Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard (7 page)

Another sharp
crack
, this time accompanied by a
breath of air near his right ear, was enough to make him leap clear off the bed
in a single bound.
What was that?

A third
crack
, more muted, this time to his left.

Somebody was shooting at him!

He dove to the ground at the fourth
crack
, swiftly
scrambling under the four-poster bed. Wild-eyed, his eyes darted around the
area, looking for his assailant. But he saw no one or nothing unusual.

A fifth
crack
, another projectile whizzing past the
front of his face, made him wince backward, further under the bed, in shock.

A thought popped into his mind, causing him to catch his
breath.

Could it possibly be that same pebble
?

There was one quick way to find out.

Breathlessly, he gasped, “In the name of stop signs, red lights,
and traffic cops, let that blasted pebble be stopped dead in its tracks!”

There was a thud-like noise, and the pea-sized pebble was
suddenly hovering in front of his face, aimed roughly between his eyes.

• • • •

Once he managed to get himself calmed down again, Paul realized
what must have happened. Apparently, he had put way too much energy into the
spell, causing first the grains of sand and then the BB-sized pebbles to
accelerate to high speeds. That was why they had disappeared and never come
back.

The spell on the pea-sized pebble was somewhat different,
however. It too had accelerated away at a high speed, but the pebble, apparently
still under his spell, kept returning over and over again, buzzing closely past
him on each pass, until he had cast the spell to stop it. Perhaps the grains of
sand had done the same thing, but since they were much smaller, he had never
noticed their return.

Much more carefully, double-checking each step of the
process, he began again to experiment with moving pebbles around. With grim
determination, he cast his next spell.

• • • •

After an hour of magically moving gradually larger stones (and
gathering an increasing skill in doing so), he took a break to consider his
latest discovery in the use of magical powers.

“The larger the rock, the more power it takes to move it.
And it would seem that I don’t have enough oomph to move large masses. Three
pounds seems to be my upper limit,” he muttered to himself. “‘We cannot break
free, Captain. We only have a fraction of the power necessary,’” he said,
quoting Spock from
Star Trek: The Motion Picture
.

Apparently, the energy required to move the rocks had to
come from somewhere. And it seemed most likely to be coming directly from him.
Ergo, he could move small things, but not large ones.

The wizard/genie had not had that problem, Paul was sure.
Again, he was convinced that he was missing something, a vital piece of
information concerning the use of magical spells. But what was it?

The sun was hanging low to the west. This was taking much
too much time. And now that he knew his power was limited, he remained stuck where
he was. Just where would he go from here with his experiments? And most
importantly, where would he get the energy he needed for water and food, and
then the energy necessary for a means of escape from this remote location?

He was exhausted, feeling wrung out as well as discouraged,
and out of ideas. Perhaps in the morning, after some sleep, he might come up
with some other options. With a yawn, he kicked off his shoes and climbed into
bed, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Unknown location

December

Sunday, 7:06 p.m. PST (by Paul’s watch)

P
aul’s
dry throat woke him up a couple of times during the night, but both times, he
managed to get back to sleep.

As the sun peeked over the tops of the snow-capped mountains
to the east, he awoke again. After putting his shoes back on, he popped one of
the pea-sized pebbles in his mouth in an effort to slake his thirst. And he was
surprised when it actually did help.

Once again, it was a beautiful day, the sun shining in the
heavens, a minimal number of clouds hanging around the mountaintops. He was
fortunate that the weather at least was cooperating. Heaven forbid that a
blizzard descend on this place while he was still stuck here!

Paul knew that this particular day was crucial to his
survival. If he didn’t find water to drink today, then his situation would turn
nasty by this time tomorrow. Therefore, it was time to try the first option
again, namely, finding someone to train him in how to cast more complicated
spells, ones that would give him water to drink, food to eat, and a way to leave
this place and go home!

But how to do that when his powers were so limited? He
couldn’t bring anyone to his location...

Well, not physically, no. An idea stirred in the back of his
mind. Perhaps he could do a hologram. After all, light consisted strictly of
photons, which were nearly massless. Close enough for now. Perhaps he could
create a hologram of a person instead. That should involve very little in the
way of energy.

So far, that was one option he hadn’t tried yet. In theory,
it should work. But who to conjure up?

Someone with magical experience, of course. And who better
than a wizard?

He didn’t know any real wizards other than the one who had
bestowed powers on him and stranded him here. However, the hologram didn’t have
to be of a real person, did it? A fictional one might do as well. Paul tried to
think of some fictional wizards, but once again, his lack of fantasy knowledge
was a serious handicap. As a child, he had repeatedly seen
The Wizard of Oz
(what
person his age had not?), but he wasn’t interested in the Wicked Witch of the
West or the Wizard of Oz himself. And he didn’t think calling on any of the
wizards from a Disney film would be appropriate here, most of whom were
animated, anyway. There was a decent wizard in the
Lord of the Rings
series, but Paul couldn’t remember the name. Gandy or Gundolph or something
like that.

But there was one wizard’s name that everyone knew, one that
might be of some help.

Cautiously planning the phrasing of his next spell, Paul
raised his arms high and said, “In the name of Camelot, King Arthur, and the
Round Table, let a hologram of the wizard Merlin appear!”

A tiny ball of gray smoke appeared, swiftly expanding into
the form of a human being, an elderly man with a long white beard, dressed in a
purple robe fringed in white fur and an oddly shaped purple hat embroidered with
several small, yellow five-pointed stars. He looked at Paul in total surprise.

Paul smiled smugly. He was finally getting the knack of
casting successful magical spells!

Merlin looked Paul over from head to toe shaking his head in
stern disapproval. “The world’s newest wizard, I see. For ages, I have had high
expectations of meeting a new wizard, so you can understand my disappointment
at seeing you instead.” And the old man snorted in disdain. “You did well to
call on me, young man. I suppose you are wondering why you can’t make things appear,
disappear, or move. Am I right?”

“That part I already know about,” Paul admitted. “Power. As
in, I don’t have enough of it.”

Merlin snickered briefly. “You have the right of it. Your
brain cannot generate the energy needed for the spells. In the language of this
age, you only have a few joules to work with, which are a few degrees too low
to do the job.”

Paul nodded in complete understanding. “Of course. I need an
energy source and a way to tap into it.”

“The energy you need is all around you,” explained Merlin,
waving an arm. “You can access the sunlight, Earth’s gravity and magnetic
fields, the Van Allen belt, cosmic rays, and the heat of Earth’s magma below.
There is more than enough power in those sources to supply your needs. It is an
amplifier you lack that keeps you from your magic.”

“An amplifier?” Paul asked, surprised that Merlin, a person
from the Middle Ages, would know about the Van Allen belt, joules, and
amplifiers.

“To channel the power of the spell, of course,” Merlin
replied, slightly exasperated with Paul. “And you call yourself an engineer! Humph.”

Startled, Paul realized what the old wizard was referring
to. “Oh, a wizard’s amplifier? A—what do wizards call it?—a tally-ho?” Paul asked.
No, that didn’t quite seem like the right word.

“The proper word is ‘talisman.’ You need a talisman,” Merlin
explained condescendingly.

Paul looked around the plateau and sensed that things were
still not working in his favor. “I don’t see a talisman here. There’s not one,
is there?” he sadly guessed, his earlier feeling of excitement now rapidly
fading away.

“No, there’s not,” Merlin confirmed for him. “No talisman
that will let you leave this place or provide you with food or water.” He gave Paul
a firm stare. “You do have a problem.”

Paul nodded in uncomfortable understanding with a sudden
desire to sit down on the edge of the bed, which he did. A talisman, huh? Maybe
that was what that armband had been, the one that the wizard/genie had been
wearing. Or perhaps that odd-looking belt buckle on the overly large belt he
had on.

It now made perfect sense to Paul, this need for a talisman,
but it unfortunately still left him stranded. How would he escape this place? He
had the ability of a wizard, but without a talisman, he was stuck. He rubbed his
sweaty palms on his pant legs. Just how would he deal with this problem?

Paul waved a hand. “In the name of Jimmy Hoffa, Amelia Earhart,
and the Bermuda Triangle, you may disappear now.”

And Merlin faded away. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Paul
spent an hour thinking about his situation and trying to put the pieces into
perspective. Slowly, the sun moved through the sky, heading toward high noon.

Abruptly, he realized that he was making a serious mistake
and slapped his knee in annoyance. Here he had sat, for more than a day, too,
attempting to solve a complex problem, but only as Paul Armstead, the bumbling,
slow, dull-witted, mundane clod that he was.

“Idiot,” he muttered, deeply irritated with himself.

Why on Earth should he crawl when he could run? Paul now
possessed the power to make himself a great deal smarter. Indeed, he could make
Einstein look like a nursery school dropout! For a few moments, he wondered
what it would be like to have an IQ of 10,000 or more. If he made himself that intelligent,
he could make short work of resolving his current situation. Furthermore, he
could solve all his future problems and perhaps all the problems of the world!
A sudden confidence filled him with the desire to cast the necessary spell.

But a small voice internally whispered its doubt, and Paul
hesitated. Fortunately, his sanity quickly regained control. With more thought,
Paul realized that if he became that intelligent, he would most likely cease to
be human as a consequence. Moreover, he would not be Paul Armstead anymore. And
he would likely lose interest in the affairs of humanity, too.

Paul shuddered, his stomach queasy at the recognition of
what could be done with his new powers if he were not careful.

What he needed was a fine balance. He wanted to be smarter,
yes, but not so smart that it would change him into something else. Just how
smart was that? An IQ of 160? 180? How high should he go?

He chuckled as he thought of the obvious answer. His brand-new
magical powers could tell him. Let’s see. How to make this work?

Standing, he raised his arms high. “In the name of bipolar
disorder, schizophrenia, and leather couches, let a virtual reality copy of
Sigmund Freud appear before me.”

Paul waved both of his arms.

And again, a small dot of light appeared in front of him, a
little over three feet off the ground. It grew and solidified in the image of a
man wearing an old-style tweed suit with long coattails, a black vest with a gold
chain, and a gray bowtie. The man himself was balding, gray-haired, and sporting
a hefty gray beard and mustache. His visage was stern, almost foreboding, and
he carried a smoking cigar in his left hand.

“Yes, what is it that you want?” he asked Paul severely.

Paul decided not to waste any time with this guy. It was
best to get right to the point.

“I have the power to make myself more intelligent,” Paul
explained hurriedly. “On the other hand, I don’t want to go too far. I don’t
want to lose my identity. I don’t want to change my personality or lose
interest in my hobbies. I need to make myself smart enough to be able to plan
my future and use my new powers to help other people. How intelligent do I need
to be to do that?”

Freud cocked his head to one side. “Intelligence consists of
many mental capacities.” He took a drag on the cigar, studying Paul critically,
and then pointed it in his direction. “Yes, I can see that you need help in
that regard. And I agree that the more you improve yourself, the more impact
you will experience to your personality. I would recommend a two-fold approach.
Modest improvements should be made to the most critical areas of your psyche.
Then use your magical powers to create a super intelligence, a magician’s sage,
as it were, to act as a consultant during times of need. There are ample
literary examples for you to use as a pattern.”

Paul chuckled in relief. Of course. A simple solution. He didn’t
know why he hadn’t thought of it himself. He didn’t need to make himself
supersmart, not as long as he could consult with a super-being anytime he
needed to. Just like he had already done with Merlin and Freud.

“What image should I use for this superintelligence?” Paul
asked, curious about the literary examples Freud was referring to.

The old man shrugged. “There are many examples in
literature. You could use Sherlock Holmes or that fellow on the starship, the
alien with the odd name—Spock. Or, if you prefer, the mirror from
Snow White
.
Or the Wizard of Oz. Or you could continue to depend on Merlin. Or any of dozens
of other examples.”

Freud was right. There were many choices to choose from. Paul
planned to think more about the possibilities later.

“What upgrades do you recommend for me?” Paul asked
pensively, interested to know the man’s opinion of his mental capabilities.

The doctor considered the issue for a moment. “I suggest a
40% increase in both short-term and long-term memory, a 15% increase in
heuristic logic and intuitive functions, and a 20% increase in cognitive
recognition capability. There is a minor, but noticeable skew in your time
synchronization and situational awareness capacities that needs correction.
Also, a 30% increase in precognitive functions, a 25% increase in linguistics
generation, and a 15% increase in imaginative adaptability.”

Paul stared at him in near shock, the blood draining from
his face. “That’s what you think of as ‘modest improvements?’ Zounds! Okay,
okay, that sounds like the complete list.” He raised an arm.

Freud waved both of his frantically. “No, no, not here, not
now, not all at once!
Zum Kuckuck noch mal!
(For crying out loud!) Are
you trying to kill yourself?!”

Paul lowered his arm and tucked both of his hands into his
pants pockets while he avoided Freud’s eyes. “Oh. Okay. What would you
suggest?”

“You must do this incrementally, or the stress on your brain
will kill you for sure,” Freud snapped with a disdainful scowl. “Any idiot
should know that!”

“Okay. Thank you, Herr Doktor. I will tackle this
incrementally. Goodbye.” Paul snapped his fingers, suddenly glad that the
conversation was finished.

Dr. Freud faded from sight.

Startled, Paul realized that he had not actually spoken the
incantation necessary to make Freud go away. Yes, he had visualized it, thought
of the words, and snapped his fingers, but he had not said the words out loud.
It was a sure sign that he was getting better and more accustomed to casting
spells.

But back to the issue at hand, namely, making himself
smarter.

So, this might be dangerous? Okay, slow and careful Paul
would be.

He went over and lay on the bed.

“In the name of
Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune
, and
The
Price is Right
, may five percent of the recommended modifications be made!”
he said apprehensively, casting the spell.

A sudden explosion of pure pain erupted in his head. He closed
his eyes, the palms of his hands pressed tightly against his temples. God, the
pain! Wave after wave of it beat against him, all the muscles in his body
spasming in concert, and he cried out for relief.

Then the pain slowly started to fade. Paul gritted his teeth
and endured as best as he could. After a few minutes, he was able to open his
eyes again. Slowly, his muscles began to relax, leaving behind a whole series
of dull aches and twinges.

And that was only five percent.

• • • •

Rubbing his throbbing temples, Paul tried hard to test his
supposed new mental powers, but he failed to find any discernible difference in
his mental processes. Oh, sure, he had only implemented five percent of the
doctor’s recommendations, but he thought he would feel
something
different!

On the other hand, he shook his head and closed his eyes,
relieved to discover that he still felt like Paul Armstead. At least, as far as
he could tell, he was still him. Thankfully, he hadn’t made things worse for
himself.