Now, while someone loving your stuff so much they can't wait for you to write another book is certainly flattering, I believe that fanfic is the road to perdition as far as we non-corporate entities are concerned. All I can say is that Roddenberry really opened a can of worms. A lot of writers who don't have the legal and financial resources of a Paramount or Universal Studios or a Lucasfilms behind them now find they have to keep a weather eye on the Internet.
Intellectual property upkeep can be a real bitch.
SW:
Finally, what are your long-range plans for Sonja Blue?
NC:
After I complete Darkest Heart, my long-range plans for Sonja do not include another novel. If I continue her adventures, it will be in novella or short story form only. A new Sunglasses After Dark t-shirt recently came out from Fashion Victim, and as for possible television & film development—by the time this book goes to print, I will have signed an option agreement with Palomar Pictures regarding the development of Sonja Blue for film and television. But I've learned never to hold my breath when it comes to Hollywood. You only end up blue in the face.
Knifepoint
Author's Note: This story precedes the events chronicled in
Sunglasses After Dark
and does not, technically, feature Sonja Blue. However, it does involve Erich Ghilardi, the occult expert who would later go on to tutor Sonja in the fine art of vampire-slaying. This is the story of how he acquired the silver knife that would one day become the switchblade she now carries.
The men were so different from one another the only thing they had in common was the color of their skin. The older of the two was ginger-haired, with bristling facial ornament, and skin burned red as a beet from half a lifetime spent under the blazing tropic sun. He walked with a stoop, as if shouldering a great burden, and was dressed in a suit of rumpled seersucker. The younger of the pair was tall and slender, dressed in primly starched bleached linens; his hair neatly oiled and parted down the middle of his skull, as if laid down with a ruler. A pencil-thin mustache graced his upper lip, which helped him appear slightly more than his one-and-twenty years.
The mismatched duo, the elder in the lead, made their way through the crowded bazaar, the younger of the two occasionally casting worried glances at the throng of native peasants who had gathered to buy and sell their wares.
The stoop-shouldered man led them down a winding side street that opened onto the bazaar, stopping before a house with a black lacquer door, above which hung a sign that read in Hindi, Sanskrit, English & Chinese: "The Gate of Seven Dreams."
The stooped man's companion roughly grabbed his arm, drawing him back from the threshold. When the young man spoke, it was with a Swiss accent. "Multoon! You did not tell me your contact was a fiend!"
The stoop-shouldered man in the seersucker suit turned and fixed the younger one with a blood-shot eye. "Fiend? I wudn't say that. But ole Naga
does
have a fondness for the poipe. But you needn't fear for yer reputation, young sorr. This here is a proper den, not
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chandu-khanas,
where wogs and chinee are stacked like so much cord-wood."
The black lacquer door opened into a long corridor, and the younger man raised a handkerchief to his nose to mask the smell of unwashed human bodies mixed with the sickly sweet stink of opium that rolled across the threshold. He hesitated for a moment, and then followed his companion inside the Gate of Seven Dreams. The corridor turned, then turned again before opening onto a virtual labyrinth of small, dark, interconnected rooms, lighted only by amber-glass lamps. The walls of the rooms were lined with multi-tiered wooden platforms resembling the sleeping berths in a Pullman car, save that they lacked bedding of any kind. Each bunk was occupied by men who lay as motionless as stone, their glazed eyes fixed on some unknowable point.
Multoon ignored the pipe-dreamers, motioning for his companion to follow him up a flight of stairs situated at the very back of the den. The upstairs of the Gate Of Seven Dreams was reserved for wealthier patrons, as it was one big room, with mats spread about the floor for the comfort of the clientele, along with bolsters covered in cheap cloth for them to rest their heads. At the top of the stairs sat an old Chinese man behind a low table, atop which sat a large clay pot in which a dozen or more opium pipes were arranged like dried flowers.
Although most of those sprawled about on the mats were of higher caste than those in the cramped bunks below the stairs, there was little to tell one breed of smoker from the other. All lay on their sides, their eyes lidded, but not quite shut, as they chased the dragon whose smoke had enslaved them.
"We are lookin' for Naga," Multoon said to the pipe seller.
The old man pointed to the far corner of the room, where the shadows lay the heaviest, but said nothing.
The man Erich Ghilardi had traveled all the way from Bombay to see sat on his meagre matt in the lotus position, dressed in what looked to be the robes of a Buddhist monk, save that they were black instead of the saffron Ghilardi was accustomed to seeing. The man Multoon called Naga was clean-shaven, with a hairless pate that shone like a peeled onion in the dim light of the Seven Dreams. The darkness of his eyes and the tilt of his cheekbones suggested to Ghilardi one of the hill tribes of the lower Himalayans, yet there was something about his appearance that defied classification. Perhaps it was the vaguely greenish tint to the monk's skin, although that could very well be explained by his taste in smoking material.
"Hello, Naga. 'Tis Multoon. You remember me, don't ye?"
Naga stared up at the Irishman for a long moment, then nodded slightly.
"This here young gentleman is Mister Erich Ghilardi. Do you mind if we join ye?"
Naga motioned languidly with one hand for them to seat themselves on a nearby pallet.
"Bhoy!" Multoon called out to the old man behind the table. "Two poipes and a lay-out!"
The old man scurried forward, bringing with him a pair of pipes and a lay-out consisting of two
yen hocks,
a little glass lamp, a wet sponge in a china dish, a small tin dish, and a clamshell of black, tarry opium. When the items were placed before Ghilardi, he grimaced in distaste.
"I don't...indulge."
"Tis better to do as the Romans, as the saying is, young sorr," Multoon stage-whispered.
"Now, if ye could be so kind as to settle with ole Hip Sung here..."
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) Ghilardi frowned but said nothing as he reached inside his wallet and handed the old man a five-pound note. Naga's glazed eyes suddenly glittered with interest at the sight of fresh opium. Multoon saw the change in the monk's demeanor and smiled. "Consider this a gift—a sign of our friendship."
"White men bearing gifts have brought this land nothing but trouble," Naga said in surprisingly good English.
"And what is th' world outside to ye?" Multoon replied. "It is less than a dream, little more than a shadow."
Ghilardi was unable to contain himself any longer. "It is true?" he blurted. "You know of the Black Shrine?"
Naga slowly turned his head in Ghilardi's direction. "I not only know of the Black Shrine, I have been there." Anticipating the young man's eagerness, the monk held up a languid hand. "First we smoke, then you may ask me questions."
Naga took up his own
yen hock,
which resembled a knitting needle flattened at one end that gradually receded to a point on the other, and grasped it between his thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand. He then dipped the point of the
yen hock
into the opium like a poet wetting his quill in an inkwell, removing a small bead of the black, tarry substance.
Naga held the drop of opium over the flame of the lamp until it swelled to the size of a chestnut. He carefully struck the opium against the globe of the lamp, causing a tiny burst of confined steam to escape, shriveling the ball like a raisin. After a minute or two of exposure to the lamp-flame, the opium's consistency became that of sealing wax.
Naga gripped his pipe in his left hand, warming its bowl over the lamp, and rolled the opium over the face of the bowl until it was shaped into a cone, its apex that of
the yen
hock's
point. Once the cone was rendered soft, he pushed the
yen hock
into the small hole of the bowl, flattening the tip of the opium until it became a cylinder. He then heated the hole of the bowl and pushed the needle into its hole, melting the opium. Naga then twisted the
yen bock
out of the bowl, leaving a small hole through the opium to the opening. He then leaned forward and held the bowl of the pipe over the lamp, so that the pill of opium was directly above the flame. The amount of time from the dipping of the
yen hock
to the taking of the opium smoke into his lungs was exactly a minute.
Naga held the heady smoke in his lungs for a long moment, and then exhaled it from his nostrils. Ghilardi started at the sight of what appeared to be a second pair of nictating eyelids sliding across the monk's coal-black orbs. Ghilardi glanced at Multoon, to see if his companion had noticed, but the Irishman was preoccupied with fixing his own pill of opium. When he looked back at Naga, the monk's eyes once more appeared normal. No doubt he could chalk up the slip in reality to the thick haze of opium smoke that filled the room.
"You say you have been to the Black Shrine..." Ghilardi prompted.
Naga nodded his head as if it was about to roll off his shoulders. "I was born within its walls. For years it was the only world I knew. You see, I was not always as you see me now." He smiled at Ghilardi with the weary good humor of a man without hope. "Before the smoke claimed me, I was a high priest of the Order of the Holy Monster—the secret brotherhood that erected the Black Shrine and has served as temple keepers and guardians since the Time of Pretending..."
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) Ghilardi frowned. "Holy Monster? I thought the Black Shrine was dedicated to Kali the Destroyer."
Naga removed the pipe from his mouth long enough to spit in disgust. "Some dare to call us heretics, but the truth is that all religions are but shadows cast upon the wall. The ignorant may call her Kali, but those versed in the history of the Real World know her as the Holy Monster."
Ghilardi leaned forward, his eyes now gleaming as brightly as those of any opium addict.
"Be that as it may, but what of the Demon Knife? Does it truly exist?"
Naga nodded sagely as he prepared another hit for his pipe. "The Demon Knife is
very
real, I assure you. But what is your interest in such things?"
"I am a collector of occult artifacts and other such arcane objects d'art," Ghilardi replied.
Naga lifted what would have been an eyebrow, had his forehead not been completely devoid of hair. "You are a thief." Somehow the truth did not seem so offensive coming from the monk.
"But one prepared to pay a good price for good information."
"How good?"
"Enough to keep you wrapped in pipe dreams until your dying day."
Naga allowed himself a tiny smirk. "My people are very long-lived, Herr Ghilardi."
"And my people are the bankers of kings."
Naga regarded the neatly groomed European for a long moment, as if studying some aspect to his features invisible to the naked eye, and then nodded.
"The Black Shrine of the Holy Monster houses many sacred relics; things that date back beyond recorded history, to when some who are vilified as demons, others worshipped as gods, bestrode the earth. The Demon Knife is one of these things.
"You see, long ago the Forces of Being and Nothingness created numerous servants to aid them in their battle for control of all things. Some of these servants were devas, others were asuras—what you Westerners call demons. While the devas were of a uniform number, the asuras came in a bewildering variety, with distinct species and subspecies.
Because these beings were born of Light and Darkness, they were collectively known as the Shadow Races, and they existed long before mankind learned to walk upright.
"It is uncertain which Force was responsible for the creation of humans. The asuras believed humans were created to serve as a source of food and amusement. The devas, however, saw mankind as useful pets and protected them, more or less, from the predatory asuras much like shepherds tend their flocks.
"Then, for reasons known only to the universe, the Forces withdrew from the mortal plane, leaving behind their living game pieces. Forgotten by their creators, the devas and asuras were thrown into chaos, uncertain as to what to do and what might befall them should they do it. The ensuing confusion lasted centuries, which meant little to the Shadow Races, but humankind used the time to their advantage. Once the devas and asuras resigned themselves to the fact their gods were not coming back, humankind was on its way to claiming its place as the Stewards of Creation.
"The Shadow Races recognized opportunities as well, masking themselves as gods and goddesses in order to continue their ancient battles, forging alliances with early chieftains and shamans in order to utilize human armies to advance their agendas. In time, as human society became increasingly difficult to manipulate, the Shadow Races shrouded
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) themselves in veils of superstition and folklore in order to maintain their control. This gave them the illusion of disappearing, when in fact they have never left. But I am getting ahead of myself...
"It was during those early days, known as the Time of Pretending, when the Shadow Races masqueraded as things they were not, that the Holy Monster was born. The devas and asuras were always fighting one another, on some level, but this time the asuras were led by a fierce warrior-prince known as Lord Raksa, who walked like a man but had the face and appetite of a beast. Raksa used his magic to work a spell that guaranteed him invulnerability in battle, and if one drop of his demon blood should strike the earth, he would be resurrected even stronger than before.