EMERALD CITY

THE BEGINNING OF THE BEGINNING

A note to readers: the original text of this book was written with footnote annotations which I have entered into the body of the text in [bracketed] bold font.

“Dr. Psmostithis, we’re almost ready for you.”

Fifty-one years… had it really been fifty-one years ago that this experiment began? James had to laugh at those humble beginnings. Who would ever believe that Dr. James Psmostithis, three-time Nobel Peace Prize recipient, pioneer in the Mars Teraforming Project, and most recently the inventor of the SmartRAM, had his humble beginnings as a lab technician at the long bankrupt and thoroughly charcoaled FizzyPop Soda Corporation? Who would ever guess that his life’s work, this gateway—to another world or another universe, he could only guess—began with the research for a soda pop that would not go flat.

Hmm, he thought. We never did get that formula worked out.

James watched as one of the five technicians under his charge wheeled in on a trolley the prototype android that would venture into that other world. It stood about six-foot-three and featured the typical waxy-yellow, artificial flesh over a blockish skeletal structure that even the -69 models, for all their “human” similarities, had been designed with. It was odd that humans were capable of manufacturing a mechanical man, and yet in their designs they still needed physical reassurances that their creations were less than human... when their own inability to manufacture a soul so clearly blazed that fact in every model manufactured.

Proudly, Psmostithis recited the model number to this prototype android of his own design. “The TM-42... the first model fitted with SmartRAM.”

RAM… it was the wrong name for such an addition to the robotics industry. Ram… sheep have to be led, he mused. But the SmartRAM allowed a robot to think, to compromise, to write its own programming based on varying external input. A robot with SmartRAM led itself.

The TM- series android was nothing new to the robotics industry. His newfound employer and benefactor to this project, Macrosoft Incorporated, introduced the TM-1.01 to the general populace just five years after its merger.

The first “TinMan” was little more than a novelty robot with a funnel hat*. [FOOTNOTE: So the acronym was erringly defined by the denizens of Seattle, Washington, headquarters for the global software and hardware giant, Macrosoft. In actuality, the acronym TM was created by computer programmers, (who as everyone knows aren’t very imaginative), and stood simply for “The Machine.”] Like a parrot, it could mimic sound, and for those who could afford it, functioned as a “gofer” for those too lazy to get up from surfing the Net to retrieve their own beer. That had been almost a hundred years ago. Since then, the TM’s had evolved into a definitively more humanoid shape with varying models designed for everything from yard work and buttlering (the TM-21) to the “hide it in the closet” model with a more than Ken/Barbie doll anatomy (the TM-69 v.1.1, 1.2, or 1.3).

Fifty-one years ago, Jim and his partner Charles Hicklynn lost their TM-13, a “test dummy” model designed for the food industry, in the Great FizzyPop Fire that spread to lay waste to the nearby city of Everett. It had been capable of tasting to determine human palatability, digesting as a means of obtaining fuel, and analyzing chemical content to determine a food’s dietary value or detriment to humans. The TM-42 could do all that and more. Designed to explore unknown worlds, it could also touch, smell, breathe, feel hot and cold as well as texture, and had been programmed with software designed to allow it to adapt to virtually any language or culture, known or unknown, to man.

James had never forgotten that brief glimpse through the swirling glass. The sight came back to haunt him as he tried to sleep… the lush green meadow, that queer, one-horned horse, and Charles… trapped and afraid… only a lifetime of practice kept the tear he felt from surfacing to his eye. Now here he was, planning to recreate the experiment… hopefully this time with less combustible results. Although flame-retardant suits had been distributed, just in case.
The warehouse-style lab at the Macrosoft Research and Development Compound was lead and concrete reinforced, originally designed as a bomb shelter for another World War that never came. Inside, the lab was partitioned by various firewalls that separated the Simulation Lab, the Animal Research storage that would come into play after a successful exploration from the TM-42, the Control Room, and the Portal Lab. Between these last two rooms the firewall had been breached by a large window of a powerful energy curtain rather than safety glass that protected the technicians and equipment inside the Control Room.

From behind this window, a technician by the name of Davison asked, “Doctor, are you ready to proceed to step two?”

With a nod, James approached the TM-42 and swiftly swung his index finger up the android’s left nostril. A bit of digging about resulted in a short jerk of motion as its hydraulics came online.

SYSTEM BOOT
LOAD”AUDITORY”,8,1… LOADING… READY: RUN… ONLINE.
LOAD”VISUAL”,8,1… LOADING… READY: SYS64738… ONLINE.
LOAD”ROBOTICS”,8,1… LOADING… READY: RUN… ONLINE.
LOAD"SPEECHCENTER",8,1… LOADING… READY: RUN… ONLINE.
LIST PRIME DIRECTIVES:
DIRECTIVE 1:/> PROTECT HUMAN LIFE
DIRECTIVE 2:/> NEVER INTERFERE WITH NATURAL SOCIOLOGICAL PROGRESSION.

Dr. Psmostithis extracted his finger from the android’s nose. “How are you feeling -42?”

“OPERATIVE.” Its monotone voice was cold and impersonal; like death.

“Are you ready for your journey?”

“ERROR. WHAT JOURNEY?”

“You’re about to go where… one man has gone before.”

With a series of keystrokes on a portable mainframe interface, the mission parameters were installed:

OBJECTIVE 1:/> EXPLORE UNKNOWN WORLD AND/OR DIMENSION.
OBJECTIVE 2:/> DETERMINE PRESENT RESOURCES AVAILABLE FOR HUMAN SUSTENANCE AND PRESENT HAZARDS TO HUMAN VIABILITY.
OBJECTIVE 3:/> COMPILE DATA ON NATIVE INHABITANTS.
OBJECTIVE 4:/> [CLASSIFIED]
OBJECTIVE 5:/> RETURN TO HOME WORLD AT POINT OF ENTRY EXACTLY 720 HOURS AFTER ARRIVAL.

“Beginning the sequence now, Sir,” reported Davison. “In sixty…”

Hastily, Dr. Psmostithis and his staff left the Lab, and resumed their watch from the adjacent control room.

Through the energy curtain, they watched as chemicals were mixed and ions were charged through the Flux Carbonator. Twisted cylinders flooded with bubbly purple fluid… Yum, grape, my favorite, the Doctor remembered… The crystalline fluid cascaded in open air, as gravimetric energies were unleashed. The entire room seemed to shake and distort as if seen through the bottom of a soda bottle. A blinding flash marked their success, and all except the TM-42 stared in awe at the hovering circlet of liquid glass.

Into the Com microphone, the doctor spoke, “All right, Alice… it’s time to go through the looking glass.”

The TinMan stood, staring blankly.

Dr. Psmostithis sighed. Damn things… no sense of humor. “All right, TM-42,”—the TinMan turned and looked at the Doctor in acknowledgement—“proceed with your mission.”

With a gait as fluid as a brick on stilts, the TinMan advanced. Were he human, he would have paused, reached out, touched the hovering liquid, stared for a moment at the landscape beyond. He would have looked back at the others in doubt. He would have been in awe… and fear. Instead, the TinMan did not even hesitate. One moment he was in the well-lit security of the Macrosoft lab, and the next…

* * *

SCANNING…
ATMOSPHERIC CONDITIONS: OXYGEN, HYDROGEN, HYDROCARBONS, NITROGEN…
DIAGNOSIS: OPTIMAL FOR HUMAN HABITATION.
TOPSOIL ANALYSIS: TAR-SILICONE COMPOSITE.
DIAGNOSIS: PAVEMENT: NOT OPTIMAL FOR VEGETATION GROWTH.
INDIGENOUS FLORA: NONE.
INDIGENOUS FAUNA: 2 LIFE FORMS RECOGNIZED… SCANNING…
LIFE FORM 1: FELINE, SPECIES INDEFINITE, DAMAGED DORSAL APPENDAGE, ONE EAR, ONE EYE…
DIAGNOSIS: ALLEY CAT.
LIFE FORM 2: ANTHROPOID, APPROXIMATE AGE: 60, ODOR ANALYSIS IDENTIFIES RUM AND REFUSE.
DIAGNOSIS: HUMAN… BUM.

The TinMan scanned his surroundings further. The alleyway into which he had emerged was dimly lit with a hint of evening mist lingering in the air.
Neither the bum nor the cat were startled this strange man’s sudden appearance. After all… men dressed in strange uniforms vanishing and appearing out of mid-air was normal in that part of the city. Of course, the uniforms usually consisted of long black robes and knobby staffs... but one simply did not tell a man who could turn you into something with scales and more than two legs that a little green jumpsuit with an “M” on it was not proper wizard attire.

Without a word, the strange man stepped over the legs of the reclined hobo and out into the busy streets, still looking analytically around at his surroundings.

“Damn wizards.”

The bum looked at the cat in agreement and nodded before rolling over to go back to sleep.

* * *

The TM-42 looked up at the light pole and read, 15TH AVE AND E HARRISON ST.

ENGLISH, he noted.

Up and down the crowded city streets milled a myriad of peculiar faces, every one oblivious to the newcomer’s presence. One man was bald but for a single row of hair spiked nearly a foot over his cranium. A woman wearing an outfit of skin-tight plastic and leather walked her... the TinMan paused to search his archives and could only identify the animal from a listing found under ANCIENT MYTHOLOGY as a griffon. Some faces were painted a white highlighted with black; others varied all the colors of the rainbow; others still were not even human, and within five minutes the TM-42 had identified from the same ANCIENT MYTHOLOGY files a centaur in a two-piece suit, a heavily pierced minotaur, and a severely intoxicated leprechaun being ejected from a tavern by what he suspected to be either an ogre or a small giant. In nearly every face he saw, every orifice imaginable was pierced, stretched, or otherwise mutilated. What could have passed for human had in some fashion been surgically or cosmetically altered to look like something else. In short, the TinMan, with his waxy yellow skin and a cranial structure that looked manufactured rather than grown, fit right in.

The TinMan’s SmartRAM was working overtime analyzing his first impressions of this “alien” world. A bank’s clock, of a design and technology he’d never seen before, illuminated the time 9:48 with phosphorescent particles of sand that seemed ever in motion. Almost every street corner housed a cafe or coffee shop of some sort, and from the accents featured in their menus, the TM-42 deduced that English was not the only language that had been paralleled from his own home world. The buildings that lined the street of Broadway were old but still functional, constructed primarily with dirty, red or brown brick. If a shop was not contributing to the ever-present scent of bean-filtered water and milk, it was offering various other wares, from tattoos to negligees* [FOOTNOTE: And other peripherals the TM-42 could not identify, though he suspected from the selection of various whips and prods and the heavy use of metal studs, ringlets, and leather that they had something to do with the animal training industry.] to “fashionably out of date” clothing*. [FOOTNOTE: Though, of course, the TM-42 had no idea what was out of date or not, which in a way is the whole idea behind such stores.] A storefront offered him the name “Seattle,” identifying that the city’s name was the same as the one he had left behind. But for all the similarities, the TM-42 was unable to draw an exact parallel to his own world. A scan of his historical files helped: placing the streets, the architecture, even some of the fashions as having existed in the late twentieth century of his world. Most of what he saw now had been leveled on his world either by war or industry. But even compared to a twentieth century earth, nothing matched up exactly as his files said they should--particularly the range of sentient species present.

On a sub-program running in what could best be described as his “mind’s eye”, he overlaid a map of old Seattle with a map of the industrialized new. Broadway, he noted, used to run just blocks from where the Macrosoft Research Compound currently rested. Even the geography was the same between these worlds. He wondered if the state and the country would also prove the same. Would the continent still have the same shape, or would California still have its coastline?

The TinMan continued to scan, absorbing everything he could see, smell, or hear and placing it into a context of either parallel or alien to his world. Eventually, he deduced, mere observation would not be enough. He would have to seek out his data from the local color.

The spoken language was the same as the written, he quickly observed: English… with a variety of vulgarities not in his Webster’s vocabulary tossed in for color. Despite these colorful additions, his universal translator would not be necessary.

Among the collage of peculiar faces there were, he observed, a few not wholly alien or grotesquely modified by makeup and countless piercings. He was not programmed for prejudice or fear of the unknown. It just seemed logical to him that communication may best be established with someone who looked more… human. As he walked down the street labeled “Broadway”, he picked his target.

* * *

It was a night off for Roman. As a creature of the night, his typical “day” began just after sunset. By eight he was due behind the grill at Richard’s, a local drive-through, fast-food grease pit. It only paid minimum wage, but he and the rest of the night crew got to drain the patties before they went on the grill and take home all the juice he could carry. Considering his lifestyle, only during the first night of the full moon did he need more than that. Just for those nights, his boss made special allowances, selling him the surplus raw patties at cost.
Tonight it was time for something fresh… something warm, soft, willing, and preferably with a long neck. Male or female, it did not matter… it was time to mingle.

Foreigner’s was his hot spot of choice among the many nightclubs and taverns that catered to people who lived their days—or their nights—by the rules of an “alternative” lifestyle. Species was not important… only a willingness, or better yet an eagerness, to explore new horizons.

The common lot waited in a line that went around the block. But for Roman’s kind the line was much shorter. Still, when the place was full, the place was full. The doorman took one step sideways to block off the entry. His broad shoulders and thick mane filled the doorway. His vaguely human face looked resolute high above the top jamb.

“What, I need to answer a riddle or something to get in? Cash isn’t good enough?”

“Okay, Roman, answer me this. How would you pack one more body in when the place is so full you can’t even wag your tail?”

Just then, one of the doorman’s cohorts burst through, shoving the giant sphinx aside as his own front paws batted a dazed and somewhat horrified patron around like a catnip ball, until with a final whap the victim flew in an arc across the alleyway and into the gutter.

“There! One body out, one body in…”

The doorman sidled back to fill the doorway, turned to the ejected patron, sniffed the air, and returned, “Sorry Roman. That one was entirely human. One human out, one humanin. We’ve got enough of your sort in here tonight.”

“How long?”

The feline shoulders shrugged, creaking against the wooden frame of the door.

“Maybe a couple minutes. Maybe a couple hours.”

Maybe not at all, Roman decided, and turned to find that night’s company elsewhere.

He had walked about a mile down Broadway when his nose twitched at the approach of the angular stranger. In almost every scent that passed him, he smelled a potential quarry. But not this one. This one smells…. Odd that, Roman could not quite make the scent. In fact, to say the man had a scent at all was completely inaccurate. He has a smell, to be sure! A mixture of plastics, oil, cold steel and… grape?

“EXCUSE ME… CITIZEN. I NEED… INPUT.”

“Reeaally?” Roman smiled a broad, razor-toothed grin, and for the first time the TM-42 could see that not everyone wore his peculiarities on the outside. Perhaps it was a natural characteristic of the indigenous humanoids to have long, pointy teeth.

“YES.
“WHAT OTHER LIFE FORMS EXIST IN THIS REGION?
“HOW BIG ARE YOUR CITIES?
“DO YOUR PEOPLE PRACTICE RELIGION?
“WHAT FORM OF GOVERNMENT RULES THIS REGION?
“HAVE YOU ANY DATA ON YOUR PEOPLE’S HISTORY?
“WHAT FORMS OF ENTERTAINMENT DO YOUR PEOPLE PURSUE?”

“Whoa! Hold up. I’m not a library!”

The TM-42 stared fixedly at Roman. “LIBRARY?”

“Yea. You want info, the library at U. Dub’s the place to get it.”

“YOU DUB?”

Roman gave the stranger a peculiar look. Even foreigners knew about the University! Then he thought, Hmm, it’s been a while since I’ve had food on campus.

“C’mon,” he said, his grin broadening even more. “I’ll take you there.”

* * *

A few blocks from Broadway, Roman hailed a slowly passing cab. It was an older model yellow clunker with a broad stripe of red and green plaid running down the carapace in which the words “Plaid Cab Co.” could be read in chipping block letters. As they approached, the TM-42 noted immediately that the vehicle, though not unlike the cabs of ancient Earth in design, was somewhat lacking in the wheel department. From the front and rear bumpers hung a row of tiny golden tassels, and as the door opened it became immediately evident that the transport was little more than the shell of an automobile mounted on top of a large, tattered rug. Roman entered without even the slightest hesitation, and so the TM-42 put aside his need to analyze this peculiar technology and followed in suit.

In a voice tinged with a native Gnomadic Indian accent, the stout cab driver asked, “How! Where to, Kemo Sabe?” The little man was barely three feet tall, standing at the wheel in the absence of a front bench, with just enough room between his head and the cab’s tall roof to accommodate his pointy red cap.

“UW,” Roman answered. “The Library.”

The TM-42 stared at the little man for some time, and then averted his gaze to Roman. “QUI NO SABE? ONE WHO KNOWS NOTHING?”

Roman chuckled. “No. Kemo Sabe. It’s just one of those gnomadic Indian terms. I think it means ‘pale white man’, or maybe…”

“SOGGY SHRUB?”

“Actually, Kemo Sabes, it mean ‘lucky wizard’ in the old tongue.*” [FOOTNOTE: Through the years, the accurate use of the “ancient tongue” of the gnomadic tribes of the Americas had severely degraded. It was believed that the phrase “Kemo Sabe” was once pronounced “Keno Sabat”.]

With a jerk the cab launched into a skyward motion, managing to ruffle the tassels of another carpet as it cut upward into traffic. Horns blared as the clunker slowly picked up speed in the middle of the fast elevation. Roman clutched at his seat. He hated flying by cab, preferring his own means of aerial transportation when the need rose. But the stranger was no vampire, and by the look of his angular design, Roman doubted that he was built with aerodynamics in mind. Leaning toward the TinMan as the cab reached its cruising speed, he whispered, “Why is it that every taxi driver in town has to be a damn conehead?”
Once his stomach had settled, Roman extended his hand and said, “By the way, my name is Cyril Pyotrovich Igor Lycanthrope Romannya Vlasenko. Most people call me Roman, though.”

The TinMan stared at him blankly.

“What? It’s an old family name, Grandma had it first.”

Still, the TM-42 continued to just stare at Roman and process this new information.

Ignoring his companion’s lack of sense of humor, Roman persevered. “And you are…?”

The TinMan blinked. “MY DESIGNATION IS TM-42.”

Roman gave the TinMan another sniff. Definitely something not human about this guy. Roman was not even sure if he was alive. “Are you some kind of golem? You smell like... science.”

GOLEM: 1) IN JEWISH LEGEND, AN ARTIFICIAL MAN, AN AUTOMATON, A ROBOT. 2) A BLOCKHEAD.

The TM-42 paused a moment, processing how this definition applied, then responded, “YES.”

* * *

At the UW Library, Larayne navigated a labyrinth of shelves crammed with dusty tomes. In her arms, she carried a stack of ancient scripts and scrolls piled high above her head. Her lively eyes peered around the precarious pile to scan the shelves as she passed. Wait. Did I just see…? Yes! Carefully she pulled another volume from the shelf and, without setting any books down, tucked it to the bottom of the stack. Enrapt by her find, Larayne returned to the table she had, more or less, designated for herself. She managed to make her way to the table she had already cluttered with books, notes and transcriptions before the stack in her arms toppled loudly, soliciting a Shh! from the satyrian librarian who stamped his hoof angrily at her.

Why is it the patrons must be quiet, but the books are allowed to hum?

Unlike most of the students at UW, Larayne Enspeighn Cryor wore a simple lavender-colored garment of natural fibers under her black robe with its deep hood*. [FOOTNOTE: She did, after all, live in the Seattle area, the land of liquid sunshine a.k.a. rain.] The other students preferred more elaborate costumes: white or black flowing robes or tightly wrapped leather over tunics, pointy hats with wide brims… all adorned with a variety of multi-colored sequins, blue moons, green clovers, red hearts, purple horseshoes, and other such sigils. As a Druid, Larayne did not carry a wand. Rather, she preferred to carry books.

Larayne was not an unsightly girl. She was of a heritage commonly referred to by the fair folk as a halfling—that is to say, half elf-half human. Her blood gave her the indelible, youthful air of the elves whose figures perpetually hinted more toward adolescence than the hundred-plus years they could age; and yet, she was clearly not an adolescent with the full rounding of adult womanhood she had inherited from her human half. Her ears were short, yet gently pointed; her eyes sparkled with the Granny Smith Apple-green hue of the elves, yet bore the shape and, regrettably, the lackluster visual acuity of a human. There was a natural softness and perfume to her walnut shell-brown hair, and an unruly curl that defied any hope of styling beyond what it wanted to do. She had a lightness of foot, akin to a walk as a whisper is to a scream, yet her human half gave her the grace of a blind three-legged giraffe, and she collided with walls and doorways so often that she could not remember which incident led to which bruise. She had such an elfin proficiency to be lost—even in plain sight—that at times, she even lost herself. Some would call her attractive. Others might call her awkward. Yet, in all, there was nothing about Larayne that set her apart from the others attending the University. What set her apart was that she chose to be apart.

To clear a spot to read her latest find, Larayne sifted through the stacks of musty tomes piled upon the table. Many focused on the academic subject of “Mathemagics”, and a volume of particular favor was Druidic Calculus, which she could open to any section instantly, no longer needing to consult index or table of contents. In fact, most of the tomes and scrolls focused on Druidism, the forgotten religion of the elves, because Larayne had a passion for the lost history of her mother’s people. Some were reference books such as Ancient and Forgotten Runes or The Druidic/English Americanian Heritage Dictionary; some, documentations of the obscure history of the elfin Druidic religion, most information she was already quite familiar with. A couple tomes, scarcely ever looked at, much less checked out, if their dried and cracked covers and spines were any indication, were written completely in the Runic language of the Druids. Since most Wizards or Wizarding Students could not read Druidic runes, the books had been filed in the “Ancient Languages” section, when Larayne knew they should have been filed in the basement among all the other dangerous spell books and grimoires. Others, still, were written as fable books, compilations of legend and myth surrounding the Druid religion and the elves that practiced it. This book, however, was a rare and potentially valuable find. Strangely, she had found it passing through the “Art” section of the Library. Its title was Druidic Rubbings from Around the World. Within its glossy pages, she stared with wonder at the photographed rubbings of long abandoned Druidic monuments. Most people would consider these mere art. On each rubbing, pictograms and runes combined to paint picture after picture of lost Druidic rites and practices. Some she read like a manual, though not always with complete comfort with the rites of old that had been practiced in the religion of her choosing. The Druids were not without their history of bloodshed. Sacrifices to the moon and the sun had been common, and not all had been mere animal sacrifices. Of one such sacrifice, she absorbed from a rubbing done in Arizonia a story she had never before seen or heard in the detail of its original writing.

It was, she knew at a glance, the story of the sun god and his Lifespring. She preferred to practice the Druidic rituals that bound them to nature. Their outdated faith in the sun and moon as deities were, to her and the few who still studied and practiced Druidism, still myth—books written for the bible of her faith that, while interesting and no doubt had a core element of truth, never rang with enough truth to make it into the bible’s pages.

Let all who bear witness to the truth follow its course. For the god of the sun has shown himself a god of mercy, not of death. With prayers for his blessings over the virgin sacrifice, under the full light of his sister moon, Night was turned to Day, and from the shining waters of the Lifespring, the sun manifest itself in mortal form.

A pictogram illustrated a giant of a man whose body radiated the light of the sun. Around him, elfin worshipers cowered at his feet. Above his head, like a halo, had been inscribed the mysterious symbol of the sun god. A mathemagician, Larayne described this symbol to herself as an open circle at the bottom with a tangent line at the top that has an orthogonal line coming down through the center point to bisect the circle. It had been used primarily in the later years of the druidic religion during the elfin persecution by the drow in which not only her people, but her religion had been hunted nearly to extinction. Thank the potato, she thought, amused at her mental reference to a religion she gave little credence to, that the drow became a more civilized before they killed every last one of us. She sighed in reflection. The drow still hated the elves, and would kill one on sight given the upper hand and a lack of witnesses. Realistically, the drow had not evolved; only the rules of the society they had to live in.

Larayne read on...

He bore no wrath upon his children for their sacrifice, but with his wand of silver restored life to she who had been slain in his name.

Blessed by the god of the sun, she was called prophet by those who saw the light of the sun, false prophet by the Drow…

Larayne paused and corrected herself. The rune for “drow”—a dark-elf of evil and corruption—and for “Priest” were, oddly enough, one and the same.

...by the priests who demanded blood to wash away the temptations of a false god. Through the Prophet’s teachings, the Druids found their path of light, rejecting the dark path of their priests. In the name of sacrilege, one and all, they were hunted by those loyal to the…

A chill ran up Larayne’s spine as she realized why the symbols were one and the same. The pictogram complimenting the runes showed elf killing elf. The ground before the dark elves’ feet was layered with stick-figure bodies.

… they were hunted by those loyal to the drow. But the seed of truth and light had been born and spread to all the Druidic Nations, and in its light, the way of the Druid has been freed from the darkness of its drow.

Her translation of the dead language was rough, but adequate to reveal that here she read a written account of how the Light Elves and the Dark Elves were separated. The stories her mother had told her recounted many of the fundamentals of this account. The drow were once elves of power, and were ultimately corrupted by that power. They sought to lead all elves down a path of bloodshed and greed, but the Light Elves—the Druids—rebelled. Larayne could only guess that, in time, the “path of light” eventually became known as the true Druidic faith, while the priests of the old faith—the drow—were left stripped of all their power, and swore vengeance against all who followed the new Druidic order. So began the war of the elves… and over the centuries, those who craved blood have slowly decimated the elves of light to a scant few, and ultimately succeeded in turning the faith of the Druids into a thing of legend and all but forgotten myth.

For the moment, her world had been absorbed by the runic writings of her literary find, when the minute ping from her watch summoned her back to reality. The sands of time had just flowed past midnight. It was a four dimensional watch… but then, all watches are.

Poot! Time really flies, she thought, slamming the cover shut and gathering her notes. Have to catch the last bus home. Guess I’ll have to check this one out.

Only she would pick a hobby of studying the use of druidic monolith circles as gateways between “parallel” alternate worlds. For the past fourteen hours, she had milked the library for everything it was worth. Now, it was time to go home.

Home was, to Larayne, some thirty miles south, as the carpet flies. Tacoma did not quite offer the range of cultural diversity as Seattle, nor did its two major colleges offer her a spit of literature relevant to her studies. Pacific Lycopersicon University was a religious college; its library’s shelves well stocked with books on ancient Druidic theology as it pertained to potatoes*, [FOOTNOTE: The Lycopersicon, or Potato, religion began after the rescue of a wizzard who had been living on a deserted island for many years. During his exile, the potato had become so important as a means of survival that he came to recognize the starch as a deity. History records that he called his island of exile “Ireland”, meaning, “Land that made me Mad.”] and the University of Practical Sciences was a tradesman’s college, for the student devoid of magical proficiency. But she needed hard, mathematical facts and practical magical theories.

For a wizardry degree, one had to attend…

* * *

“The University of Wizardry. That will be six fifty-five, Kemo Sabes.”

Roman paid the cabby and stepped out, grateful to take in a breath of air that did not possess that cab smell of pine tree scent, incense, and feet. Big feet were a trait inherent in the gnomadic bloodline, as was the tradition of never wearing shoes*. [FOOTNOTE: Roman wasn’t prejudiced, he just possessed a keen sense of smell.]

Following Roman’s lead, the TM-42 stepped out and took in the sculpted landscape of the university. Since his arrival, his diagnostics programming had been working overtime in the vast section labeled “mythology.” Having seen a unicorn fifty-one years ago, the TM-42’s software creator fortunately had the foresight to include mythological references in the –42’s vast database. It had not been assumed from that one sighting that every creature encountered in this world could be labeled from that database… it was never intended to be used so extensively. But since his arrival, the TinMan had now successfully identified references to wizards, gnomes, flying carpets, and griffons. A positive I.D. on Roman was still pending, but the TinMan was sure at this point he was, at least, not completely human.

At a determined, almost hungry stride, Roman led the way to the library stairs. Libraries throughout the multiverse are designed with one of two thoughts of architecture in mind. They either resemble a modern temple to a modest god from the suburbs of Olympus, or a cathedral from one of the lighter years of the dark ages. The University library was of the later design. Its two-story walls rose from a grade-elevated foundation; four walls of shaped glass that, if colored, would have identified the building as a church. Between each column of glass rose a partition of ornate granite, each crowned with a suspiciously life-like gargoyle.

At the midnight hour of their arrival, the grounds were sparsely populated with young men and women… and others… wearing dark robes and hurrying on their way. At the scent of a passing co-ed, Roman turned, his tongue flicking off the tip of one exposed incisor. At that moment, the large, oaken library door flew open, sweeping the vampire off his feet and pinning him against the concrete wall with an audible “Whoof!”

Larayne charged out of the doorway and stopped, startled to encounter a tall, blockish, yellow-hued man. She stared at the strange man for a moment as Roman extricated himself from behind the door, then followed the TM-42’s gaze just in time to watch as the black-clad youth collapsed at her feet.

“Are you okay?” Larayne asked with genuine concern.

“No,” groaned Roman, and then knowing an opportunity when it came, added, “but I could be with your help.”

Disheveled, Larayne bent down, wrapped her arms around Roman’s chest and lifted. He was surprisingly light, almost weightless. As she set him back on his feet, she noticed, first, his clothing. Like her own, it was not the typical wizard’s wear. Under a black overcoat, he wore a skin-tight shirt collared just low enough to reveal a handsome clavicle. Barely visible was a set of studded suspenders holding up loose, dark purple cargo pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots strapped from cuff to ankle with a column of stainless steel buckles. Her eyes traveled back up, pausing a moment at the exposed navel, then continued, landing finally at his gaze.

“The library is through that door, TM,” Roman dismissed the golem, while never dismissing Larayne from his captivating glare. Then as the TinMan left their company, keeping their eyes locked, Roman bowed slightly at the hips. “I am called Roman, my dear.” He took Larayne’s hand in his own, and brushed her knuckles with his uncommonly red lips.

Skepticism suddenly flashed in her eyes. “So, Roman, been a vampire long?”

Roman’s eyes flustered with surprise. “Errr…”

“Pointed teeth aside, what sort of man kisses a woman’s hand nowadays?”

“Errr…”

Noticing the hurt look filling Roman’s eyes, she consoled, “And I am a Druid. We notice these kinds of things.” Remembering herself, Larayne glanced at her watch. Oh poot, I’ve missed my bus! The last bus back to Tacoma for six more hours. Oh, well, nothing for it. Sighing her resignation, she gripped his hand in turn and gave it a vigorous shake. “Hi, I’m Larayne. Want to go somewhere for a bite?” She blushed. “Um, oh poot! I mean… uh… sorry.”

“It’s okay. Slips of the tongue are common when I’m around,” and as much as a vampire can, Roman blushed as well Larayne.

* * *

On the steps of the library, the druid and vampire spent most of the night in rapt conversation.* [FOOTNOTE: Although Larayne did fluster a bit after she managed in her typical, graceless style to trip on the top step… going down.] Actually, Larayne did most of the talking, and Roman noted that the train of her thoughts was constantly jumping track or being hijacked. Roman just allowed himself to be entertained. His stomach growled but he no longer cared. Some things were worth missing a meal, and he had not met a mind this weird, yet strangely intriguing in an addictive sort of way, since he was a pup.

“… I just couldn’t believe the fashions for the fall lineup this year. Torn flannel robes and velvet pointy shoes! And the color schemes… augh! What’s wrong with a simple homespun? I’ll be happy when the scunge look is over… and as everyone knows an elephant’s eyelashes are four inches long. So I ask the professor of alchemy, ‘How do you fit a four inch eyelash into a three inch beaker… and then once, when I was on a FDA fieldtrip in high school—that’s the Future Druids of America, you know—Anyway, my friend Gertrude and I were climbing the ancient tower in Astoria in order to perform some complex mathematical computations based on the positioning of the evening sun in relation to the river when…”

“The sun!” Time had gotten away from him. The gray of early dawn was on the horizon. Only then did Roman remember the TM-42. “My friend. I should really see to him.”

“I had meant to ask you about him. What exactly was is he?”

“A golem… I think. I always thought they were made of clay, but he smells… like something else.” Roman stood and helped Larayne to her feet. She stretched, but Roman had no need, as vampires do not get stiff joints. Then, leading her into the library, he continued, “He started asking me all kinds of weird questions. Said he was looking for input.”

“And you brought him here?”

“A library seemed the best…”

“But this is a magical library!” She saw his blank expression. “With magical books!” Still blank. “The kind that explode and turn you into interesting wallpaper if you don’t know how to handle them!”

Recognition finally hit his face like a fifty-pound sledge between the eyes. “Oh.” His walk hastened into a run.

* * *

The TM-42 remembered reading a book about ancient history. He could recall following its reference catalogue to a book on occult zoology, which he eventually found in the basement stacks. He logically proceeded to a book on religion, then wizardry, then magic...

Then his world exploded.

SYSTEM REBOOT
LOAD”AUDITORY”,8,1… LOADING… READY: RUN… ONLINE.

A woman’s voice filled his ears. She was singing… no, chanting.

LOAD”VISUAL”,8,1. LOADING… READY: RUN… SYNTAX ERROR. PRESS PLAY ON TAPE… LOAD”VISUAL”,8,1. LOADING… READY: SYS64738… ONLINE.

Above him was a nondescript ceiling sporting yellowed fluorescent lighting.

LOAD”ROBOTICS”,8,1… LOADING… READY: RUN… ONLINE.

The TinMan sat bolt upright and looked around.

LOAD"SPEECHCENTER",8,1… LOADING… READY: RUN… ONLINE.
LIST PRIME DIRECTIVES:
DIRECTIVE 1:/> PROTECT HUMAN LIFE
DIRECTIVE 2:/> NEVER INTERFERE WITH NATURAL SOCIOLOGICAL PROGRESSION.

“Who? What? When? Where?”

“Oh, he’s awake,” a familiar voice said over the rushing of a pair of feet down the basement stairway. Turning his head slightly brought the form of Roman—just having come from the upstairs and bearing a glass of fresh water—in his optical parameters. “Add a ‘how’ and a ‘why’ and you’ll have a full set! Um, I don’t know if golems drink, but I, uh, brought you some water.”

“Thank you, no.”

They were still in the library, in the basement stacks to be exact. However, now everything looked different to the TinMan. He did not just see books, he saw dusty, old books. It was no longer color number 5, it was purple. It was not just a human female standing over him; it was a pretty female human.

That side of him that still thought in ones and zeroes scanned his SmartRAM for a system diagnostics. The flash of light, the last thing he remembered, was diagnosed as a power spike.

THAT WOULD EXPLAIN THE SHUTDOWN, he thought. But after the spike, the SmartRAM registered a power drain. It was as if ever circuit, every power cell, and every diode had taken the jolt and was left drained.

Roman reached down, offering his hand. The TinMan accepted it, both oblivious to the fact that he weighed 500 pounds… and the fact that Roman lifted him without even a grunt of exertion. “We thought you were dead… or whatever you call it when a golem stops working. Fortunately, Larayne here had a healing spell handy.”

Larayne blushed in embarrassment. She had honestly doubted that the chant would work. She did not have the right crystals or herbs to do it properly, and even if she had, it was never intended for… whatever this stranger was.

For the first time in his short existence, the TM-42 felt gratitude, relief, the residue of fear… the TinMan felt. His diagnostics program still running, an update on his current status reported all hardware and software functioning at optimal performance. As a product of the Macrosoft Corporation, optimal performance was an unheard of condition, and he wondered with bemusement if his optics would ever again flash blue with the words:
SYSTEM ERROR. PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE. PRESS CONTROL-ALT-DELETE TO REBOOT.

The blue screen would certainly not be missed.
Then, among the OPTIMAL readings, one ERROR was found. Though his power cells were charged to full capacity, his system seemed incapable of identifying the nature of the power on which he was running.

As a robot, he would have spent days, perhaps even months, analyzing this new power, and in the end found nothing. Now, he found he was capable of irrational thinking, of guessing, of concluding on a theory rather than a solution. “It is the magic,” he said aloud.

“Sorry?”

The TinMan grabbed Larayne by the arm and pulled her close. Seeing her wincing expression, he had to ease his grip, regretting that he had likely left a bruise on the poor girl’s soft skin. That would be a problem, he realized. One tended to forget they could crush golf balls when their actions were guided by emotion. “You…” he said, staring at her wildly, “… you performed a spell on me?”

“An elfin healing spell. Yes. It’s all I could think to do!”

“What’s the matter, TM? You’re talking funny… or not.”

“Something is… different.” What was the matter? According to his diagnostics, nothing. “Not wrong… just… different.”

“Larayne, you want to see if maybe he needs some air? I’d take him myself… but with dawn minutes away, it looks like I’ll be spending the day in the library basement.”

“Don’t you need a coffin?” Larayne asked.

Roman shrugged. “A rafter will do for just one day.”
Nodding, Larayne began to guide the TinMan toward the exit, then paused, glanced back, and asked, “Do you need some newspaper or anything?”

“I should be too busy sleeping to get any reading done.”

“No. Not for reading. It’s just… some of these books are really old. We don’t have to worry about… you know… ahem… guano stains, do we?”

Roman flustered, then regained his composure with a toothy smile. “You forget, Larayne… I skipped dinner last night.”

With a puff of smoke, the well-etched figure of Roman had transformed into a three-inch ball of fur and ears with a nine-inch wingspan. A couple seemingly mad dashes from one end of the library to the other—the kind that inspire humans to put their hands over their heads to avoid an unwanted entanglement—and he found his resting spot in the darkest corner in sight. Larayne smiled in amusement, took the TinMan by the arm, and guided him up the basement stairs.