Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (27 page)

“Yeah? Well you’d better be prepared to adapt to being in the vicinity of carrion because this thing is eating my lunch. The disruptor doesn’t do smek against it.”

“Naturally. It has no neural system to disrupt. You may as well be discharging it at a concrete pillar.”

“Great. Smekkin’ great. So how am I supposed to go on the offensive? Body odor?” He waved his arms back and forth in the general direction of his assailant.

“That would be an extremely viable tactic in your case, were the Guardian biological. Enhanced olfactory sensitivity is a component only of specialized golems created for tracking purposes, however, and that does not appear to be one of the primary functions of this creature.”

“How did it find me, then?”

“I would posit rather that
you
found
it
.”

“Twice? In totally different parts of the city?”

“The triggers can be placed anywhere. Tripping them will summon the Guardian instantly; location is immaterial to the process, as they teleport through transient directional wormholes.”

“So, basically, you’re saying,” Tol yelled as he narrowly avoided being eviscerated by a well-aimed paw swipe, “that I just blindly blundered into some random tripwire? Why aren’t the sidewalks littered with the bones of the other hapless jloks who’ve done the same, then?”

“It appears to be trippable only by you. Tol-u-ol-specific, in other words.”

“Why
me
? Who would go to all this trouble just to knock off a tired old beat cop?”

“Pattern analysis indicates that these attacks are meant primarily to dissuade you. Your termination is likely no better than a secondary intent, if the primary goal fails.”

“Dissuade me from what? Walking down the street?”

“The strategic goal is not clear.”

“There’s sure nothing unclear about the tactical go...” His last word was cut short as a section of stone facade on a nearby building crumbled under a glancing blow from the Guardian and landed on him. He lay there out of breath, trying desperately to come up with something, anything, to combat this seemingly unbeatable leviathan. The beast assessed the situation and moved in for the kill.

“I would suggest that now might be the appropriate time to activate one of the null magic devices in the adjacent warehouse. The field effect should be sufficiently strong at this range.”

“How am I meant to do that, then? By telepathy?”

“Telekinesis is one option, of course, but generally it requires a considerably more advanced cranial morphology than you possess. My advice is to make use of the remote control device in your pocket.”

“What the smek are you talking about?”

“The small round object in your right overjack pocket. You picked it up in the warehouse and slipped it into your pocket, probably without thinking, as is your wont. In this case paucity of neural activity may prove to be life-saving. It is a remote control device locked to one of the null magic units you examined. Press the rectangular button near the outside edge.”

Tol reached into his pocket skeptically and was astonished to find that there
was
a small, hard, round thing in there. He fumbled with it for a moment, trying to find the rectangular button by feel, but finally gave up in disgust and drew the object out to examine it in the light of day. It proved to be his watch.

“Wrong pocket,” Eyejay explained.

Unfortunately, the diversion gave the Guardian just enough time to lay in a new and more devastating attack.

The sun was suddenly only a fond, distant memory. A blackness the depth and intensity of which Tol had never even suspected possible now covered his visual field from horizon to horizon. The air smelt strongly of sulfur and concentrated perspiration.

“What the smek is happening?” He shrank down, arms over his face, in a reflexive attempt to ward off the smothering darkness. Eyejay’s voice sounded muffled, “It would appear that we are being...sat upon,” came the doleful reply.

“Aaagh! What do I do?”

“Push the smekking button.”

Tol scrambled around in the other pocket and found the device. He pulled it out and frantically stabbed at it as the immense derriere closed in. At the last possible moment he found and pressed the correct switch. The rapidly narrowing gap between him and the huge butt abruptly stopped narrowing. He held his breath and continued to cringe for a few seconds for good measure. When it became apparent that gluteal demise was not so imminent after all he crawled out from underneath the now inanimate beast and peered at it with a mixture of trepidation and relief.

“Wow,” he remarked, turning the remote over in his hand, “this thing really comes in handy. Maybe I should carry one all the time.”

“I hasten to remind you that the device is merely a remote controller. The actual functionality is provided by the null magic unit down in the warehouse, the construction details of which render it rather unsuitable for portable use.”

“Too smekkin’ heavy to carry around, you mean.”

“I believe that is what I said. You are, in fact, extraordinarily fortunate that the power supply was present and armed. I suspect it was meant as a demonstration unit.”

“So anyway, what happens to Rover, here, now?”

“Eventually the null magic burst will dissipate and the Guardian will return to its native state. It would be best if you were no longer in the vicinity when that occurs.”

“Not a problem. As it happens, I have a date with a balrog.” 

Chapter Fifteen:
Seize() the Day

A
spet winced. The review program he’d established was just short of impossible to carry out in the short time he had left to study, but he felt as though he owed it to himself and to his potential subjects to give it his best shot. It wasn’t a review of computer hacking techniques or esoteric network architectures, however: it was the social and political history of Tragacanth, along with a ponderous volume titled
The Precepts of Governing
by a well-known political scientist of a past generation. Hacking he knew a lot about—it was the process of ruling a nation where he felt woefully inadequate. The fact that no previous contender for the throne had worried about that aspect until after he’d won would have been irrelevant to Aspet even if he’d known about it. That wasn’t acceptable behavior in his world view. He knew he couldn’t hope to become any sort of expert in policy-making in less than three days, but he nevertheless had to give it his best effort.

The hardest part, he soon came to realize, was staying awake. Most of the material was a little…dry. He found it useful to bang his head against the table every so often to renew his focus, although he also discovered that too much enthusiasm in this activity led to headaches, fuzziness, and a sticky tabletop.

Cranial abuse notwithstanding, Aspet stuck to it like the trooper he aspired someday to be until he decided he’d better wrap things up and realign his brain with the technical challenge ahead. Besides, all this political theory was generating weird cobwebs in his mind. He was beginning to feel a strange compulsion welling up to draft an election committee or organize a fundraiser dinner. It creeped him out.

There would be a total of four candidates for the throne, including of course the present monarch, Trellior I, who had assumed the kingship six years previous. He had been a first-rate hacker prior to his ascension, but it was widely believed he had grown rusty in the three years since his last challenge. It isn’t easy to keep your mad skills pumped while playing lord over all you survey, after all.

Still, Aspet wasn’t harboring any delusions about the challenge he faced. The king had the ‘home field’ advantage and was defending his regime, not to mention the lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed, so there was little doubt he would put up a fierce fight. Also, two previous challengers, both of whom Aspet had known, had mysteriously vanished after failing in their royal bids. This was especially worrisome to him, but he didn’t know what, if anything, he could do to prevent it happening to him—apart from winning. A complete transcript of that challenge and the one which gained Trellior the throne would prove useful, if one could be had. Fortunately, he
had
one right here, supplied by the mysterious but ever-useful Boogla. It was weird having a powerful fan you’ve never met and really haven’t done anything to deserve. Weird: but oh, so useful.

It was clear from the outset that Trellior was a search-and-destroy hacker. He wasn’t concerned with finesse or elegance, just brute force and aggression. The transcripts showed a predictable pattern of reconnoiter/decoy/attack/dodge that Aspet found rather simplistic, although obviously successful. It was a tactic he’d seen and defused before; he could only hope His Majesty’s strategy hadn’t evolved any since the most recent transcript. That seemed pretty unlikely, given that all candidates for the throne came under extremely intense scrutiny by the king’s personal staff. They probably knew just about everything there was to know about him, Aspet mused, and that meant they’d studied his tactics at least as closely as he’d studied Trellior’s. That was all right, though, because his personal strategy was nothing if not fluid.

The morning of the challenge dawned overcast and drizzling. Aspet was up before the light, readying himself mentally and going over fine details of the Royal Network one last time. He was so absorbed with his preparations, in fact, that he almost missed the message that popped up on his screen.

To: Asp37!cholinergia!goblinopolis

From: boogla!boogla!boo

Subject: Good fortune

Be wary of the unexpected.

Seize() the day.

All things come to those who wait().

Aspet rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Another cryptic communiqué brought to you by the great and mysterious Boogla.” He stared at the words a moment longer, but could wrest no more meaning from them and went back to his review. A few minutes later he looked up and realized it was time to leave for the Arnoc. He closed his notebooks, shut down his computer, and said a little goblin prayer for luck.

He had an escort to the challenge site from two Royal Protective Corps agents, as was normal procedure for all aspirants to the throne who made it this far (to ensure they arrived safely at the Arnoc and, he suspected, in order to discourage last-minute cheating). They weren’t a very talkative pair, so the trip was made in silence. That didn’t bother him; he needed to concentrate, anyway.

Challenges to the throne were a rare occurrence overall, and this combined with the monumental nature of the contest made them quite important to the Goblinopolis social calendar. The South entrance to the tournament hall was secured and reserved for official personnel only, but the area surrounding the North, public, entrance took on a carnival atmosphere in the days leading up to a challenge. There were barkers, biters, jugglers, jongleurs, illusionists, delusionists, contortionists, extortionists, daredevils, dust-devils, acrobats, fruitbatters, and a whole host of other entertainers and profiteers. Just about every semi-sentient race on N’plork was represented in the teeming throng.

Aspet had witnessed this spectacle once before during the last Royal Challenge, but not being willing to mingle very long in such a vast assemblage he hadn’t really comprehended the full scope of the event. This time he only saw the crowds from afar, as the RPC kept everyone back a considerable distance from the disembarkation area for official vehicles. He felt a little strange being hustled up the carpeted runway surrounded by goons in RPC tactical gear, but it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience.

Inside the Arnoc tournament hall, Aspet was taken directly to a security station where he was searched, given a lecture on security measures in the presence of the Royal Personage, and required to sign the formal Intent to Occupy the Throne documents. Then it was off to the Master of the Tournament for a briefing on the rules and expectations for candidates. Finally, there was an all-too-short interval where he was allowed to familiarize himself with the equipment he’d be using and the secure network partition established for the purposes of the challenge. Very soon it was show time and the ornate curtains were drawn aside.

His opponents, including the current king, were lined up every five meters along a semicircular console with a huge four-way split screen placed out in front so the audience could see what all the candidates were typing but the participants themselves could not. Between each pair of candidates was a read-only network traffic monitor/recorder with a judge at it. Each kept a separate copy of all packets passing across the net and allowed that judge to replay any exchanges for analysis, looking for suspicious activity. The system had been fine-tuned by every challenge that went before, as something new and unanticipated occurred with every contest. Cameras, other than those belonging to officially-sanctioned and thoroughly vetted commercial media, were strictly forbidden in the audience to discourage elaborate cheating scenarios that had taken place in the past. Several highly-trained RPC agents with optical reflection detectors were stationed on a platform overlooking the crowd, watching for traces of the illegal devices.