Shit… what I wanted was quite unique. Nobody, nobody thought of the needs of talented dark magicians, who had to work at the top of their bent! But the merchant already had his eyes fixed on the ceiling, digging hard into his memory; he seemed to be honored to satisfy the exotic request of his customer.
“Come on!” he started up suddenly. “You must see it.”
We left the garage, watched by his staff.
“I think an ethanol engine won’t work for you; it’s difficult to find dry alcohol briquettes in the countryside, and diluted spirit will stall the engine every other kilometer…”
I remembered my own experience with the moped and wholeheartedly agreed with him.
“So, we’re looking for something that works on oil,” he summarized. “Diesels are more complex in operation, but you have some experience, I believe…”
The salesman artfully taxied around the complex in a yellow two-seater car, simultaneously introducing me to the particulars of the automotive industry: “A couple years ago, Domgari Motors promoted cars with diesel engines, but their vehicles did not do welclass="underline" except for the military, nobody showed any interest in them. Noisy and expensive to maintain, they were difficult to ignite in the cold weather and had really large dimensions. In short, the design was stalled. But the company managed to produce some prototypes…”
A hunting excitement awoke in me. Could it really be true that there was something in this world that could serve me and only me?
We drove into the suburbs, an area of warehouses and workshops.
“That’s it! Our surplus stock.”
Five vehicles were tightly stuffed in a dusty barn: small trucks, limousines with abnormally elongated hoods, and even a mini-bus.
“What’s the catch? Why did nobody buy them?”
“I’ll start them up, and you’ll understand,” he went to search for fuel oil.
I stayed to inspect the collection. All the cars were a bit too big compared to their usual counterparts, and at least three of them had a rather high clearance to fit the definition of an off-road vehicle. Oil was cheaper and more widespread than alcohol; consequently, there would be fewer problems filling up the gas tank. I noticed in one corner a smaller vehicle covered with a dusty tarp. The thing smelled strongly of dark magic.
“Oh, that!” the salesman approached me unnoticed. “A perfect beast. See for yourself.”
I pulled off the tarp. There was a motorcycle under it, so hefty that I dropped my jaw.
“A pitiful dead-end design,” the guy shook his head in sincere sorrow. “It’s not just the size. The engine is operated by dark magic; a single failure, and it would be cheaper to throw it away than to fix it. You know how expensive dark mages’ services are!”
I knew, because I provided those services myself.
“May I test-drive it?”
The salesman smiled: “Go ahead!”
The unit had been conserved skillfully; one could just wipe the dust off and fill the tank to drive it. Dark magic that gave the engine a kind of pseudo-life ate half of the oil in the tank at once and contentedly rumbled. My God, it was a mechanical zombie!
“Don’t go to town,” the guy asked.
I nodded and pulled the starter. The engine didn’t clatter, it roared. The motorcycle vibrated impatiently, almost jumping under my hand. I grinned, then turned on the gas and rolled out of the hangar.
The effect was stunning! Quietly talking salespeople turned their heads toward me in shock, sleepy technicians dropped their tools, and drivers of heavy trucks frantically clanged to the steering wheels, preparing to tame their raging beasts.
I toured around the hangar, creating terrified screams and unhealthy excitement.
This monster was capable of killing a white mage by its mere appearance—all the more so by the sound of it. Therefore, I could not ride it around the town; the last thing I needed would be fines for violation of road safety regulations. I would have to rent a garage somewhere on the outskirts of town to keep that monster… because I had made my choice.
The salesman welcomed my return with a mixture of irritation and excitement on his face.
“Hey, man! How much does it cost?” I shouted, bellowing over the roar of the engine.
“Four thousand!” he shouted in reply. “But you could buy it with a two-year installment plan!”
“I’ll take it!”
That was how I became the owner of the most monstrous vehicle in the whole Ingernika.
The motorcycle became the breath of air, the fresh stream that allowed me to get out of the stupor caused by the Empowerment; the vehicle merged my old and current lives—the awakened Power and the acquired freedom. I think I was the last student in our group to recover. Seeing me brisk and angry, Mr. Rakshat sighed with relief and began drilling us with renewed energy—there should be no dropouts in our group anymore.
My monstrous machine (prudently dyed black by the manufacturer) settled in a shed at a junkyard (the yardman owed me). The convenience was many-sided: first, no one could see it; second, no one could hear it; and finally, it was cheap. The junkyard dwellers would not dare steal from a dark magician, even under the death penalty; they were very superstitious people. So it all worked out splendidly, except for the yard’s stench. The roar of the rumbling engine didn’t let me fully enjoy my night rides—anybody could track my routes just by the sound. It did not help to keep the secrecy of my trips (remember, remember NZAMIPS!). Since buying another vehicle was out of the question, I had to modify the vehicle. I was an alchemist, after all! Though, my gut feeling was telling me that alchemy alone wouldn’t be enough.
The motorcycle was an advanced model that used a spell to operate the engine: it was a brilliant solution that relieved the owner of problems with the ignition and idling. The design fell short of perfect just a little bit. The solution came to me on the way to Redstone from a client’s: it was getting dark, but the headlight refused to light up—the spell that controlled the engine decided to ignore the dynamo-machine. The spell just disliked the dynamo! The engine heated up like a stove, but it could not incandesce one little steel hair in the bulb—the spell was rejecting intermediates, the wires and coils. The problem was fundamentaclass="underline" the dark spell was not an alchemical structure, created by a sorcerer once and for all; the spell existed as an equilibrium of flows, in constant movement, pseudo-alive. The engine was like an organism with its own rhythm, but it perceived the dynamo as an alien structure with a wholly different logic of being; the stronger body cast off the foreign one. They had to be designed as two separate modules, independent of each other, but coming in contact through a simple material buffer. Thinking about the design of the lighting block, I inevitably came to the issue of energy source. And then it hit me: aalternating current!
I made the alchemical parts of the new design in the workshop myself. As for the magic components, I hesitated for a while, but didn’t dare draw a pentagram in the garage. I asked Mr. Rakshat for a spot in the lab. The instructor was clearly impressed by the extent of my responsibility; he gave me the place and even advised periodically.
“I do not know why you need this amulet,” he hinted pointedly.
“Oh,” I brightened up, “it would be a revolution in the mufflers!” Let him suffer from curiosity.
I called Quarters to come and appreciate my exceptional skill and unique talent. By that time the device had already been installed and field tested twice—riding the motorcycle felt much more comfortable now.
Quarters respectfully looked around my machine.
“Cool bike! Does it run fast?”
I brushed him aside: “You’ve got that wrong. Look at this. Better - listen!”