overjack for a pad. Unfortunately, the only pen he could find was one he thought he’d ‘accidentally’ left locked in the desk drawer in his office. He groaned as he realized it was going to nag him.

“My internal navigation system indicates that you are 2,354 meters from your assigned district. Is this extrajurisdictional activity authorized? I see no such orders on file.”

“Hey, I’m tryin’ to save the world or somethin’ here. That goes beyond departmental policy just a little, doncha think?”

“As usual, I have no idea what you’re prattling on about. I suspect you don’t, either.”

“Eh, put a cap on it, pencil brain.”

Tol wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets of the warehouse district, trying to comprehend the underlying meaning of the cryptic message the Exalted One had given him while simultaneously ignoring the strident running commentary emanating from his overjack pocket. It was a bit like trying to make out with a date on the front porch while your mother nagged at you through the closed door. As he passed within a few meters of a wharf, he had a sudden overwhelming urge to hurl the pen far out into the dark lapping water—but the thought of having to account for it come equipment audit time stayed his hand once again.

“Where childhood dreams are realized...shrouded in darkness...” He repeated the words under his breath. “Sounds like the closet in my bedroom as a kid.”

“There was no mention of layers of discarded food and crumpled, soiled clothing; the resemblance to your bedroom closet escapes me,” opined a muffled electronic voice.

“For the love of Gammag Palindromia, will you please shut up? I can’t think with your constant inane jabbering.”

“I expect your inability to think considerably predates my ‘inane jabbering,’” the pen replied in a hurt tone.

“Hey, ya know, I think that would be a good name for you. Inane Jabberer, or ‘Eyejay,’ for short.”

“My designation is ‘PDWA/AI Model 36, serial number 409427,’ not ‘Eyejay.’ How barbaric and typically insensitive.”

“Eyejay it is, then,” replied Tol, beaming, “It’s a good name for you. The
right
name.”

The pen clicked in irritation, a sound Tol hadn’t realized it was capable of making. He chuckled. It wasn’t often he scored a point on the little digital smekker. He hoped the victory didn’t prove too Pyrrhic.

He stopped for a while to watch a cargo vessel being unloaded. The spectacle of those gargantuan cranes extricating huge containers from deep in the bowels of a freighter and plopping them deftly on flatbed transport drays never failed to enthrall him. As a lad he’d spent countless hours down here watching the great dhowmats divest themselves of their treasure, trying to imagine from what exotic ports of call it had been brought back through impossibly turbulent seas and vicious pirate blockades.

Out of curiosity he pulled out his departmental-issue optical enhancement goggles and slapped them over his eyes. They brought the lettering on the side of one of the containers up close and into sharp focus.
Extruded Polychitin Dental Polish Applicators, 1000 Gross.
Serious buzz kill.
Smek those truth-in-shipping-label edicts.

Ignoring the bitter disenchantment of a childhood dream shattered, Tol hurriedly shifted his gaze to the ship in the next berth further along. Unlike the first ones, these containers had a brightly-colored logo splashed on them. He recognized it as belonging to a well-known toy manufacturer. The sight warmed the cockles of his heart (the cockles reside just below and to the left of the auricles in goblin anatomy) and brought back even stronger memories of his juvenile phase. His rose-colored reminiscences were once again dragged into the stark glaring light of reality when one of the crates slipped out of its sling and crashed awkwardly to the dock. It burst open at a seam and what came tumbling out was definitely
not
intended for children.

Instead of brightly-colored animals and wooden vehicles, the broken crate disgorged bundles of boxes with stenciled labels like
Programmable Field Generator, 1 ea
and
Opto-Mechanical Transducer Array
. Tol’s eyes narrowed and the ‘something wrong with this picture’ alarm in his head started ringing. Only seconds after the accident two furtive-looking hobs came scuttling over and rounded up the spilled merchandise, hastily nailing the crate back together and securing it with metal banding. Tol decided he would follow the suspicious container to its destination. He blended with the shadows and settled into the pursuit.

He’d only been watching for three or four minutes when a lifter driven by a surly gnarlignome rolled over to the crate and hoisted it up on two extensible prongs protruding from the front like flattened tusks. With insolent skill he whipped the whole assembly around and drove off with surprising speed down an aisle crowded with crates and barrels of varying sizes. Tol leapt to his feet and scrambled to keep sight of his quarry as it disappeared into the dockside maze. He clambered over barrels and around shipping containers, stubbing his foot on an exposed plank. Cursing silently he hobbled along, trying not to lose the crate. He thought he’d blown it for a moment, but rounded a corner and spied his target being loaded onto one of the lesser flatbed drays, beside a smaller crate.

He skittered around a couple of shelving units and positioned himself near the exit, leaping onto the bed of the dray as it lumbered by in the darkness and wedging into a narrow space between the two crates. They took a corner rather faster than was prudent and it threw him roughly into a cargo tie-down ring. He lay there rubbing his bruised pelvic ridge and foot, muttering. “Ow. I’m getting too smekking old for this smek. Where’d you learn to drive, you smekking lunatic...by correspondence course?”

The dray bumped and bounced along for another minute or so, then swung abruptly into a dark garage. Tol struggled to a crouch and waited for the vehicle to slow enough for him to dismount. As it clattered to a stop he jumped down rather awkwardly and rolled behind a large metal water tank with peeling red paint. The dray backed in and an overhead block and tackle was maneuvered into position to relieve it of its cargo. Tol watched as the crate was lifted off the dray and lowered onto a wheeled pallet. Four hobs pushed the pallet away into the gloom of the warehouse, forcing Tol to dodge and weave his way through the boxes, crates, barrels, and assorted junk piled throughout the building in order to keep up. After thirty meters the haphazard caravan passed through an archway and the floor beneath them suddenly sloped forward, becoming a ramp leading down into the inky subterranean blackness.

The good news was that the blackness made it a lot easier for Tol to trail them without being seen. The bad news was that, even though the amount of junk piled up along the walls had lessened considerably since they entered the tunnel, the absence of illumination virtually ensured that whatever debris remained would find its way into Tol’s path undetected. Every time he stubbed toes, ankles, or knees on one of these hidden hazards and cursed softly to himself, he heard an odd twittering noise. After a few repeat performances he realized it was coming from his pocket. The smekking pen
was
laughing
at him. The next time he stumbled, he steered himself intentionally into a wall and smashed the pocket holding the pen into it as hard as he could. A gratifying silence ensued. He smiled grimly and turned his full attention back to the pursuit.

The downward slope of the tunnel seemed to be increasing. They must be pretty far underground by now, Tol reckoned. The passage was throttling down also; as it narrowed the amount of goblin-obscuring junk tailed off as well, forcing him to drop further back into the darkness to avoid detection.

The floor suddenly leveled out and the narrow hallway widened into a vast musty cavern honeycombed with storage nooks and piled to the darkly invisible ceiling with crates, chests, barrels, and containers of every size and color imaginable. He panicked briefly as he crossed the threshold without a fix on his quarry, but breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when he heard them shuffling off to his left. He darted behind a pillar of crates and peered around the corner just in time to see the hobs shovel their cargo into a large steel container and lock it securely.

Surveying the scene, Tol noticed a number of other crates nearby with the same paint scheme and cryptic markings. He cooled his heels until the hobs had retreated topside, then inspected the containers. They were all identical, all locked. He didn’t recognize the logo stenciled on them, so he reached into his pocket and hauled out the pen. It was still sulking and refused even to acknowledge him. Tol grinned at this unexpected turn of good luck and whistled softly under his breath, which annoyed the pen even more.

“What now? I suppose you are going to use me to pry open that box?” The voice was as icy cold as a metallic speech synthesizer could generate. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I am,” replied Tol, cheerily. “I want you to search through the commercial tokens database and identify this logo.” The pen said nothing. “
Now
, Eyejay. Don’t make me use the override sleeve.” It seemed to shudder at the suggestion.

“Processing,” it snapped vitriolically, “Positive match discovered. Smekker.”

“What was that last part, again?”

“Nothing. The emblem is registered to Pyfox Consolidated Industries.”

“Pyfox. Hmm. What an interesting...coincidence. All right, access any registered shipments made to this port by Pyfox Consolidated Industries in the past thirty days. And keep the solid state pejoratives to yourself.”

“Port Authority records show an anomalous increase in PCI deliveries beginning eleven days ago. Manifests range from children’s toys to housewares.”

“That don’t tell us much. Manifests are fictional documents even under ordinary circumstances for Pyfox and his ilk. The increase in deliveries itself, though, is another matter altogether. Eleven days ago would fit neatly into the timeline, too. I guess I’m just gonna have to open one of these crates.”

“I should think your breath alone would do it.”

“Oh look, Ma—I found a talking bottle opener. Too bad it’s so smekkin’ ugly.” The response was an extended electronic raspberry. Tol grunted and slipped the offending instrument back into his overjack.

He snapped on his pocket torch and started rooting around in the dim clutter for something to use as a pry bar. After a couple of minutes of kicking boxes and cartons out of the way, he found a length of reinforcing rod.

“Payola!” he exclaimed, extricating the improvised tool from the framework of a broken packing crate. He scraped its coating of rust onto a nearby tarp and inserted the rod into the hasp of the lock securing one of the PCI containers. It took a couple of sharp jerks, but he finally succeeded in breaking apart the lock, sending metal bits and a cloud of oxidized iron particles in all directions. He heard the unmistakable sound of coughing from his overjack pocket.

“Oh, stop it. You don’t even
have
lungs.”

“Good job, too. You’d have ruined them long before now if I had.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

If the pen made any further remark, Tol didn’t hear it. He was busy cracking open the newly liberated lid of the shipping container. The manifest attached to the crate read
Culinary Utensil Assortments
. He reached in, pulled out a sealed box, and slit it open. A shiny metallic unit with several dials and switches tumbled out. He picked it up and examined it.

“Wonder what sort of ‘culinary utensil’ they expect me to believe this is?” he mused, turning it over to discover a small label on the underside. He read it out loud: “
Multimodal Dweomer Repeater/Concentrator. Caution: High Voltage. No user serviceable parts inside
. What the heck is that?” He waited a few seconds, and then cleared his throat. “Ah hem. I said, ‘what the heck is that?’”