I did not want to know what that meant!
In less than an hour I had become a NZAMIPS freelancer with the nickname “Dark Knight”, and Captain Baer, with a deep sense of satisfaction, glued my photo to the folder of the illegal combat magician. Had I been sentenced, I would have served three lifetimes or had two death penalties. I didn’t feel or observe the magic giving me shivers anymore. A very familiar looking lady earnestly congratulated me on a decent start of my career and tried to get details of the triple murder. She wondered whether I felt a little lonely. I dully replied, pondering what had been the turning point at which my fate took such a steep curve. Did it all start with Bella from BioKin? Or with Uncle’s book? Or with the record of the first crystal? Or maybe from the moment I was born?
How the hell could I become one of NZAMIPS people?!
Part 5. DEVIL’S DISCIPLE
Chapter 25
Snowflakes danced slowly outside: flew to the window, sparkled shortly, and hid in the darkness. I tried to project for a second, to save their flight in my mind, but failed time after time.
“Tangor!”
Yes, yes, I was there. Where could I go now? What madness made me believe the speech of the dark magician and sign the damn contract? It must have been the trauma inflicted by Rustle, and the monster will answer for that! For about a month, I was in blissful ignorance of the trouble that I had gotten myself into—exactly until the moment I finished taking the course of the inhibitors. And then Mr. Satal called me, ordered to take Max out of the “quarantine” vivarium, and explained the content of the contract again.
For example, one of its points was about “training, free of charge”, meaning that in order to withdraw from the course, I would have to pay a lot.
“Tangor, why are you slacking?!”
I had made a mistake: I would rather have gone to jail; they would have treated me with the course of inhibitors anyway. They didn’t have a choice. In the end, to help victims of the supernatural was their duty! And now I was under the contract for five years and, quite likely, I would have to sign it again. Dark magicians always have to work pro bono for the public good. In the sense that society always thinks the dark owe it something.
I could have tried sabotage, but something was telling me that would make things worse.
“I’ve already finished, sir.”
“You will be done when you report on the execution of the job!”
“Sir, I’m done.”
“Good.”
When Satal swears, it’s normal; the foul language in his performance doesn’t need to be taken seriously. When Satal becomes really dangerous, he begins to express himself in exquisitely literary language, with the hard-to-pronounce accent of a noble gentleman that treads his enemy into the dirt with his white gloves on. I had a vague suspicion that because of his high position, the coordinator pinched his dark nature too tightly before strangers, and his thirst for informal communication poured out on me. A sort of manifestation of his trust. What was I supposed to do? I just started taking responsibility for my white family and then turned again to the position of a disciple. Satal perceived my apprenticeship in the most archaic sense of that word (when apprentices endured beatings and washed their master’s socks).
I wondered whether killing the senior coordinator would aggravate my punishment. Even if it would, I didn’t care. The only problem was that I didn’t have confidence in the success of my attempt—that bastard was too good in combat. I decided to act like a genuine assassin—hide my intentions until I could accumulate sufficient power and skills.
“Not bad,” Satal noticed casually, examining my scheme (I spent over two hours on it!). We had not started practical training yet, because, in his opinion, I had to “polish my knowledge of theory”.
“That’s all for today. Dismissed!”
“Excuse me, sir,” I had to be polite, “Christmas holidays are coming. I would like to leave Redstone for two weeks—is this possible?”
He frowned: “Why?”
“I promised my brother that we’d spend winter holidays together. My brother is white.”
That was an important comment: all children would be upset when they are promised something and the promises don’t come true, but a little white would take it hard.
“I got it. Apply in writing!”
In writing?! Wasn’t I a “freelancer”?! What would happen next, then? Likely, he would start sending me on assignments!
I needed to learn how to make undetectable poisons.
“Goodbye, sir,” I was able to leave the room, keeping myself icy calm. I learned how to hide my feelings well!
The empath met me in the hallway, smiling. They must work in tandem.
“Hi, Thomas! How are you doing?”
“All is wonderful, Ms. Kevinahari. I have made great progress!”
For example, I managed to lie while looking straight into the eyes of an empath.
“Yes, dear,” she confirmed. “But if your smile is sincere, the outer corners of your eyes should go slightly down!”
I needed to learn the art of poisons and try it out on her.
The second, “authoritative” floor was quiet and dark. By the end of my classes, most of the staff in the police headquarters was gone; only officers of the night remained along with workaholics that were ready to sit until midnight. That bastard senior coordinator ordered the freelancer to work at least two days a month—that is, whole sixteen hours. Satal was not going to spend his weekends on me. I wouldn’t get credit for my work for him, so I went to NZAMIPS on my more or less free weekday, Wednesday, and worked for four hours until my brains refused to accept any more information.
He should not treat another dark like that!
In return, Satal covered up the killings I had committed and the zombie I created, as well as my vast illegal practice of magic. From the point of view of justice, I was a persistent repeat offender, unworthy of mercy. The coordinator did not know about the rewritten memory crystal yet; collusion between a magician and a representative of the supervisory bodies was regarded as a very serious offense. And there was yet a whole six months until graduation…
The only thing that I stopped worrying about was my acquaintance with Rustle. Long ago, the clever otherworldly wight had found a way to interest itself in the most dangerous of its opponents, the dark magicians. The one who overcame the monster and didn’t lose his mind would get a benefit: knowledge. Given that Rustle’s age was at least ten thousand years, and its infernal body was present everywhere in the world, the prospects this situation opened up for me were exciting. Unfortunately, the statistics of the survivors was approximately one to forty-three: the majority became insane in the first one and a half or two years. No wonder, taking into account how the monster mocked me. The only way to avoid the increase in the number of senseless victims was to hide that interesting benefit of Rustle from the curious mages, and NZAMIPS was doing exactly that via rigid censorship.
In my opinion, the benefit of the long-lived monster was questionable. First, Rustle was illiterate, which meant it wasn’t able to recognize words, letters, and symbols, unless it had dealt with the subject in some way. I could read Uncle’s book, because the monster ate a few people who had read it before and was now capable of precisely reproducing the sensations associated with each word. Second, that freak of nature had no idea what the calendar meant and what the date and time were today or in the past. There was no way to get any details from the monster. Responding to a question, Rustle used to dump a pile of random associations on the inquirer, the validity of which was almost impossible to check, and the monster wanted some interest for its work. I wasn’t going to risk my sanity for such nonsense as some doubtful information from Rustle, and I immediately announced that to all interested persons.