A Matter of Competence
“Consider this analogy. The layman imagines that the safety of an industrial enterprise resides in its thick walls, its reinforced vessels, and its barriers of steel and concrete. Likewise, the amateur conjurer imagines that his safety resides in protective circles, arcane sigils, and spells of warding.
“But these are merely the outward manifestations of something far more important.
“What truly holds corrosive chemicals, pressurized fuels, and hostile extraplanar entities at bay is knowledge and the meticulous organization of human affairs according to that knowledge. Knowledge accumulated over centuries of study, experiment, and catastrophe.
“Without it, the strongest walls are merely an illusion of safety, and the most elaborate protective circle is nothing more than chalk upon the floor.”
— Professor Ingwar Mechem, Lectures on Applied Demonology
Professor Ingwar Mechem's office was exceedingly well illuminated - more so, indeed, than any ordinary academic office had reason to be. Additional electric lamps had been installed in the corners of the ceiling, their positions evidently calculated with considerable care, so that scarcely a recess of the room remained in shadow. Whether this arrangement reflected some peculiarity of the Professor's tastes, or a precaution dictated by his profession, Theodore Weidemann had never ventured to inquire.
Behind the Professor stood several imposing bookcases, laden with heavy volumes. The greater part consisted of scientific treatises, reference works, and bound journals, some of considerable antiquity. Yet in one corner Weidemann could discern the glossy, brightly coloured spines of several adventure novels, whose presence among the solemn works of demonological scholarship struck him as a curious concession to the pleasures of ordinary men.
Mechem was examining a document upon his computer screen.
"Your review of the Vassago testimony is promising, Mr. Weidemann. Very promising indeed. Nevertheless, I fear that I cannot agree with your conclusions."
"In what respect, Professor?"
Theodore spoke with an apprehension which he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to conceal. Already he had begun to suspect what the older man was about to say.
"On the final page, you express the opinion that our investigation of the Barnaban seals may now be brought to a conclusion. I believe this to be mistaken, even from a purely procedural standpoint."
For three seconds neither man spoke. The silence was broken only by the steady hum of the air-conditioning apparatus.
"Professor?" Weidemann ventured at last.
In his mind, the calendar of the coming year was already undergoing a most disagreeable rearrangement.
"We cannot possibly proceed without experimental verification. The interview itself is publishable, I think. The Journal of Experimental Demonology may well accept it as a contribution of independent value. But the testimony of Prince Vassago, however distinguished its source, remains testimony. His statements must be tested. We shall require an experimental program embracing, at the very least, the principal varieties of Barnaban seal."
"We might begin with a miniaturized portal aperture," suggested Weidemann, rather dejectedly.
"Certainly! And thereafter, no doubt, with several larger ones. You must understand, Mr. Weidemann, that we are not concerned with establishing whether the seals failed. We know that they failed. Barnabas is dead. What we seek to establish is precisely how they failed."
The Professor smiled.
"Oh, Theodore! Do not despair at this stage. We have come so far. You have come so far. Many a summoner would not have…"
The telephone rang.
It was a sharp, insistent sound, and Mechem, who had been speaking with increasing warmth, broke off in the middle of his sentence.
Then Weidemann observed something which he had seldom, if ever, seen upon his master's countenance.
It was an expression of genuine concern.
"What has-"
"It is the full moon," said Mechem. He took up his smartphone.
"Ingwar Mechem speaking."
There followed a silence. The Professor listened attentively, and as he listened his expression grew steadily grimmer.
"I understand."
Another pause.
"Maintain two perimeters. I shall be on my way."
The voice at the other end spoke again.
"No. Two. One immediately surrounding the original scene, and a second, outer perimeter. Contact P-SWAT at once. Do not wait for me to telephone them."
He listened.
"Yes. Yes. Certainly. Less than five minutes. Send me a photograph of the rendezvous point. Goodbye."
He ended the call and placed the telephone upon his desk.
"Thrice damn the imbeciles," he exclaimed, "who imagine that merely because the moon is full, they may summon the gods alone know what! Where, in Heaven's name, do these people obtain their summoning calendars?"
Within seconds, both men had donned their trench coats and hats. Wiedemann's coat was of a respectable brown, matched with a grey flat cap, while Mechem wore a coat of the deepest navy blue, so dark that by night it might easily have been mistaken for black. Upon his head rested a broad-brimmed fedora of charcoal felt, lending his already imposing figure an additional air of solemn authority.
Both men were armed, as was customary among Allaneans. Wiedemann carried a wand in a holster upon his hip and, beneath his coat, a submachine gun suspended from a shoulder harness. Mechem, for his part, wore a revolver of considerable dimensions, which he carried with the easy familiarity of a gentleman long accustomed to its weight.
In one respect, however, the Professor enjoyed an advantage over his student. They were in his own office, and he was therefore able to take up his staff - that heavy, richly ornamented instrument which had accompanied him to every summoning Wiedemann had ever witnessed, and doubtless to a great many more besides.
From a cabinet beside his desk, Mechem produced a rigid briefcase, which he handed to his student without explanation. Wiedemann accepted the burden without complaint. A moment later, the two men were striding down the corridor.
The hour was late, and few students remained in the Department of Demonology. Nevertheless, such persons as they encountered turned their heads to watch the Professor pass. He did not run; indeed, it would have been difficult to imagine Ingwar Mechem running through the corridors of his own university. Yet there was a determination in his stride, a certain terrible purposefulness, which made it abundantly clear that he was a man upon urgent business.
His eyes gleamed with anger.
Wiedemann knew well enough the object of that anger. Somewhere in the city, some miserable fool had undertaken a work for which he possessed neither the knowledge nor the proper preparation, and had thereby placed innocent lives in jeopardy. That the unfortunate practitioner had already paid for his folly with his life did not, apparently, diminish the Professor's indignation in the slightest.
Outside, the rain descended with such violence that Wiedemann, contemplating the darkened university grounds through the glass doors of the entrance hall, wondered whether their trench coats would afford them any protection worth mentioning.
They strode across the campus green, the rain beating mercilessly upon their coats and hats. As they walked, the Professor studied the photograph upon his smartphone, holding it beneath the brim of his fedora to shield the screen from the downpour. He examined it for several moments, then returned the instrument to his pocket.
Suddenly, he raised his staff.
"Ready for teleportation!" he called.
Wiedemann had barely time to brace himself before a brilliant flash of blue light enveloped them both.
They emerged in a place which, at first glance, bore a curious resemblance to the Campus Green - a broad expanse of grass surrounded by tall buildings. Yet the resemblance did not survive closer inspection. The lawns beneath their feet were uneven and badly maintained, the footpaths cracked in places, and here and there the grass had given way to patches of bare, rain-soaked earth.
Nor were the buildings anything like the varied and comparatively graceful structures of Concord University, where towers of considerable height stood alongside buildings of no more than a dozen floors. Here, the landscape was dominated by immense, broad-shouldered rectangular arcologies, their monotonous façades rising into the rainy night. Far above, the full moon could be glimpsed through a momentary break in the clouds.
Weidemann had scarcely taken three steps when his foot came down upon an empty bottle. It rolled treacherously beneath him, sending him stumbling forward.
"Frakking arcotrash! They can't even refrain from littering where they live!" he hissed.
He fell silent, however, beneath a sharp glance from his professor.
"Would you prefer that they litter where you live, Mr. Weidemann? And I strongly recommend that you refrain from such vocabulary while we are conducting an investigation."
Weidemann said nothing.
High overhead, upon the face of a vast structure which might have been designed by an architect determined that Brutalism should never perish, enormous illuminated letters proclaimed:
WHITCOMB RESIDENTIAL ARCOLOGY No. 14.
*
As they approached the apartment, the familiar odour of the lower levels of an arcology—that disagreeable mixture of harsh chemical solvents and cleaning agents—gradually gave way to something else. It was a smell which Wiedemann knew only too well: cinnamon and blood.
Two police officers stood guard at the entrance. The door behind them had been snapped into broken planks. They wore no uniforms, and only the large, star-shaped badges upon their coats distinguished them from ordinary citizens. Their patrol carbines were held rather nervously in their hands, the slings hanging slack against their shoulders.
Their guide, a somewhat stout gentleman who had introduced himself as Deputy Hunter, nodded reassuringly to the two men.
"That's all right, boys. Professor Mechem here will have matters well in hand."
The officers stepped aside.
Upon entering the apartment, Wiedemann immediately perceived the source of the odour.
The summoner lay in the middle of a protective circle, its elaborate chalk markings still plainly visible upon the floor. A pistol lay beside him, evidently a weapon which its owner had never found the opportunity to employ.
For one extraordinary instant, Wiedemann imagined that somebody had placed a large red gym bag upon the unfortunate man's body, and then pulled it open to its fullest extent.
Then he understood what he was seeing.
"That is-" he began.
"Yes," said Mechem.
The Professor advanced a pace, studying the floor with a grave and concentrated expression.
"The entity sprang upon him. Observe the chalk, Mr. Wiedemann. It is smudged where he fell. He attempted to draw his pistol."
"But he was too slow," confirmed Deputy Hunter.
"And then the entity opened him," continued Mechem. It was not a question. "And, apparently, removed his internal organs with extraordinary rapidity. Whether it carried them away or consumed them upon the spot is another matter. I should require the coroner's report to establish precisely which organs are missing, but at first inspection it would appear to be most of them."
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then, from somewhere far above them, came the sharp, unmistakable crackle of rifle fire. The sound travelled strangely through the enormous structure, echoing along shafts and passageways, until it seemed almost to issue from the walls themselves.
Mechem raised his head.
"How far up?"
"Forty floors," replied Hunter.
"Have you any estimate of the time it required to cover that distance?"
“The first twenty floors it took relatively slowly,” said Hunter. “We had a call routed through from the police post downstairs. A neighbor saw the demon—”
“The entity,” corrected Weidemann. “We are not yet certain—”
“You may call it a demon,” said Mechem, in a tone he would never have employed toward a student making the same assumption.
“The demon, then. A neighbor heard screaming, and a moment later saw the thing burst out of the victim's apartment. You've seen what it did to the door. By the time the first police cruisers arrived, it had climbed perhaps twenty floors. Then we began organizing a perimeter to cut it off, and the damned thing sprinted another twenty floors in less than a minute.”
Mechem sighed.
From somewhere far overhead came another burst of rifle fire, its reports echoing down through the immense structure. Then there arose a scream—a man's scream, dreadful in its agony. It continued for several seconds, ceased for an instant, and began again, louder than before.
“What on earth-” began Hunter.
Mechem shook his head.
“No time. Describe the entity to me, Deputy. The demon. What does it look like?”
“Naked. Skinny as a rail. Like a man who hasn't eaten in weeks. Like one of those concentration camp inmates, you know? Grey skin. And a horn on its head.”
“A horn,” repeated Mechem. “What kind of horn?”
Hunter hesitated.
“Long, sir. Sort of curved forward. Like a hook, almost.”
“Where does it grow from? The forehead? The crown of the head?”
“No, sir. That's the strange part. It comes out of the back of its head.”
“The back of the skull?”
“Yes, sir. Sticks out from the back, then curves forward and down. Like a great big hook.”
“Does the point turn toward the face?”
“Yes. That's exactly it.”
Mechem nodded thoughtfully.
“And the hands, Deputy? Did anyone get a good look at its hands?”
“I should imagine they were rather large,” observed Weidemann, pointing once more at the mutilated figure within the chalk circle. “That, presumably, is how it did this.”
The man overhead was still screaming when another voice joined his. This second scream, however, was not one of pain. It was a scream of sheer terror.
Through the open space of the arcology's central atrium, a man was falling.
For one dreadful instant his flailing silhouette was visible through the doorway as it swept past their floor. Then it was gone.
Several seconds passed.
There came a dull, distant thump.
Only the first scream remained.
“Enough science,” said Mechem. “Weidemann, leave the briefcase with the Deputy. There will be time enough for evidence later.”
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As the two men emerged from the brilliant blue flare, they found themselves in one of the arcology's common rooms. There were two windows: one looked outward upon the rainy night, while the other opened onto a balcony overlooking the central atrium. The glass of the latter had been shattered.
Several men and women were crouched beside the broken window, their weapons resting against the sill. Some wore the star-shaped badges of the LCPD; others had no badges at all. From somewhere beyond the window came the same dreadful screaming, somewhat muffled now, but still continuing.
“We can't get to him,” said a young LCPD officer, addressing no one in particular. “I think that—that thing is using him as bait. Mike... Mike Talsmith tried to get to him, but the creature grabbed him. Just grabbed him and frakking-”
“Yes,” said Mechem.
There was something in his voice that might have been sternness, or might have been kindness.
“We saw him fall”
Almost without pause, the demonologist spoke.
“We cannot wait for P-SWAT.”
“Why not?”
“The creature can summon more of its kind.” Mechem was already making for the door. “That submachine gun of yours, Weidemann-”
“Silver-coated and silver-core. In dot-forty.”
“It’ll have to do. Cover me.”
As Mechem stepped through the doorway, he saw the creature at once.
Several of the overhead lights had been smashed, and the stretch of corridor in which it crouched lay in deep shadow. It was a gaunt, grey-skinned thing, its limbs unnaturally long, its body so wasted that every rib stood out beneath the skin. A single horn-like growth projected from the back of its skull, curving forward and downward like a monstrous hook. Its elongated fingers ended in wicked claws, and here and there its skin glistened with a reddish, gelatinous secretion.
The wounded man lay perhaps five yards from the creature. He had ceased screaming, but a pitiful, intermittent mewling still escaped his lips.
It is taunting us, thought Weidemann. It wants us to believe we can reach the poor bastardl-
The submachine gun rocked and barked in his hands.
Wounds blossomed across the demon's torso as the silver bullets struck home. The creature gave a hideous yowl of pain and outrage, recoiling beneath the impacts. Yet it remained alive, though injuries of such severity would have felled a man three times its size.
“Foolish mortals!” growled the demon. “First you sought to ensnare me with your pathetic spellcraft, and now you would wound me with your miserable weapons? There are thousands of you in this dwelling! I am an anteater set loose in an anthill. I shall feast! My brothers shall feast! We shall—”
Mechem raised his staff. He made no answer to the creature, but spoke in no human tongue.
“]Á auta!” he called, and the shadows themselves retreated before him.
For less than a second, the creature seemed to flinch away from the spellcaster, as a man might recoil from a sudden flash of light.
Then it was gone.
Several seconds passed before the men and women in the common room realized that it was, at last, over.
Then they were rushing past the two demonologists, hurrying towards the injured man with healing potions and first-aid equipment. There was work to be done now, for them and for others yet to arrive.
“Shouldn't we try to heal him?” asked Weidemann.
“Not until we know precisely what spell the creature employed. There may be other injuries, too, or magical poisons which our healing spells might aggravate.” Mechem lowered his staff. “Let us do our work, Theodore, and leave the healers to theirs. Had no other assistance been available, then yes, we should have attempted what we could. But we are demonologists, not biomancers.”
In Allanea, healing and necromancy were inseparable branches of the same magical discipline, although those who devoted themselves chiefly to the preservation and restoration of life were commonly known as biomancers.
They stepped into the elevator, and it began its descent.
“What an idiot,” said Weidemann.
“Yes,” replied Mechem. “But also no.”
“No?”
“Perhaps it was idle curiosity. Sometimes it is despair.” Mechem paused. “Some men turn to demonology in the hope of mending their broken lives. Often, these are precisely the men who have the least business meddling in such matters.”
“It is unlike you to make excuses for them.”
“Weidemann, my head is capable of holding two thoughts at once. And, for that matter, two emotions. Men and women who dabble in forces they do not understand, and thereby endanger those around them, are worthy of our disgust. But sometimes, Theodore, they are worthy of our pity as well.”
He fell silent for a moment.
“I understand you. Indeed, I agree with you. An innocent man died today because of a fool who probably never intended to summon a Babau in the first place. Another man very nearly died. None of that is to be excused.” He looked at his student. “But do not be surprised if, in the course of our investigation, we discover something about that fool which makes us sorry for him.”
The elevator continued its descent.