Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard (25 page)

For several moments, Uncle Sam stared at Paul without
expression. “So, if you defeated the wizards of
Errabêlu
,
you would enslave the Normals too?”

Paul jerked back in shock. “NO!” Then more calmly, “No, of
course not, that is not—”

“Do you intend to start more wars and other armed conflicts,
to kill off Normals in batch lots?”

These questions embarrassed Paul, and he felt his face flush
red in frustration.

“NO, of course not!” Paul replied heatedly. “I simply
meant—”

“Preventing the slaughter of Normals is
not
arrogance,” Uncle Sam declared sternly. “It will
not
put you in the same
category as the wizards of
Errabêlu
,
not even remotely so. And you can’t consult them, the people of Earth. You
can’t ask their opinions.”

Paul opened his mouth to object but slowly closed it as the
truth of what the strategist was saying rang home.

Uncle Sam nodded with conviction. “That’s right, Paul. You
can’t conduct opinion polls or form focus groups to find out how the Normals
feel about the wizards and whether they want to be free of wizardly control. To
get their honest opinions, you would first have to explain the situation to
them. And of course, you would have to do so while all the other wizards are
trying to kill you. Not only would your efforts to tell the Normals be wasted,
but the truth is that they must never learn about magical powers. And I think
you know why, too, don’t you, my boy?”

Yes, Paul did, although he didn’t know why it hadn’t
occurred to him before. But the thought of what could happen...what
would
happen, if people all over the world suddenly learned that magical powers
really existed. There would be riots and witch-hunts. There would be demands
made by every Normal on Earth to be given those powers, first for self-defense,
but then conditions would devolve into global fighting, magic being used to
wipe out one’s potential enemies before they could strike first. Yes, indeed,
there would be death and destruction on a scale that would make World War II
look like a church bake sale. No, the superintelligence was right. Paul
couldn’t reveal to the people of Earth that magic was real. Maybe someday, when
they were ready for it. But definitely not now.

“You are concerned about arrogance,” Uncle Sam continued.
“Was it arrogant for William d’Aubigny, Roger Bigod, and the Council of Barons
to force King John of England to sign the Magna Carta? Was it arrogant for
George Washington, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and the other Founding
Fathers to stage the rebellion against Great Britain? Or for Thomas Jefferson
to write the Declaration of Independence? Was it arrogant for Abraham Lincoln
to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, freeing the slaves, during the American
Civil War?” He glanced over at Paul, his eyes sorrowful. “I can keep this up
for hours, Paul, citing historic examples by the score. Where would the people
of the United States be if these and other men and women had not challenged the
wrongs of kings and governments, if they had lacked the courage and the faith
in their convictions, or if they had been paralyzed into inactivity by some
inane desire not to appear conceited?”

Uncle Sam’s words made Paul feel very uncomfortable and
childish.

“But none of those men were arrogant!” he feebly protested.
“It was just their destiny to do what they did....”

Uncle Sam laid his hand on Paul’s arm, shaking his head.

“Paul,” he said firmly, a stern look in his eye. “Just
because some boring history teacher in a high-school class taught you a few
names and dates does not give you the right to assume that history was a
preordained sequence of events leading up to your current life! That George
Washington was fated to win the Revolutionary War so that you could be born and
live in the here-and-now. Now, that’s true arrogance, to pretend that the men
and women of history were not real people, with real fears, doubts, weaknesses,
trials, and failures, as well as successes. To ascribe their accomplishments to
destiny is to
rob
them of who they were as real people and make them
into cardboard caricatures without souls or free will. Please, don’t do that!
They were no more destined to do what they did than you are right now! They
were no less real than you, and what they did took true strength and courage.
Don’t take that from them and ascribe it to
destiny
! And don’t you dare
use that pitiful excuse to absolve yourself of the responsibility to do what
must be done
now
. Do you think that your doubts, your humility, and your
weaknesses are
greater
than theirs? That the odds you face are
worse
than what they faced?”

Paul opened his mouth but found himself to be speechless. He
was stunned by Uncle Sam’s recrimination. The hologram was right. It was
arrogant for him, in this day and age, to look back on history and assume that
the events of the past were foreordained to occur just because it justified who
he was and the way people lived now. He hung his head sadly and gulped.

With a sigh, Uncle Sam took a half step back. “I can still
sense your reluctance to take on this admittedly Herculean, perhaps even fatal
task. Apparently, your freedom and the freedom of the world is not quite enough
motivation for you. So let me give you another reason to do so. You know that
the wizards of
Errabêlu
are good at
starting wars. To name just two such conflicts, there were 16 million deaths in
World War I and 65 million in World War II. And millions upon millions more in
hundreds of other conflicts, all because of those monsters.”

Paul frowned in confusion. “But those wars and conflicts are
in the past. I can’t change those. Are you suggesting that I exact some sort of
revenge for those deaths?”

The apparition smiled sadly at him. “No. You are missing the
point entirely. Yes, all those deaths are in the past. But
Errabêlu
isn’t finished yet, Paul. Even now,
those evil monsters are building toward the next great conflict.”

Paul’s eyes opened in total shock. “The next great
conflict...?!”

The superintelligence nodded slowly and sorrowfully. “In as
little as ten years, but not more than fifteen, World War III will begin. And
in that war, a lot of nuclear weapons will be used. In fact, the war will
begin
with the use of a nuclear weapon in a major city.” He stared at Paul with steel
in his eyes. “A war that will eventually kill over 500 million people. And of
those, over 26 million will be Americans.”

The blood drained from Paul’s face, and he froze in shock.
500
million
people? To be killed in World War III? He didn’t doubt the
apparition’s information for a millisecond. He knew without hesitation that the
strategist was telling him the truth.

“What’s more important, Paul?” Uncle Sam asked quietly.
“Your self-centered desire not to appear arrogant? Your freedom? Your
life
?
One person against 500 million?” He paused, but only for a moment. “You are the
only person in a position to halt this tragedy, to save the lives of 500
million souls. Yes, you risk death. But ask yourself how you can look at
yourself in a mirror if you don’t at least
try
to stop it!”

Uncle Sam favored him with a poignant look. “There’s one
more reason why you should do it, Paul. Not just for the people of Earth, but
also for yourself. I know what you have been feeling in your heart. I
understand that you feel like you’ve wasted your life in pursuit of the
American Dream. And I know why you feel that way, too. All your life, Paul,
you’ve done what others have expected of you. You’ve followed their agendas and
done what they’ve required of you. And you’ve never questioned it. You’ve never
been challenged by any of it before. You’ve drifted through life, never taking
control of your destiny, never making the hard choice, never tackling the
seemingly impossible, and never once setting an unachievable goal for yourself
or allowing yourself to live your own dreams. At least, not until you met the
man who gave you your powers.”

Uncle Sam stared earnestly into Paul’s eyes. “Ever since you
were given magical powers, what have you felt? What do you think of your life
now? Look deeply within yourself before you answer.”

Paul had no need to think about it. He knew the answer the
moment he was asked the question.

“I’ve never been happier in my whole life,” he quietly
admitted to the phantom, surprised at his own words.

“There’s your answer,” Uncle Sam pointed out. “‘The illogic
of waste. The waste of lives, potential, time, resources. If change is
inevitable, predictable, beneficial, doesn’t logic demand that you be a part of
it? One man can change the present. What will it be? Past or future? Tyranny or
freedom? It’s up to you. In every revolution, there’s one man with a vision!’”         

The words of Captain Kirk to Spock in the episode “Mirror,
Mirror” were decidedly and terrifyingly appropriate. Paul eyed the hologram,
nodding in appreciation.

But a fear gripped Paul’s heart and squeezed it in a vise.
Clearly, in his near-death vision, his parents had wanted him to return to
Earth and to help the people there. And that was his desire too, now that they
and Uncle Sam had helped him to look within himself, to point out things about
himself that he should have already known.

“Thank you, Uncle Sam,” Paul told him. “I’d like to talk to
Merlin again, please.”

Once again, the holographic image morphed back into Merlin.

“It’s time to leave now,” Paul announced.

Merlin shrugged. “You suffered a major injury. You need to
rest, to recuperate.”

Paul lay back on his incredibly comfortable pillow, still
feeling very tired. “I can’t stay here. The police and the doctors are going to
ask me a lot of questions that I’d rather not have to answer. Tell me, do they
know my name?”

“No. Neither the police nor the hospital staff knows your
name. Your wallet and ID were taken from you. You are listed on the chart as
James Doe, whoever that is. Funny thing, there are two other Does in the
hospital too, a John Doe and a Julian Doe. Humph. Anyway, the thieves took your
gold wristband, your wallet, and your credit cards. They hit the maximum
spending limit about five hours ago.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened. “Can we track them
down?”

Merlin looked at him without expression. “You made a pledge
not to kill.”

“And I will keep that pledge. But I am tired of playing the
part of the helpless victim,” Paul told him with steel in his voice. “Tell me,
what time is it?”

For a moment, it looked like Merlin might object, but he
nodded instead. “Four o’clock in the morning.”

“Great.”

Grasping the handrail of the bed, Paul cast a spell, pulling
the two IVs from his arms. Another spell helped lever him up and to the edge of
the bed.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked Merlin as he cast a glance
around the room. There didn’t seem to be a place that his clothes might be
kept.

“They didn’t survive the attack,” Merlin informed him with a
shrug. “The left shoe might be salvageable if you can get the blood out. I know
a spell or two that you can try, but for one shoe, it’s sort of pointless,
don’t you agree?”

“You’re a big help,” Paul muttered. The hospital gown he was
wearing was typical of its kind, reaching down to mid-thigh, but with a breezy
slit all the way up the back.

Beside his bed was a small nightstand, and on the middle
shelf was a bedpan.

Paul smiled. “Perfect.”

He grasped the object, the cool feel of aluminum in his
hand. There wasn’t enough of the metal for a portal, but there was more than
enough to create a spell of invisibility.

“In the name of the invisible monster of
Forbidden Planet
,
Claude Rains, and
Pete’s Dragon
, may a cloak of invisibility surround
me.”

And it did.

• • • •

Shivering and feeling a bit self-conscious (a cool breeze up
one’s backside tended to do that to a fellow), Paul ambled slowly down the
hallway, favoring his right side. He took the elevator down, getting a funny
look from one of the orderlies when the elevator opened on the main floor
without anyone apparently inside.

And then he walked out the front doors, slowly maneuvering
down the cold concrete steps.

“Ah, that will do,” he muttered when he spotted the stone
statue out in front.

The statue allowed him to create a portal, returning the
bedpan to the hospital room. Another one took him to the bedroom of his rental
house, where he fell into bed and was fast asleep in seconds.

Chicago, Illinois

North Lawndale

West 18
^th
Street

March

Sunday, 5:58 p.m. CST

T
he
street was empty and poorly lit. The brick buildings were dark, their windows
covered over with steel plates, their metal doors padlocked and secure. Paul
stood in an adjacent parking lot, small spots of ice and snow still on the
asphalt from the storm early the previous week.

Beside him in his deerstalker cap and long gray coat stood
Sherlock Holmes.

This part of the city was dirty and very poorly maintained.
It depressed Paul just to be here, to see the squalor.

Shivering, partly from the cold and partly from a state of
excitement, Paul nodded toward the building across the street. “They are in
there?”

Holmes nodded in return and said, “In a conference room on
this side. The owner of this business is a relative of one of the gang leaders,
and he lets them use this place sometimes after hours.”

Gangs. Paul shuddered, glancing down at the three-pound
wristband of 24-karat gold he wore, a replacement to the one that had been stolen
from him in the mugging. This gold band should be enough of an amulet to allow
him to deal with a large group of Normals, even if they were armed. He had been
smart to keep some gold in a safe-deposit box for emergencies. It had been
relatively easy to retrieve the gold and then use it to fashion this band—far
easier than making another trip to Nevada, considering his fragile physical
state.

“How many are in there?” he asked the detective.

Holmes squinted. “Seven. One is on guard near the side door.
Everyone else is in the meeting.” He glanced at Paul. “Merlin insists that you
do not overly exert yourself.”

Angry at the men inside the building, Paul ground his teeth
for a moment. “This will only take a few minutes, and then we will go home.”

• • • •

A portal took him directly into the conference room. Six
young men in various shoddy, but brightly colored items of clothing were in the
room, four of them seated around the small table and two others standing. The
ones that were standing were shouting at each other.

Paul’s appearance sent all six into a frantic scramble. Shanks,
machetes, and one handgun instantly materialized.

“Who are you?” screamed one of the men, the man Holmes had
described to Paul as the local gang leader, Carlos Salazar. “How did you get in
here?”

“Jeffe!” shouted one of the other gang members. “He’s the un
with the gold and muny!”

Paul looked over and confirmed that the speaker was indeed
one of his assailants, the one who had stabbed him, Mateo Fuentes. His cohort
in crime, Armando Ortego, was also in the room.

Carlos relaxed a little and started to laugh in a sinister
manner. “Is that so?”

“I want my money back, you bloody thieves!” Paul hissed, his
face a scowling mask.

The rest of the men in the room laughed.

Carlos pointed to one of the gang members. “Federico, go
make sure that no one came with this retard.”

Federico went out the door. Now there were only five of them
left to deal with. They really didn’t understand how badly outnumbered they
were.

“I thought you said you killed him,” Salazar remarked to
Fuentes.

Fuentes shrugged. “Let me do ‘im again. This time fur sure!”

Salazar nodded. “Yes, we have more important things to do.
Throw the body in a crate, and later we’ll haul it over to the river and dump
it.”

Ortego and Fuentes started in Paul’s direction, but he
raised his right hand and cast a spell, blocking all voluntary nerve impulses
from everyone else’s brains. Now, all the thugs in the room were locked into
position, unable to move a single muscle. Oh, their hearts still beat, their
lungs still breathed, and they could still blink and move their eyes. But that
was it. It was an idea Paul had lifted from the
Star Trek
episode “By
Any Other Name.”

Stepping over to Fuentes, Paul slapped him hard in the face.
He could see the confusion in the man’s eyes as he strained to move without
effect.

With a wave of Paul’s hand, folded money and wallets
appeared from the pants and shirt pockets of all the gang members. The wallets
fell away, and all the money floated over to him. He counted it.

“Only a few hundred,” he muttered.

Pocketing the money, Paul stretched out his right hand. A
baseball bat with a red halo appeared in his grip.

“It’s time some justice was dispensed,” Paul said with
sadistic pleasure as he hefted the bat.

Stepping around Fuentes, Paul lined it up. And he swung it
hard, hitting the gang member in the back, level with his left kidney.

The jailbird folded up like a rag doll, hitting the floor
with a dull thud, where he lay unmoving and unconscious.

“It’ll take you a few days to recover from that, you
degenerate bag of fecal matter!” Paul thundered.

Then Paul stepped over to Ortego.

The felon’s forehead was beaded with sweat, his eyes full of
fear.

Paul smiled sweetly at him. “Your turn!” he told him
pleasantly.

He swung his bat a second time, this time impacting Ortego’s
nose. Blood splattered all over the man’s face and down his shirt, the force of
the bat knocking him to the floor, where he also lay unconscious and unmoving.

The bat faded away, and Paul moved to stand in front of
Salazar, looking him over for the first time.

He was lanky, with long, curly black hair, brown eyes
touched with fear, and a thin face with a large Adam’s apple.

Paul regarded him thoughtfully. “In the name of Spock, Lyta
Alexander, and
My Favorite Martian
, may an avatar of this man be
created, one who will tell me his innermost thoughts.”

A familiar ball of light appeared, growing in size until an
exact duplicate of Salazar stood beside him. The real Salazar stared at the
apparition in complete shock.

Paul turned to the avatar.

“Do you swear to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth, so help you God?” he asked amiably.

The avatar of Salazar appeared totally indifferent to the question.
“Yes,” it answered without emotional inflection of any kind.

Paul nodded and grimly smiled in satisfaction. “Your gang
stole nearly $3,500 and a gold wristband from me. Where is the rest of my money?
And where is my gold?”

“We sold the gold and spent the money,” it responded. “On
various items. Booze, gambling, girls—that sort of thing.”

“Too bad,” Paul muttered in disappointment. “Tell me
something. If I left now, what would you do about me? After all, I have shown
you that I am no ordinary man. In the future, would you leave me alone?”

The avatar looked Paul in the face and said, again without
emotion, “I would hunt you down like a dirty dog. I would flay you with a very
dull knife and leave your carcass in the street for the birds to chew on.”

Paul nodded, not surprised. “Yes, I’ve embarrassed you in
front of your men. You can’t afford to let me walk the streets unharmed. Very
well, let what is about to happen to you be on your shoulders.”

The real Salazar was staring at Paul as if he were some sort
of bug-eyed alien. With a wave of the wizard’s hand, a small handgun tugged
free of the gang leader’s waistband behind his back and floated around him,
headed in Paul’s direction.

Sherlock Holmes materialized nearby. Paul let the gun float
into the hologram’s hands instead.

Holmes studied it.

“Hi-Point CF-380, polymer frame, 8-round magazine, thumb
safety, rear peep sight, 3.5-inch barrel, weighs 29 oz. Inexpensive, but very
reliable.” He took a whiff of the barrel. “And recently fired.”

Salazar now stared at Holmes in complete stupefaction.

“You can’t kill him,” Holmes remarked, passing the gun to Paul.
“He may be a psychotic low-life, but you can’t kill him.”

“‘And I think calling him that is an insult to the psychotic
low-life community,’” Paul said, quoting Mal of
Firefly
. “But I can’t just
let him go, either.”

Paul considered the avatar again. “Have you ever killed
anyone?”

“Yes, of course,” the avatar responded tonelessly.

Paul nodded at the shank that was still in the real
Salazar’s left hand. “With that?”

The avatar shrugged. “Yes. Two people, of other gangs. I’ve
cut up a few others with it, too.”

“How about the gun? Have you ever killed anyone with the
gun?”

“Yes. One person, a store owner in North Lawndale. I shot a
cop with it, but he lived.”

“That should do it,” Holmes breathed with a sigh of relief.
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands now.” And the British detective faded from
sight.

Paul flicked a finger, and a smartphone came out of the real
Salazar’s pants pocket, floating through the air until it landed in the hands
of the avatar.

“Make the call,” Paul told it, an evil gleam in his eye.

The avatar pressed 911 and held the phone up to one ear. “Hello?
My name is Carlos Salazar. I am the leader of the
Tormenta
Gang,
and
I am wanted by the police for murder, armed robbery, and grand theft. I’m
sitting here in Crain’s Shipping Company on West 18
^th
Street, and
I’m armed. You’d better send lots of cops and a SWAT team too, ‘cause I’m going
to kill every cop I see, just like I shot that cop over in Douglas Park six
months ago. Bring ‘em on, suckers; I’ll kill ‘em all.”

The avatar faded away, the phone falling to the carpeted
floor and bouncing once.

Salazar looked like he was going to faint dead away.

Paul grinned at him and took him by the right arm. “‘Now let’s
just turn right around. We’re going to walk this way. You just sit right down
right there and have a little nap,’” he said, borrowing the words from Gary
Seven in the
Star Trek
episode “Assignment: Earth.”

Salazar did as he was bid, curling up on the carpet near a
wall, falling instantly to sleep. Paul leaned over and tucked the gun into
Salazar’s right hand.

Paul straightened up and gazed at the other two men still
standing in the room, their eyes as big as saucers.

“‘You’re tired. Go to sleep,’” Paul quoted from the same
Star
Trek
episode. They too dropped to the floor and were soon fast asleep.

He waited for a few minutes until he could hear the sound of
sirens in the distance. The two gang members who had been acting as sentries
burst into the room, and with a wave of his hand, Paul immediately put them to
sleep too.

When he heard the screech of tires outside, he opened a
portal and stepped through.

Deeply content with his performance, Paul knew that Salazar
and his pathetic gang would never bother anyone ever again.

• • • •

When he returned to the house on South Kildare Avenue, Paul
climbed into bed and slept peacefully for the rest of the night. Upon getting
up the next morning, he felt much better, both physically and mentally.

Paul knew that he had just done the world a small favor and
made it a little safer of a place to live in. That familiar warm glow in his
heart was back.

He didn’t feel like eating breakfast, so he just skipped it.
Instead, he sat on the sofa in the living room. It was now time for him to take
total control of his life, to be more than he had ever been before.

Clearing his throat, Paul uncomfortably muttered, “Uncle
Sam, would you like to join me? I would like to talk to you.”

The image of the tall, bearded man with the odd top hat
returned. Once again, the hologram doffed his hat and sat in a holographic chair,
this time in front of the sofa.

Feigning a half-smile, Paul said. “I’ve thought about what
you told me in the hospital room. And I accept your challenge—and the words of
my parents.”

A fire was lit in Paul’s belly, and he straightened his
back. “I am tired of being chased,” he snarled with grim determination. “I am
tired of being a victim, and I am tired of being manipulated.” He looked up
into Uncle Sam’s eyes, his own full of flames.

“All of that changes
now
!” he declared firmly. “I want
a plan, a brilliant plan, a plan with the maximum chance of success. I
want...no, I demand a plan that will stop the other wizards from chasing me and
trying to kill me. A plan that will let me use my powers to help others. Tell
me, Uncle Sam, what are my options?
All
my options this time, if you
please.”

The strategist nodded slowly. “In general, you have very few
options that will accomplish the goals that you have just specified. For
instance, you cannot remain in hiding, even if you were to upgrade
your...accommodations, since the other wizards will continue to look for you.
And you can’t be of assistance to very many people while you are constantly
looking over your shoulder. You cannot join forces with another wizard, because
eventually, their inflated ego will tire of your philanthropy and they will
kill you for it. Or you will have to align yourself with
their
goals,
which means that you will not be able to help the Normals.”

Uncle Sam returned Paul’s steely-eyed glare. “I can think of
no other viable option open to you. You must take on the wizards of
Errabêlu
. Once they are out of your way, you
will be free to provide aid and succor to the poor and needy.

“The brilliance of any plan,” the apparition continued, “is
to take care of all the details, no matter how small, and to do so in a timely
matter. At the moment, you are still weak from the stabbing and your arm still needs
to finish its healing process. Therefore, we will concentrate on creating the
plan first and leave any action for later.”

Thoughtfully, Paul nodded in agreement. “That sounds
logical.”