The Wizard from Earth (10 page)

The man looked at the vehicle, then at the parachute, then at Matt's optic-blue jumpsuit.

"Are you the Wizard from Aereoth?"

11.

Londa Bay had been filling with ships of war all morning and afternoon and into the evening.  They were anchored and lashed to one another in rows, and still room was tight.  Merchant vessels were crowded toward the banks and slipped circumspectly around the galleys, only to encounter still more vessels of the Imperial Navy pouring in from the eastern sea.

In the center of the fleet rested the flagship, a trireme whose hull was gilded with gold, whose sails were speckled rosy from sunset, whose decks bristled with soldiers in polished armor and crossbow mountings that held arrows longer than a man was tall.  From the center mast, above the eagle-standard of imperial Rome, flickered a pennant of blue with a circle and star of white.

A skiff larger than even some of the seagoing merchant vessels was lowered from the flagship and oared across the bay.  It landed at the main dock, where it was moored under heavy guard.

To the blaring of horns and stiff imperial salutes from the gathered occupation troops, Mardu Valarion disembarked the skiff and spared a downward glance at the balding man twice his age who greeted him with a profuse bow.

"Good to see you back again, General," said Hyant, Governor of the Roman province of Britan. 

"It is a pleasure of extraordinary degree to be here once more at this pinnacle of civilization," Valarion replied blandly.  "I see that your propensity for corruption has been moderated sufficiently for the city to remain intact in my absence."

Hyant started to speak, but obviously was having trouble formulating a reply.  He bobbed his head and left it at that.  Then, his eyes darted warily over the entourage behind Valarion's shoulder, and a look of puzzlement crossed his face.

"She flew on ahead," Valarion said.

Hyant gaped, but regained his composure and faced to the bay.  "That's quite a fleet you have there.  Transports enough for a legion, at least."

"And you shall do your best to keep that a secret."

"This is the same Londonium you left, General.  The barbarians have a thousand ears and eyes."

"That's why I want you to block the gates.  No one is allowed out of the city until we march."

It was indeed the same Londonium – or Londa, as the locals called it.  Its white walls and roofs of red tile had glistened pristinely when Valarion had first entered the bay, but close up the streets were filled with squawking chickens and ox dung.  Valarion reflected that he was only centimeters away from the Emperorship, and yet was forced to detour around potholes and patties of manure.  Hyant had hours to prepare the streets for Valarion's arrival, but their ramshackle condition was probably less a slight than yet another manifestation of the man's incompetence.  Well, when Hadron was no longer emperor, his in-laws would lose their job security.

Still, after a week of tossing waves, Valarion was grateful for stable ground.  And that Inoldia wasn't near this particular patch. 

At the imperial residence, more soldiers provided more salutes and horns.  Valarion's casual inspection saw too many soft bellies but without comment he climbed the stairs to his quarters in the main house and ordered supper and wine while Colonel Bivera, vice commander of the occupation forces, lit lanterns and unrolled the strategy map.

Valarion glared at Hyant. 

Hyant stammered, "I – I must have affairs to attend," and exited. 

Bivera anchored the corners of the map, which he treated reverently, as it was a product of a quarter-century's labor and blood by the Imperial Survey Corps.  He placed markers to indicate the deployment of the Eighth Legion and the known locations of the barbarians.

Bivera pointed and spoke,  "Our scouts report that the main force is concentrated here in the Midlands, encamped in pastures between the mountains and the Pola Road.  Their total number varies from day to day, but is at least several thousand.  General, I wouldn't say the situation is critical, but they are less than three days' march on the city, and as you know our walls are built to keep out smugglers, not withstand siege."

Valarion smiled at the use of the word 'city' in reference to Londa.  Bivera had been away from the capitol for too long.

"You don't seriously believe," Valarion said, "that a rabble is any match for a disciplined legion?"

"In strategy and tactics, no.  In skill, no.  In entrenched warfare, no.  But if we march across open field, they'll come at us like a storm of locusts.  And they are brave.  Moreover, they do have advantages in mobility and logistics.  They could easily circumvent an attacking legion, appear at our rear, and be at our gates and burn the city down before we can rush back to its defense.  Our pacification and romanization efforts are restricted to the Lowlands until we deal with the threat."

"Yes, well, our plans have changed.  We will no longer just sit passively and wait for the Plague to run its course."

"From the size of your fleet," Bivera said, "I take it you've brought an additional legion, and as the city cannot support another legion for much length of time, I take it we're about to move."

"Yes, I brought the Eleventh with me.  And this is what we're going to do with it."

He took a legion marker from the tray and maneuvered pieces.  "A contingent of the Eighth consisting of the First, Second, and Third Cohorts will lure the combined barbarian armies south along the Pola Road into this valley in the Lowlands."  He squinted at the legend.  "By a place called 'Winchester.'  Stars, where do they get these odd names?"

Bivera shrugged.  "From the mentors, I suppose."

"Don't tell me you believe in mentors."

"If there ever were any, I'm sure they're extinct now," Bivera replied, ever the diplomat.  "Please go on, General."

Valarion moved about the markers with swift strokes.  "As soon as the rebels enter the Valley of Winchester, the rest of the Eighth will come from the east and seal the pass at the north end of the valley.  The rebels will then be trapped within the valley."

"With the Eighth divided like that, it won't take long for the rebels to overrun the barricades at either end and break out again."

"Yes, but here is the surprise.  The catapults of the Eleventh will have been placed along the ridges of the valley in waiting.  Once the rebels are sealed below, bombardment will commence.  We have brought incendiaries of a type that clings to bodily parts and belches a thick, choking smoke.  The barbarians will be incapacitated while we continue to pelt them.  Our catapult positions, meanwhile, will be safely above the smoke on cliffs too steep for the rebels to climb and too high for their arrows to reach.  The Eighth's cohorts in the valley will take cover in entrenchments that we will prepare beforehand and so they will avoid harm from the bombardment while serving to contain the rebels from climbing to escape in the south.  And so the result will be bloodless for us and a slaughter upon them."   

"This incendiary.  I have never heard of such a thing.  Is it an invention of Archimedes?"

"Ha, that old tinkerer has become quite cantankerous in his dotage and these days refuses anything to do with offensive engines of war.  No, the incendiary is an ancient formula provided by the Sisters of Wisdom.  Called 'Fosforia,' as I recall.  It's quite unstable.  In fact, on the way here, one of our ships was carrying several kegs that must have somehow ignited and the explosion was quite horrific."

Bivera gazed at the map in silence.  Finally he shook his head slowly and said,  "I don't see Boudica falling for such a simple trap.  She's always been a step ahead."

"Yes."  Valarion grinned.  "And that's always been part of our plan."

Bivera's jaw dropped.  "You mean – she is on our side?”

“None other than our good Lady Inoldia.”

“How can that be?  From the reports of Boudica's physical description, they look nothing alike!”

"Don't let that trouble you, Colonel.  I've seen the transformation with my own eyes.”

“
The witch!
”

“No more about the impersonation beyond this room, Colonel.  The plan hinges on secrecy."

"Yes . . . but speaking of the witch, General.  She has me assign soldiers under her command." 

"You will comply, of course."

"I follow Rome's orders, which are to follow your orders, which are to follow hers.  But – I just don't like this.  The witch is directing our soldiers without intermediaries.  She's made herself integral to our battle plans.  You tell me the Sisters are providing us with logistics, and I've heard rumors that they are behind the spread of the Plague as well.  We rely too much on this . . . this . . .
cult
.  The empire of our father's days was built on soldiering, not sorcery."

"It's not a cult, she's not a witch, and it's not sorcery.  What the Sisters of Wisdom do is a sort of science, but beyond anything Archimedes practices." Valarion's expression became clouded.  "And moreover, our fathers are not always to be emulated."

Bivera knew Valarion's family, and perhaps realizing that he had touched a sore subject, said nothing more. 

Valarion's supper arrived and he bade Bivera to stay.  Over bottles, the general became cheerier once more and they exchanged the gossip of two cities.  Over more bottles, Valarion's tongue loosened entirely.

"A victory here will secure my appointment as next in line for the emperorship," he murmured, peering through an empty bottle as if it were a spyglass that could bring the future near.   

"And how is Hadron's health?" Bivera asked.

"Excellent," said Valarion glumly.  He rambled,  "Though sometimes I wonder why I would ever want his job.  But then, I do know.  She's pushing me into it.  Well, I suppose I can't complain too much.  So far, she's left imperial affairs entirely to me and it seems all she and the Sisters care about is Britan, Britan, Britan.  What hidden treasure is so special within this forsaken realm that she casts the rest of the Empire to me as if it were a bone for a dog?"

Bivera, nursing his mug, said, "They do see us as dogs, don't they?"

"Colonel, I know them better than anyone.  They see us as less than rats."

"Then why do you serve them?"

"Those who work with them, prosper.  Those who stand against them, die."

They were interrupted by pounding steps.  A major saluted and barked, "Sirs!  A matter of urgency!"

Bivera, the more sober of the two officers, slurred,  "Speak."

The major faced a breathless messenger, who huffed, "I bear news from the signal station at Oksford Prominence, which conveys a report from Birmam Spire."

Bivera accepted the envelope, slit the seal, and scanned.  He said, "The garrison commander at Birmam reports in the west a 'sign among the heavens.' That is . . . a great fireball . . . rending the sky . . . and then . . . falling to land.  He asks if he should investigate."

Valarion slammed the table. 

"GET OUT OF HERE!  Can't you see we have important matters to discuss?" 

The soldiers cringed and fled.  Valarion chuckled and reached for a fresh bottle.

12.

Matt and the native walked south of the meadow to the road, then headed west.  The sun slipped behind the mountains, casting the sky into deeper shades of violent and then dark purple.  Delta Pavonis II, this planet's morning and evening 'star,' blazed as bright and steadily as Venus from Earth, while other stars twinkled.  

"I don't understand," Ivan said.  "Normally, you strongly disapprove of lying."

"It's a matter of the situation and circumstances," Matt replied.

"So lying is wrong when we are in the Sol and Alpha Centauri systems but all right when it is done in the Delta Pavonis system.  Or is wrong when it is the twenty-second century but all right when it is the twenty-ninth?"

From experience, Matt refrained from thinking that Ivan was being intentionally sarcastic.  "It's more a matter of what keeps me alive.  Anyhow, don't be so sure I lied to him.  If these people are as technologically backward as I think they are, then technically I am a wizard – to them.  And I think when he said 'Aereoth,' he meant 'Earth.'  You have to expect some changes in the language over time."

During the soundless conversation that Matt was having with his Alter Ego (or rather, his Supplemental Ego), the man alongside them continued plodding.  Matt had made First Contact with an extraterrestrial civilization going on several minutes, but in that time all the man had volunteered to say was, '
Please come with me
.'

Time to break the ice, Matt thought.  "So what's your name?"

"I am Tret of Fish Lake."

"So, you're a fisherman."

Tret glanced at Matt, then at the hoe on his shoulder.  "A farmer."

"But you said you're of Fish Lake."

Tret's didactic tones were hard to miss,  "Fish Lake is the name of my village.  It is called that because it is next to Fish Lake.  Fish Lake is called that because it has many fish.  Even so, I make my living by farming, not fishing."

"So, Fish Lake.  Is that where we're headed now?"

"Yes."

"Is there a reason we're going there?"

"I am hoping that you can help my daughter."

"How?"

"She has the Plague.  Can you heal the Plague?"

Matt had no idea of what specifically the 'Plague' was.  To the medical science of the era in which he had grown up, the word 'plague' was of historical interest only.  But he was well aware that for these people, who might lack any kind of medical knowledge at all, the word could have a frightening impact.

And Matt had no idea whether he could help.  In his shame, he realized he was playing along in the hopes he might wrangle out of this encounter a meal tastier than nettles. 

"I'll see what I can do," Matt replied. 

In the subsequent silence, Matt realized his stock as wizard was likely going down a notch every time he opened his mouth and revealed how ignorant he was of the situation. 
Tis better to be thought a wizard and remain silent than to speak up and cause doubt . . . .

"I'm sorry, Matt.  I did not catch that.  What did you say?"

Matt hadn't realized he was thinking so loudly.  "Never mind.  Hey, give me a satellite view of what's up ahead."

"The station has set and will not rise again for forty-one minutes.  I cannot provide real-time telemetry until then.  However, I have stored photographs of the immediate terrain in archive."

The view of the nearby terrain showed no lake.  Matt immediately wondered if he'd cast his lot with a highwayman or a brigand or whatever they called them, and was being taken somewhere secluded to be murdered and robbed by a gang.  Matt had nothing on his person that equated to tangible money, but they would find out about that only after beating him senseless.  

Then Matt had a sinking feeling, only slightly better than the one he'd felt when he'd thought of robbers. 

"Ivan, zoom out a ways.  More.  More."

Kilometers away was an oblong lake just south of the road.  It was surrounded by fields and the shore was ringed by tidy huts.  The lake was much bigger than the pond that the OSV had landed in, and was fed by streams.  It probably did have fish.   

"Looks like we've got a walk ahead of us," Matt said.  His stomach growled.  "Can you do something about that?"

Ivan couldn't read Matt's mind, but he could receive intentional thought-impressions, and he understood that Matt meant for him to quell the pangs of hunger caused by the empty stomach.

"Doing so.  How is that?"

Matt sighed.  "Better.  Lot better."

"Matt, you still need nourishment within the next few hours or you will have to stop this exertion.  Otherwise, I will not be able to maintain your neural activity in a fully conscious state."

“I didn't ask for his village to be so far away.”

Tret was casting another sidelong glance at Matt.  Matt doubted that Tret could hear him subvocalize, nor sense Ivan's soundless electrochemical responses, but the farmer seemed to know that something out of his normal experience was going on inside Matt's head.  For his part, Matt realized that Tret was the first person he'd ever met who not only didn't have a neural implant but also did not know what one was. 

"Romeo and Juliet," he subvocaled.

"I'm sorry?" Ivan asked.

"It's like when I was twelve and my mother took me to see the play,
Romeo and Juliet
.  I wondered how they could fail so much at communicating their plans to each other.  Then I realized they more or less didn't have any way to communicate other than face to face."

"You are speaking of this condition in reference to Tret?"

"In reference to this whole planet, maybe.  It's going to take some getting used to."

Walking, walking, and more walking.  Matt's legs became rubbery.  Tret, however, didn't seem bothered at all.

Eventually, well after dusk, they arrived.  The village in aspect was as silent as the satellite-view photographs.  No farmers in the fields, no children running amid the huts.  A stooped woman with disheveled hair stared at the oddly dressed stranger, then hobbled aimlessly. 

A pair of men carried a limp body wrapped in a blanket out of a hut and set it adjacent to several other bodies on the ground.  Despite Ivan's pain management, Matt's stomach turned.

"Ivan, are your biofilters registering anything harmful, a virus or a bacteria or nanobot or something?"

"I am registering nothing harmful at this time."

The man entered a hut and Matt followed.  They were met at the door by a woman.  She couldn't have been much older than Matt, but the pain on her face added years, all of them of suffering. 

"Layal," Tret said.  "This is the Wizard from Aereoth.  He will attend to Aralena.  Wizard, this is my wife, Layal."

Reddened eyes gave Matt's jumpsuit a quick appraisal.  "And why do you think he's any kind of wizard?"

"You did not see the ball of fire in the sky?  Surely you must have heard the thunder!"

Layal scowled.  "I have been in here all day, attending to your daughter."

The interior of the hut was lit by a fire in the center, and by then was brighter than the last gleams of twilight outside.  Matt saw beds, clay jars, farm implements, a few boxes, baskets, and blankets.  Then he saw the little girl.

She was prone and still, propped against a basket by the fire.  Her body was buried under layers of blankets, and she was shivering.  Her face was pale and her eyes glassy as they gazed mesmerized by the flames.  Matt knelt beside her.  She gave no response.  He raised his hand to bring his palm near her cheek.

Layal shouted,  "You don't want to touch her!  She has the Plague!"

Matt pressed his palm against the girl's forehead. 

"Ivan, is your basic first aid kit operational?"

"Yes, Matt."

"Can you tell what's wrong with this person?"

"Scanning."  As Ivan bridged his micro-tentacles from Matt's hand into the girl's flesh, an AR-window flashed medical schematics and life signs.  Respiration and pulse low, neural activity near coma.  Blood parameters within spec.

"Do you know what's causing her to be sick?"

"I identify this virus as significantly harmful to her physiological health." Ivan displayed a DNA sequence.

"I assume it's harmful to baseline humans but not people with neural implants, otherwise you would have informed me earlier."

"Yes, Matt.  Was I in error?"

"In the future, also warn me of environmental conditions that are harmful to baseline humans."

"I understand."

Layal knelt alongside Matt and said softly, as if speaking to a dull child,  "You realize you have become tainted with the Plague and must now keep your distance from those who remain in health."

"I need to work," Matt said. 

He didn't bother with the woman's expression, but she was quiet after that.  He focused on the readings, particularly the plummeting slope of the health trend projection.  The girl had hours to live at most.

"Ivan, can you counteract the virus?"

"Yes, Matt."

"Can you do it fast?"

"Yes, Matt."

The biochemical sensors at the tips of Ivan's tentacles read the virus's RNA sequence.  Ivan computed a counter-virus sequence.  His biomanipulators created the counter-virus in reality and introduced it into the girl's bloodstream by penetrating the skin of the girl's hand which Matt gently held in his own.    

The typical artificially-enhanced immune system of the twenty-second century might not have handled the task, but Ivan had been upgraded for life on a world where otherwise-deadly plague outbreaks could be a routine part of the day during the phases of terraforming that involved genetic engineering.

The girl closed her eyes and slumped.

"What have you done?" Layal demanded.

Tret touched her shoulder.  "She was going to live among the stars soon, anyway.  It was meant to be."

Layal sobbed. 

Matt tried to visualize what was happening.  Millions of counter-viral molecular mechanisms were being manufactured every second by Ivan's microscopic biological factories.  Spread through the girl's bloodstream, they penetrated her cells and then into the nuclei of the cells.  They searched and matched viral DNA sequences and snipped them out, then hunted down the viruses themselves, which were then hacked into harmless pieces.

The counterviruses continued their cell-to-cell search until they detected no more of the targeted viral invader, and then they self-destructed.

The girl took a deep breath.  Her eyes fluttered open.  She sat up straight. 

"Can I have soup?" she asked her mother.

Layal burst into even more tears.  She hugged the girl, then she hugged the Wizard.  Then Tret, also moist-eyed, hugged the Wizard.  He was surprisingly strong and the Wizard felt uncomfortable. Amid her parents' tears and laughter, the girl had to get her own soup.   

"Get me some too," the Wizard called, still trapped in Tret's sobbing embrace.