The mystery of the eternal artifact

I was playing the shots when a new case came through. Time to pack the sticks and take the first shuttle to lowtown. I surveyed the facts on the way. A body fresh in, found in the alleyway. Cards in its pockets and threads in its lungs. I shuddered. Joanie died that way. The whole thing made me uncomfortable. I peered at the news over a fellow traveller's shoulder until the klaxon alerted me to my arrival.

Information was sparse. The attendant opened the chiller in morose silence. Okay so it was gruesome, but I've seen worse. Much worse. Her expression read an enigmatic fear. The eyes were dilated and fixed upwards. Beside her was a standard container of artifacts. Mostly the usual stuff; a handful of discs and ciphers, some physical tools. One artifact stood out: a statuette done out in grey. I examined it briefly, before pocketing it whilst the attendant's attentions lingered elsewhere. It looked like a publicity thing. The name of a club was etched on the base. A lead to follow elsewhere, but first I had business here in the post-mortem unit.

"Tell me what you know," I instructed the attendant. He shifted his goggles.

"What I know is nothing more and nothing less than the usual. It's a rare form of mortality but not that rare. Probably a territorial thing. Not that it's my business. If you ask me it's a shame; she came from promising stock."

"That's your business neither."

Sensing my expression he genuflected slightly. "Apologies. By any road, difficult to see what the importance is. No money, no power, no obvious value involved. Just one of those things. Why are you in on this?"

Again not his business, but I indulged him. "Orders from above. Not for me or for you to question. What else do you know? Something about her destination?"

"Scanners were unclear. Her chances were as good as anyone else's I suppose. No previous records of her activities. Benefit of the doubt, perhaps. Wrong place at the wrong time." He sighed. "None of my business, right? See, there's not much I do know. The cadavers are my trade, and hers is like as all others."

I thanked the attendant for his time and expertise and made my way back to the outside. Not much to ponder over, but it was a start. She was uninvolved in criminal activity, but why then this fate? For a while I thought of a time when nobody worried about such things. There was little time for such self-indulgences, though. I retrieved the artifact from my pocket. It was the only solid clue I had. I examined its features more closely. It resembled a human figure, one hand pointed ahead at the sky, the other holding a sphere aloft. I read the base. "Club Balthazar". It was time to go there.

The club was decked out in an ancient style. Flame-topped pillars lined the doorway. I glanced askance at the doorguards. The two of them stared out impassively. I expected to be stopped as I passed through the doors, but it was not to be. Inside, I set off towards the serving bar to ask questions.

Halfway across the club floor I was stricken. I wheeled around, trying to identify the perpetrator, but my vision was blurring. In any case it was immaterial, as I realised the problem was not externally inflicted. I was having an attack. I cursed inwardly. It had been over six months. The only thing to do was ride it out.

A wave of sensations both familiar and unfamiliar. The club, a new environment in itself, seemed multi-dimensional in its newness. Squinting, I observed the varying essences of its patrons. Most of them appeared negative. The standing torches suffused the room with an unearthly glow. The texture of the carpet against my face felt impossibly distant. The ringing in my ears approached a crescendo.

As quickly as it had arrived the attack was over. Standing up, I brushed the dust from my coat. In darkness I glanced around at the crowds. No one had paid attention to my plight. The people, who had seemed so distinct, were now hidden in a haze of smoke, sitting at secluded tables. They spoke to one another in hushed tones, and I heard for the first time the music coming from the ceiling. I returned to my original intention and stepped to the serving bar.

The servant approached me, cloth in hand. "What can I tell you?" he asked.

I showed him the artifact. "Possibly you can tell me about this."

He narrowed his eyes. "I can tell you that it's strictly limited. Where did you happen upon it?"

"That's not your business. Tell me what it portends."

The servant was clearly unexpectant of such an attitude, but backed down. "Sir, that's not for me to tell you. Possibly you should speak to the Persian."

"If you think so, then I should. Where can I see him?"

The servant indicated the doorway to the right of the serving bar. "I can buzz you through."

He did so, pushing a series of buttons out of sight, and the doorway opened. He gestured silently, and I ventured into the corridor beyond. It was plushly decorated, and lit with a reddish ambience. There were three or four doors on each side, and one larger, trapezoidal door at the far end. It was as I was passing one of the doors on the left that the panel adjacent to it spoke out. "Enter," it said.

I pushed the door open and found myself in the Persian's office. Sitting behind a desk was The Persian himself, although how he came by his name was entirely unclear. A small window set high in the back wall allowed in some street light, and this along with the ambience from the corridor was all that lit the office. Consequently, I could make out few details: a plant in one corner, a cabinet, nothing out of the ordinary as far as I could tell.

"Good evening, citizen," he intoned. "Sit down. Have you come far?"

"Quite," I responded, taking a seat. "I was told you could help me."

"Perhaps I can. With what do you require help?"

I produced the artifact and set it upon his desk. "Can you tell me what this is?"

He studied it closely in the half-light. "It's one of ours," he concluded. "I'll not ask how you came by it. From the circumstances of our meeting I surmise that there has been trouble. This concerns me but I will not apologise for it. It is in the nature of things."

I stared darkly. "It belonged to a woman," I informed him.

He sat back. "Well, there it is," he sighed. "It was not meant for her. Somewhere in the process there has been an anomaly, call it human error if you must. What's done is done."

Angered, I leaned forward. "You are not telling me what I wish to know."

"That is as it must be. Do you know why I am called the Persian?"

I shook my head. "No."

He smiled. "That is because it is not for you to know. This place is outside of your meagre jurisdiction. Know only this: that there are patterns in history. This item you bring to me is more than the sum of its parts. It is not the first of its kind. I suggest you leave it with me." Before I could respond, he added: "It could bring you trouble as it did its previous owner."

I scowled at him as I got up. "This is not as it should be," I told him. "Should I find anything else appertaining to this matter, in that instant I will be back at your door. I will not be so patient. Do you understand me?"

The Persian shrugged. "I understand you, but it will do you little good." He held his hands wider. "Please understand that I am not immoral. Blame in this case cannot be assigned to any one party."

I left, ignoring his words. I was sickened by the meeting. My feet took me back to the main room of the club. The taste of the air made me nauseous. Something about the whole place was amiss. Suddenly I realised a voice was hailing me.

It was the bar servant. "Did you get what you needed from the Persian, sir?"

I peered at him with suspicion. "I got what he felt I needed. Tell me, what manner of club is this?"

The barman smiled. "Simply a home for wandering souls, sir. Is there anything else I can tell you?"

"No, thank you." I turned away from him.

As I crossed the floor, heading for the exit door, I sensed again that something was amiss. I felt it in my peripheral vision. Before I was three-quarters across the room it came to me. Things were not as I had first perceived them. The design of the room had changed since I first came through. The standing torches were gone, and instead of carpeting there was a tiled floor. Surely this was an impossibility? Perhaps I had misinterpreted my surroundings during my attack a few minutes before. I tried to remember the exact sensations, but nothing came.

The doorguards again seemed about to stop me as I left, but nothing happened. I stepped out into the streets and vanished amongst the evening traffic.

Was this it, then? Another case leading only to dead ends? Forces were at work, stopping me at every turn. Nothing ever left any traces. Perhaps it was the way of the world now. I rode the shuttle home in silence, sharing my carriage only with a transient who slept across three seats. I peered out of the window at the cityscape. Perhaps it was time to give up. Suddenly very tired, I stretched out and fought sleep for the remainder of the journey.

That night I had a dream. In it, I found myself visiting the fabled city of Camelot. I met with the steward and presented him with the spoils of my quest. He congratulated me, and announced that with this treasure in the archives we need never go hungry. The city of Camelot would prosper for all time, and the age of Enlightenment would drive back the forces of darkness for good. And I was paraded through the city, and I was called a hero. But of course, it was only a dream.

(Annotation: I wrote this last year. I wanted to write something strange, otherworldly and with no discernible meaning. I just now edited it to make some of the speech patterns less jarring. But not much less.)