Want To Snatch A Thousand-Year-Old Grimoire To Impress Your Fiancée? No Problem!
The Black Market No One Talks About, The Ark-Hives Report VJ002, logged on September 7th, 2157
It’s no secret that the relic hunters have come across the most out-of-this-world objects in their daily hunts. The problem is, no one knows about them, or so I thought.
I always keep an eye out for the unusual — I’m the only who seems to care about these things on this godforsaken Ark, apparently —. When I heard that a sunken manor’s bunker had been recently located by a team of divers during one of their routine hunts, I knew something interesting might come out.
Turns out, whoever owned the manor had been a survivalist for there was an ancient vault still intact from before the Flood. It took weeks to crack the code to its lock, but by the Creator’s blessing, was it worth it! Riches beyond your wildest imagination were preserved in watertight casings that were retrieved during a large-scale operation. But let me tell you the truth: If every treasure we stumbled upon were this vast, it would take more than a single Ark to hoard it all.
For the occasion, a special soirée like no other was organized by the Sigma Foundation, where select pieces were put on display for the wealthiest and most influential families of the Ark to enjoy. Obviously, the spoils would not all fit in one room, so they had to be picky. Very picky, in fact. The way they go about choosing the relics to share publicly still eludes me. The question begs: What is it that makes a corked wine bottle more interesting than a finely woven tapestry depicting a mysterious legend? Perhaps there are things that hold secrets better left alone, or so the Foundation and its master believe. No matter, I do find comfort in that I was able to glimpse some of their beauty firsthand.
You may be thinking that I was gifted by the Creator with a privileged upbringing to be allowed anywhere close to those relics. And you are right! No need for me to deny it. But I decided I was not happy with simply going about my business as usual, as if breathing the musty air of an underwater vessel for generations was the most banal way of living one’s life. Questions get asked, but answers lack in substance.
And questions there were that night.
The Foundation hosted the soirée in a cathedral-like room powered by holographic technology, giving it a sense of depth from floor to ceiling. Each relic was carefully encased around the room with its own holographic display. Digital layer by digital layer, life sprang from the illusion itself. It’s truly impressive what we can do when we set our minds to it.
Of course, every display wouldn’t feel real enough without a 5-minute explainer video using Sally Yang’s avatar — as if we couldn’t get enough of her fluttering puppy eyes, small doll-like frame, and gorgeous jet black hair clamped in a swirl of midnight — to make us feel the satisfaction of knowing everything there is to know about an antique made famous by the sheer power of her words — her looks. I swear I must have eye-rolled my way to heaven during those two hours. Let’s be honest here: No one cares about the oxydation process of iron, or a dagger’s weight down to the milligram, or how much a cellphone used to sell at, for traditional money has been nonexistent since civilization was reduced to the confines of this Ark.
To think that such a vast amount of knowledge about some seemingly trivial objects — I mean, humanity was doing fine without them for over a century, vault or not — are stored in the Archives. What were our ancestors thinking, really, when they built the Ark? Was this information going to be useful for our survival someday? Were we ever going to use those objects to uncover some fundamental truth about our existence on this planet? Or perhaps, they are simply the wrong questions to ask.
After watching Sally Yang’s bubbly lectures to a bore, I skittered along the exhibition to see if something would catch my eye. I knew the instant I heard muffled voices that this is what I had come for. They were young men, talking by a fake pillar — anything to create the “right” atmosphere — who, as soon as they sensed my presence, bolted away. I chased the tallest of the two until the shadows were too thick.
I walked blindly until I hit my face against a very solid metal wall. After a handful of creative curses directed at the Creator’s unknown cousins — May He forgive my brutal candour, or not —, I felt for the wall, undeterred. I wasn't about to let myself be fooled by some parlour trick. The Believers would gladly see the Creator’s Hand at play, but I wouldn’t let myself fall into the same trap. A young man is but a young man. The entire room was covered by hologram, a make-believe of a holy cathedral. There had to be a hidden layer in plain sight, or better yet: a secret passageway.
I found neither.
Patience is a virtue and I am glad I was graced by it.
I stuck around for as long as I could, even through the Foundation’s mouthpiece boasting about how our civilization was ever closer to reviving our long-lost history, as if the Archives didn't already contain everything we needed to know of our past mistakes. Eventually, the guests thinned out and I decided to have a look outside without drawing unnecessary attention. I walked along what seemed to be the walls containing the fake cathedral, determined to find out where the young man might have disappeared to. The passageway was dimly lit and before I knew it, I stubbed my big toe against something uncannily large. I thought it was the young man I was looking for, considering how bad it hurt. Words fail to describe my surprise when I realized it wasn’t him.
Two boxes — the darn culprits — were stacked with no one around. I glimpsed the contents of the box sitting on top and ran my fingers along the leather binding of an old book. I brought it closer to a light source and thumbed through its old coarse paper. I could barely make sense of any of the words, but the star-crossed drawings and beastly sketches tipped me off. The strange creatures reminded me of the Leviathan, while the several lists written out in the margins looked like instructions. It was a grimoire. The kind that shouldn’t have survived the Flood.
This heresy wasn’t something our ancestors took seriously at the time or so they say. Science was the answer to life’s greatest mysteries. But ever since the Flood — something utterly inexplicable in science terms —, the Creator’s myth spearheaded by the Farrells gained traction. Surviving was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing of drawing another breath, and the curse of not knowing why. We have been a sorry lot craving for answers, going as far as to submitting ourselves to the possibility that science might not be the end-all-be-all. But what did we lose in the process?
My hands suddenly started burning, like the grimoire was a living flame and so I tossed it back into the darn box. What the hell was that?
My breathing came short as I refused to let my mind trick me. This wasn’t a sign. This meant nothing at all. Only fear: fear of the unknown.
I let out a sigh of relief. I was safe.
My mind pleasantly went back into detective mode, and I peered into the other half-open box. I met the unmistakable glint of a beautifully crafted blade, which I don’t recall seeing on display during the exhibition. But before I could feel its heft, the same hushed voices from earlier drew nearer. I swiftly rearranged the boxes and fled in the opposite direction.
The darkness crept in and soon I was breathless, with nowhere to hide. I fell backwards as I leaned through the wall. There was the illusion. I was in a storeroom with dozens if not hundreds of crates stacked from wall to wall. As I remembered what I had run away from, I walked back to the hidden entrance artfully taking advantage of an optical illusion of the tiling, and angled my body until I could hear the young men talking again.
“Which one do you think she would like?”
“How the hell should I know? She’s your fiancée, not mine.”
“The book then. She’s always had a weakness for the exotic.”
Laughs.
“I didn’t think you would ever fall for the heartless coquette.”
“Watch your words. Isn’t she your friend, too? She wouldn’t be pleased to hear you call her that.”
“I’ll know soon enough if you go repeat it to her once she takes hold of this book. I might even fall under her spell.”
“Mother would definitely approve of you for once. When was the last time you dated?”
“Take the book or should I bring it to your fiancée myself?”
“What about that blade? You can’t just discard it. Someone will find out.”
“Don’t worry. I know someone on the black market who collects them. Or she might find a savvy buyer.”
“Someone’s coming.”
The steps were coming fast from the opposite direction. My way. I couldn’t risk blowing my cover so soon.
To make up for my lack of gumption, I committed to memory the layout of the room and the passageway as best as I could, so I could investigate later. I left the hidden storeroom behind and ghosted my way out into the nearly empty exhibition room still showered by the giant hologram. I eventually found my way back to my cabin undetected, my mind reeling with possibilities.
I haven’t figured everything that happened yet, but there are a few things I do know.
If those two young men were at the party, it means they have direct access to the Foundation and the relics. Perhaps they even are connected to the great families.
It’s no secret that the Sigma Foundation has always had a hold on these relics of our past — we have the Duchess of the Ark to thank for that! —, making it nearly impossible to glimpse our own history. Is she in any way connected to this black market? To what end?
I know I’m onto something even if I don’t know what it is yet. Clearly, I am determined to look into this black market before a curse falls on us. And no, I don’t want to talk about that magical grimoire.
~V.J., private investigator
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