Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard (23 page)

Eating slowly in bed, he turned the TV on with the remote
control. While he was scanning the channels, he suddenly spotted an image of
his own face on the screen, behind that of a news anchor. He quickly turned up
the sound.

“...And again, let me repeat. The top story tonight—this
man, Paul Armstead, is an American wanted for the murder of two Mexican police
officers at the Benito Juarez International Airport. Authorities believe that he
may have crossed the border into South Texas. He is considered to be armed and
extremely dangerous. If you see him, do not approach him but report his
location immediately to the local authorities.”

“And now, on a lighter note, Gail is here to tell us about
what a group of preschoolers are up to this week....”

Paul heaved a mournful sigh and turned the TV off with the
remote.

Just freakin’ wonderful.

South Padre Island, Texas

Pearl South Padre

January

Wednesday, 7:44 a.m. CST

T
he
sun streaming in through the cracks in the curtains woke him up early the next
morning, after he had spent a restless night tossing and turning in bed. Wearily
rubbing his eyes, Paul headed to the bathroom to splash a little water on his
face.

He studied his image in the mirror. On the plus side, the spells
for improving his health were gradually helping him physically, and as a side
benefit, they were also making him look a little younger and fitter. His hair
was coming back on top, still short, but thick and brown. His weight must have been
down to nearly 200 pounds now. And his eyesight was much improved as well,
which was a good thing, since he had lost his glasses as a prisoner of Ruggiero.

On the minus side, there were bags under his bloodshot eyes,
he had a quarter-inch beard, and he was still wrung out from the previous day
and restless night.

Without a razor, he could do nothing for the beard, but he
did take a long, luxurious hot shower, which served to ease his aches and pains
somewhat. After he dressed in his now-dry clothes, he left the room, two peso
coins in his hand, using them to maintain his disguise as the business
executive.

Downstairs, Paul found his way into the Beachside Bar &
Grille, the house restaurant. A middle-aged waitress took his order for orange
juice, eggs over easy, toast, bacon, and a double order of hash browns. He smiled
gratefully at her when she delivered the meal, the delicious smell of the food
making his mouth water in anticipation. If she thought it strange for him to
carry around two Mexican coins, she gave no sign of it.

As Paul ravenously consumed his food, he lapsed deep into
thought, noting with dry humor that once again, he was on the run from the bad
guys, just as he had been almost from the moment the genie had given him
magical powers. And before that, his job had dragged him through the fire for
more than a month with that special project. He momentarily chortled when he thought
of the mystery he must have left behind at Edwards AFB. Yes, they must have
been quite surprised by his disappearance.

But never mind all of that right now. At the moment, Paul was
extremely tired of being chased and having his life threatened several times a
day. It was past time to break free from all of that. There had to be a way of
doing so. There was a genuine need for him to evaluate his situation and make
effective long-range plans, but he couldn’t do that while he was on the run.

“Let’s have the CIA guy back, please,” Paul muttered between
savoring bites of heavenly hash browns.

The black-ops agent materialized in a chair at the table
next to Paul’s but faced away from him.

“Seems to be all clear,” the hologram whispered over his
shoulder after looking carefully around the Grille. Since there were no other
customers present, Paul found the specter’s remarks to be more than a bit
quirky, and he shook his head, mildly annoyed.

Casually, the spy got out of his chair and sat in another
one on the opposite side of Paul’s table.

“Ingenious, that device you used to escape from Tampico,” the
apparition commented. “Perhaps if you could provide the design specs to the firm,
they would add it to our inventory. I wouldn’t mind trying one myself.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Paul said with a forced smile.
“There’s something I’m having a hard time figuring out. How were they able to
track me? They seem to know where I am going to be even before I get there. How
do they do it?”

The spy shrugged, pulling off his sunglasses and setting
them on the table. “It’s not hard, not really. They have their version of a
magical sage too. And you have become pretty predictable after a fashion.”

Dismayed by the man’s words, Paul stopped in mid-chew and stared
at him in alarm. “I have?”

“Sure,” the spy replied with a casual wave of his hand. “Think
about it. When you escaped from Ruggiero, you went to one of the nearest
airports and caught a plane. That’s what a Normal would do. And in Mexico, you
took a bus. That’s pretty predictable. The only thing you did that was different
was that broom of yours. That caught them off guard. But even then, they
understood that you were heading for the United States. Anyone could see that.
My guess is that they have Oni all along the border, from Brownsville to Fort
Bliss, hoping to intercept you.”

Paul’s hand shook a bit as he lifted his glass and quickly
swallowed some orange juice.

“It won’t take them long to find me here either, will it?” he
asked nervously, abruptly feeling very exposed.

“They are probably already on their way,” his companion
confidently asserted, watching a young couple enter the Grille and choose a
table on the far side of the restaurant. “You showed your real face to those
people on the beach yesterday afternoon. True, you look a bit younger now than in
the photo on the news and you have a new set of whiskers, but still, there is
enough of a resemblance that they will likely report your presence on the
island to the police. It’s a good thing you faked your appearance when you checked
in here; otherwise, you would have probably already been caught.”

Paul’s heart was pounding loudly in his chest. Just freakin’
wonderful.

He sighed, his appetite suddenly gone, the remainder of the
breakfast no longer appealing. “I’d better get out of here, then.”

“Yep. Good idea.”

The black-suited figure disappeared, and Paul signaled the
waitress for his check.

• • • •

As Paul left the Grille, he went straight toward the lobby,
intending to check out.

However, there were two Texas Rangers already there, talking
to one of the desk clerks.

Averting his gaze, Paul steered past them and left the
building, heading for the pool area.

Just peachy. His heebie-jeebies were suddenly worse.

What was he supposed to do now?

“Merlin? I need a little help right now!” Paul loudly
shouted as he walked along the white sidewalk. A few of the people lounging
around the pool glanced over at him with apprehensive frowns.

“What do you need now, young man?” Merlin asked as he swam
up to the edge of the pool near Paul’s feet.

Paul stared down at him in surprise. Oh, yeah, sure, the old
wizard was just one of his magical spells. But sometimes...well, Paul just wasn’t
expecting the hologram to don a bathing suit and swim around in a motel pool!

Paul closed his open mouth, shook his head to clear the
cobwebs, and, in a lower voice, got down to business. “Merlin, the law is here.
How do I escape? And in a way that they can’t track me?”

He paced alongside the pool as Merlin followed in a
breaststroke.

Concentrating hard, Paul continued. “They’ll close off the
roads. So I can’t rent a car or get on a bus. Is there an airport on the
island?”

“No,” Merlin answered, splashing playfully with a brightly
colored beach ball. “And before you ask, there is no sheet metal shop on the
island either and no RadioShack where you can buy more solder. There is one of
those in Port Isabel, on the mainland, but you probably wouldn’t get that far.”

“Gee, you’re a lot of help,” Paul observed sarcastically.

“Mr. CIA was right about you,” Merlin said calmly in
response. “You have been too predictable. Do something unpredictable.”

“Such as?”

“If I could predict it, then it wouldn’t be unpredictable,
would it?” the older wizard replied, eyeing a girl in a bikini that was getting
into the pool.

“Act your age,” Paul muttered, vexed that Merlin hadn’t been
more helpful than that.

Okay, how would one escape in an unpredictable manner? The
predictable things were the ones that a normal human being would use. So, no
planes, boats, cars, bikes, and so forth.

Without a talisman—or even a roll of solder as an amulet!—he
couldn’t use portals. There might be some scientific theories that could help
him out, but he didn’t have time for experimentation.

Where did that leave him?

Too bad that in South Texas, there weren’t any good-sized
rocks....

Paul stared at the white sidewalk beneath his feet.
Well,
I’ll be Homer Simpson’s stupid stepbrother
! he silently shouted at himself.
How could I miss something so terribly obvious
?

If a big natural rock wasn’t available, he would have to use
a man-made one!

Paul reached down and touched the concrete sidewalk. True,
it wasn’t all one big contiguous piece, but this section was certainly large
enough to serve his purpose.

Merlin sputtered water, like a whale clearing its spout.
“Concrete. Calcium silicates bonded to aluminum oxides. Compared to other rocks,
it packs a decent enough punch.”

Vastly relieved and with a smile on his face, Paul opened a
portal and rolled through.

• • • •

The Queen Isabella Causeway stretched west, linking South
Padre Island to the mainland of Texas, over a distance of exactly 2.37 miles.

On the island end of the causeway, there were two large
concrete aprons, one on each side of the foot of the bridge, placed there to
keep hurricanes and the tide from undermining its foundation.

Paul’s portal from the motel put him within casual walking
distance of the apron on the northern side. It too was not a single piece of
concrete, but there were segments here that weighed several tons.

Another portal—

And he was standing alongside Texas Route 186, East Hidalgo
Avenue, just a dozen feet away from the east overpass of Hwy 77. The town of
Raymondville, Texas was just down the road a few miles.

Paul grinned wickedly. It had worked! And it had been so
easy, too. He kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner.

True, this little stunt didn’t have the range that even a
small amulet would produce, but then, it didn’t have to. There were bridges and
overpasses scattered all over the United States.

With a renewed spring in his step and a monstrous grin, Paul
headed over to the concrete overpass. Next stop, Robstown, on his way northward.

The nice thing about this mode of travel was that it didn’t
leave a significant trail to follow. Using this method, most of the portals he
created only transported him twenty miles or so, and he took care to scatter
the energy signature at each stop.

No paper trail, no witnesses, and no magical trail after a
few minutes. A sense of determination and self-confidence buoyed him. He could
now go anywhere in the United States and they couldn’t find him.

Well, no, that was not quite true. He knew he couldn’t go
home to Mojave. They probably had a small army there just waiting for him to
put in an appearance. And Los Angeles was out of the question too. Oh, the L.A.
metropolitan area was definitely large enough to hide in for a while. But it
was too close to home, and they could afford the manpower necessary to search the
Los Angeles Basin from one end to the other, even if it took a few months.

But almost everywhere else in the United States was fair
game.

And Paul now had time to think about where to go and what to
do. For the first time in weeks, an enormous sense of relief swept over him. He
almost felt as if he were a death row inmate granted a last-minute reprieve by
the governor.

It was past time to think and make some serious plans.

Chicago, Illinois

South Lawndale

S Kildare Ave.

March

Thursday, 11:02 a.m. CST

T
he
north wind was blustering intensely, the bitter air carrying a few wildly
driven snowflakes. On the ground, a thin layer of ice and snow covered small
patches of brown grass in what laughingly passed for lawns in this part of the
city. The seemingly endless rows of Chicago bungalows, each squeezed onto a
24-foot-wide city lot, huddled together against the wind. Leafless trees acted
as silent sentinels lining the street on both sides, while the two solid lines
of cars, vans, and trucks parked along the curbs testified to the densely
packed population of the neighborhood.

This wasn’t called the Windy City for the dainty summer
breezes it got in July.

Walking along the east side of the street, Paul cinched the
collar of his warm coat around his neck and used his right glove to sweep the
snowflakes from his hair.

Shortly, he would be out of the weather and back at “his
place.”

There was some activity half a block away, where three men
were moving some furniture out of a house, but nothing closer.

Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed or observed, Paul resumed
his “homeward” trek.

Chicago was the city of his choice to hide in for a couple
of good reasons. First, no sane South Californian would voluntarily live in the
Windy City. Therefore, it was the least likely place for anyone to search for him.
And second, Chicago was one of the largest and most densely inhabited cities in
the United States. Even if the authorities, Ruggiero, or any other wizard knew which
city to look in, they would have a devil of a time hunting him down.

Two months had gone by since Paul’s escape from his captors.
Two solid months, and he had not been idle.

He had a much different appearance now, thanks to the nearly
continuous use of magical spells. His weight was down to 185 pounds, his height
had been bumped up to 6 foot 2, his muscle tone had been improved, and his
eyesight was now 20/10. His diabetes was a distant memory, as was his former
balding condition. Moreover, he was younger looking, his appearance now one of
a forty-something male, though one in near-prime condition.

The most important aspect of his physical condition was
still incomplete. His new left arm was still in the process of regeneration,
but every day that went by saw an improvement. Most of the forearm was
restored, though the muscles were still underdeveloped. However, the hand was still
nothing more than a knot of bones covered by a thin layer of skin. By his
estimate, there was another month’s worth of magical spells left before his
entire left arm could be declared “as good as new.”

Paul reached out and opened the black wrought-iron gate in
front of a brown-bricked bungalow and walked five paces to the front concrete
steps. The house here was a two-story structure with a very small front porch,
built sometime in the late 1940s, but “recently renovated” only twenty-five
years previously. Inside the dwelling, the rooms were small, the heating system
positively ancient, the water pipes made of lead, the walls covered with at
least twenty coats of paint (a wide variety of colors, too), and the bathroom
so old it had to be seen to be believed. In addition, there was no internet
connection, no air conditioning, one phone outlet in the living room, no
garbage disposal or laundry room or dishwasher and only a small thirty-gallon
hot water heater.

This was “home” now, at least for the next four months, so
said the terms of his six month lease.

Unlocking and unbolting the front door was always a little
fun one-handed but he cheated a little with an assist from a magic spell. Once
inside, he hurriedly slammed shut the door to keep as much of the cold air
outside as possible.

Shedding his coat, he hung it on the coat rack beside the
door and moved toward the kitchen, past the small sofa and easy chair in the
living room.

Paul had the funds now to rent a bigger, nicer and newer
home in a more affluent neighborhood but he had deliberately selected this one
because it suited his need to maintain as low a profile as possible. And too,
this was a pretty crowded neighborhood, the population density higher than most
other sections of the city. Since he considered it to be a temporary
arrangement, one that bought him the time and space to consider his options and
develop a working plan for his future, he figured he could make do with the
less than optimum accommodations.

Financially, Paul was in great shape. Upon his arrival in
the United States back in January, one of his first acts had been to visit the exceptional
state of Nevada. Prospecting for gold on public lands was still lawful in the
state, no permit required. Paul had found a nice deposit on the southwest
slopes of Mount Lewis at the 5,700 foot elevation in a small dry creek bed. Using
the same methods as in Spain, he again extracted the gold using portals with a
filter exclusively set for that element. Only the gold had been extricated,
leaving the rest of the earth undisturbed.

Just as he had previously done, he again used a part of the
gold he gathered to create an amulet. However, instead of a gold bar, this time
he fashioned three pounds of it into a heavy wrist band around his right wrist.

Insufferably pleased with himself at how easily his magical
powers made him rich, Paul had actually quoted Rom, from
Star Trek Deep
Space Nine
.

“‘
Latinum lasts longer than
lust. Ferengi rule of Acquisition 229,’” he had quoted with a smug laugh, as he
admired the light glinting off his gold wrist band.

Before he could sell the rest of the gold to anyone, he had
been forced to first take the time to establish an identity. He couldn’t very
well use his own name anymore, lest Ruggiero or some other wizard track him
down. So Paul had jumped back on the internet and conducted a search of
databases of missing persons from around the United States eventually selecting
the identity of one Henry Matthew Kaufman from the state of Alaska. Paul had
been surprised to discover that, on a per capita basis, there were more missing
people from Alaska than any other state in the country. Most of this was
apparently due to the combination of really rugged terrain and terrible weather
that trapped the unwary hunter or camper in desolate locations, their bodies
often never recovered. In the case of Henry Matthew Kaufman, he had first been
reported missing over a year ago, so it seemed safe enough to use that
identity. And, since Kaufman was from Alaska, it also seemed safe enough to
assume that no one in Illinois would investigate the missing man’s background.

Forging the necessary Social Security card and Alaska state
driver’s license had been easy enough and the two documents had been sufficient
to open a bank account in Chicago. The checks from the sale of the gold to
several small businesses specializing in precious metals had added up to a cool
$260,000. However, Paul would soon need to declare some of that to the IRS and
pay a nice chunk in taxes. But that didn’t bother him much. He had squirreled away
a few additional pounds of gold in a safety deposit box in a second bank and
there was always more gold to be had from the Nevada mountain.

With the gold sold and the bank account established, Paul
had found the house on Kildare Ave, rented it and furnished the place with the
standard set of furniture and appliances. He had also added quite a few items
of clothing to his new wardrobe closet, all carefully chosen to accommodate his
new size, of course. The one and only item he had forgone the acquisition of
was a car. Buying a car, even a used one, would take a hefty chunk of cash.
Plus, he would need an Illinois driver’s license and that raised his profile
level more than he cared for. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had the need to
really go anywhere that a portal couldn’t take him.

All these activities had consumed the two last months. Well,
except for the last week, wherein Paul had declared for himself a small
vacation, taking a break from everything to recharge his “mental batteries.”

And during the last week, Paul had accomplished little else
but to rest. Ever since he acquired magical powers, his life had been turned
up-side down, threatened with death, while he was chased clear around the
world. Now he was even accused of “murdering” two men. There was no telling
what his work colleagues back at Edwards Air Force Base thought, nor the other
members of his church or his neighbors. No doubt that they were all shaking
their heads and wondering how he managed to get to Mexico City, let alone what
had happened to drive him “postal” and murder other people. It was just one
more reason why he would never be able to go back to Mojave again since it was
unlikely that he could ever explain the circumstances to anyone who knew him.
His old life was definitively over with.

A short vacation break to recover his equilibrium was
exactly what he had needed both physically and mentally and now he was itching
to do some serious planning. Paul had no intention of living in hiding any
longer than need be. And to make those plans, he needed the advice and counsel
of some super-intelligences.

After opening and heating a can of beef stew, he lowered
himself into a chair at the dining room table and solemnly chewed on his meal,
contemplating the kind of help he would need. Should he call forth a policeman,
a soldier, the CIA guy, Albert Einstein, Sherlock Holmes, Merlin or someone
else? What sort of expertise did he need?

The answer to that was a multitude of different types of
counsel. But generally what he decided he most needed was a strategist. Yes,
someone to help him plan things from a strategic point of view.

He laid the spoon down, thoughtfully staring into thin air,
formulating the words he would need.

“In the names of Ike Eisenhower, George Patton, Napoleon
Bonaparte, Stonewall Jackson, Erwin Rommel, George Washington, Horatio Nelson,
Alexander the Great, Sun Tzu, Hannibal Smith and Nate Ford, let there appear an
amalgamation of every brilliant military strategist and tactician in history in
the form of Uncle Sam, combining all of their best talents and training.”

A small ball of gray smoke appeared again in mid-air,
growing in size to form a tall, distinguished older looking man with white
hair, a red/white/blue top hat with white stars, a white shirt, a bright red
bowtie and a dark blue suit with long coat tails.

The apparition blinked and looked around the dining room.
And snorted in distain.

Then the hologram pulled up a virtual reality chair, placed his
top hat on the table next to Paul’s half eaten bowl of stew and sat down.

“Let me guess,” the renowned image announced in a grim
voice. “You are finally serious about doing something about your situation. And
that’s why you have called on me.”

Paul nodded, pushing his bowl even further away.

“Yes,” he admitted, a grim twist to his mouth. “Please. You
know my situation. All the wizards in the world want to capture or kill me. I
desperately need a plan. What should I do? Should I try to find a wizard that
won’t kill me, to join his organization? Or are there other options open to me?”

Uncle Same looked down his nose at Paul and shook his head.

“Paul,” he said slowly. “There is something you must
understand. Strategy and tactics only exist for one reason: to reach a goal.
Without a good obtainable goal, all the strategy or tactics in the world means
nothing.”

Paul nodded in understanding. “It’s simple. My first goal is
to stay alive.”

“A worthy goal, in and of itself,” the white bearded man
replied. “But as an engineer, is that all you want? For your designs to
function as long as possible? Have you no other goal for them?”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck before replying. “I totally
agree with you. Yes, there are other considerations too when designing a new
piece of equipment, not just life span or reliability. Life cycle costs, user
friendly operations, the elegance of the design, the cost to build it and
several other factors are all important too. And yes, likewise, I want my life
to mean something, more than just simply existing. But I can’t think of any
other choices open to me. Nothing workable, that is. That is why I need your
advice.”

With a very small smile, Uncle Sam nodded. “We agree then
that the quality of your life should matter to you too as well as your
contributions to others, not just maximizing your life span. Tell me also, how
do you feel, knowing that the vast majority of humanity has been manipulated
and used throughout most of human history? All the death and destruction, all
in the name of wars among a handful of wizards. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

Paul’s jaw clenched. “It…it…well, I just can’t think of the
right word. I’m enraged. And infuriated too. That answer your question?”

“And quite right you should feel that way. Until recently,
you were a Normal living in ignorance, manipulated as one of the “unwashed
masses.” You and everyone you have ever known have lived as worthless pawns
under the control of a tiny group of people. But now, for the first time in the
last several centuries of this planet’s history, you exist as a unique
individual, a man who was first a Normal and now a wizard. That should count
for something. No one else stands where you are. No one else has ever been
where you are now.” Uncle Sam’s eyes flamed. “Make it count, Paul Armstead.
Remember your American heritage, the courage of the Founders, the will of the
American people. You once said that you wanted to be a wizard in order to help
people. Think of the good that you could do now!”

Paul did a double take, staring at the specter in growing disbelief—and
even horror.