The Tower of Endless Worlds (2 page)

“No magic, Mr. Marugon,” I insisted as I pulled up to a stoplight. He couldn’t really have magic. But I remembered the strange iciness in his voice when he commanded me to drop the phone. “No magic. These are all built in factories, with machines and technology and science.”

“No magic?” he said, stupefied. “But were it not for magic, on my world, we could not survive. You men of Chicago have built all these things with machines, and science, and technology?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Astonishing,” Marugon whispered, and then he laughed. “I am making a fool of myself, like a peasant who has come to the great city for the first time, wandering about gaping at the cathedrals and the Wizards’ towers.” 

I laughed. Scared as I was, some of his utter amazement was contagious. A sudden idea took me. “Wait till you see the Loop, Mr. Marugon.” I got onto the freeway for downtown. Soon the skyscrapers came into view, the Sears Tower, the John Hancock building, and all the others. 

Marugon leaned forward. “Is Chicago built around mountains? I have never seen such strangely shaped peaks.”

I grinned. “Nope. Those are buildings.”  The Sears Tower loomed closer. We drove over the Chicago River and past the Tribune building, where you no doubt were already starting your career in yellow journalism, Mr. Carson. 

“Buildings?” breathed Marugon. “Men built these towers?”  His black eyes were wide with awe. “My gods. My gods. Stop this vehicle.” 

I looked over my shoulder. “There’s no place to park.”

He pointed at the sidewalk. “Stop on the path of gray stone.”

“That’s illegal…”

“Stop!” he snarled. “I shall ensure we are not troubled by the city guard.”

His eyes were like black pits again. I shuddered, pulled over the curb, and parked on the sidewalk. Marugon muttered something under his breath, his fingers tracing circles in the air. I shut off the engine, got out of the car, and waited for the police to come. 

Dozens of pedestrians passed. No one pointed. No one said anything. No one even noticed. A pair of cops walked past. I waited for the ticket. They did not spare me a second glance. They walked around my Yugo without noticing it. I watched them go. 

I felt the hair on my arms stand up. 

How the hell had Marugon stopped the cops from giving me a ticket?

Marugon stood on the sidewalk, his head craned back as far it would go. He spun in small circles, staring at the looming skyscrapers. 

“Pretty cool, eh?” I said.

“Astonishing,” he said. He looked at me. His face had gone paler. “Such a magnificent city. Such mighty buildings.”  He gestured at the street, busy with midday traffic. “So may of these cars. I had always thought true might lay in the black magic. But I was wrong. True power lies in your technology, Thomas Wycliffe of Chicago. Power such as my slain fellows on the Black Council could never imagine, power such as the fools on the White could not envision.”  He shook his head. “Command your car to convey me to a marketplace. I am hungry, and require food.” 

“Um,” I said. I had nine dollars in my wallet. It was going to have to be McDonald’s or Wal-Mart. I hoped Marugon did not have a fussy palate. “Yeah, sure. Back in the car, Mr. Marugon.”

We climbed inside. I started the engine, pulled off the sidewalk, and got back into the flow of traffic. No one noticed my irregular parking. 

I decided to drive to a Wal-Mart superstore across the city since it was in my price range. Marugon peppered me with questions the entire way, questions about cars, roads, engineering, technology, government, money, and history. I answered as best I could. His questions scared me. What if he was for real? Silly idea, of course. He probably just had amnesia or something. 

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way the cops had ignored my Yugo sprawled across the sidewalk. 

We got to the Wal-Mart half an hour later. The parking lot was crammed with cars, many of them in worse shape then mine. Marugon and I climbed out. People gave him and his black robes strange glances, but he seemed not to care.

“Is this an indoor marketplace of some sort?” said Marugon.

“Uh…yeah, you could say that,” I said.

Marugon shook his head, his eyes roving over the building’s length. “In my world there are villages smaller than this market. Let us proceed.” 

He stopped and looked with suspicion at the automatic doors. The old lady standing by the carts shuffled toward him, a roll of smiley-face stickers in her hand.

“Welcome to Wal-Mart…”

“Speak to me not, peasant!” said Marugon, sweeping past her. I offered an apologetic shrug to her and followed him. 

Marugon wandered in the direction of the groceries. He froze, his hands twitching, his eyes staring. He looked over the rows and rows of food-laden shelves. 

“Master Wycliffe,” he whispered. “There is so much food here. Is…this a national market, perhaps, where the farmers of your nation come to offer their wares?” 

“Uh…no,” I said. “It’s just a Wal-Mart.”

“So much food,” he said. “With such bounty, I could feed an army of thousands for months! Surely this must be a bigger market?”

“No,” I said. “There are thousands like it, all over the country.”

“Thousands?” said Marugon, his face taut. “Thousands. In my world, peasant mothers sometimes leave their children to starve, for lack of food.” He shook his head. “It is…”

“Freeze!” 

A man in a leather jacket ran through the automatic doors, his face tight with fear. He carried a pistol in his right fist. 

I made a strangled sound. 

Six steps behind him came two police officers with drawn guns. The greeter at the door shrieked. 

Marugon looked at the man. “Ah. A common thug, I see. Such vermin are endemic.” He whispered something and fluttered his fingers. 

The thug stumbled and hit the floor. The police officers leveled their guns at him. “Freeze!” 

The thug raised his gun. Both cops started shooting, blood splashing across the white linoleum. A half-dozen people screamed. The thug’s gun flew from his limp hand and spun across the floor. 

Marugon watched with fascination. 

“That wand,” he said. “That black wand. What is it?”

“A gun,” I said. I could not take my eyes from the dead man. Smoke still rose from the cops’ pistols. 

“A gun,” said Marugon. “Tell me, is such a thing an item of technology?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“All right, everyone!” yelled one of the cops, holstering his gun. “This place is sealed off. We’re going to need depositions. No one’s leaving.”

“Come,” said Marugon. “Let us be on our way.”

“But…but the cop said…uh, what about your food?”

“Do not be absurd,” said Marugon. “I have more important matters to ponder than hunger.” He muttered a word and walked for the doors, and I followed him. He walked between the two police officers, who ignored him. I screwed up my courage and ran after him. 

And once again the police ignored me.

I started to shiver a little.

“Convey me back to your domicile, peasant,” said Marugon once we had reached my car. “We have business to discuss.”

I climbed and in started the engine, still numb with fear. “Business?” 

“Yes, business,” said Marugon. I pulled out into the street. “Tell me, these…guns, the weapons the city guardsmen wielded. Are they as common as cars, as the sky-scraping buildings?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Hell, you could have bought a dozen shotguns at Wal-Mart, if you’d wanted.” 

Marugon blinked. “You mean the lords of your world permit the sale of mighty weapons? They permit common peasants to own these guns?”

“Yes,” I said. 

“Incredible. I have never seen such a potent weapon,” said Marugon. “Such power, such deadliness.” 

“What are you saying?” I said.

“Power is relative,” said Marugon. “Here, guns are deadly, but not powerful. Everyone has them, do they not? Even common ruffians. Their numbers negate their power. Similarly, magic is not so powerful in my world. It is potent, yes, but too many people know how to use it. Too many people know how to stop me.”  He leaned forward and grinned. “Give me one gun, and I shall kill all my enemies. Neither magic nor a sword can stop a gun. Give me twenty guns, and I shall conquer a small country. Give me a hundred guns, and I shall rule an empire. And give me five thousand guns, and I shall conquer my world.” 

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Marugon laughed. “I shall provide you with funds, you shall acquire guns for me, and I shall take them back to my world.” 

“Why should I do this? For gold?” I said. I was thoroughly confused. 

“No,” he said. His dark eyes glimmered like collapsed stars. “Hirelings are unreliable. You possess a cunning brain, Wycliffe of Chicago. I had planned to kill you once your usefulness ended, but instead you showed me the bounty of your world. I shall make you my partner. I shall give you power.” He laughed. “Together, we shall conquer. I shall conquer my world, and you shall rule yours.” 

“Power?” I said. “How can you do that?”

Marugon grinned. “I shall make you my apprentice. I will teach you magic.” 

“Right,” I said. “Yeah. Sure.”

Marugon laughed. 

Anno Domini 2001

Eddie clicked off his tape recorder. “That’s enough.” 

The sun had set during their interview, and the cool breeze from Lake Michigan tugged at his clothes. 

Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t even begun the interview.” 

Eddie stood. “I’ve heard enough. I’d heard you treated reporters with contempt, but this is beyond the pale. Magic? Warlocks? What, are you going pull a rabbit out of your hat next? Good day, Mr. Wycliffe. I look forward to your defeat in the election.”

Eddie stalked away.

Wycliffe sighed. “Mr. Carson.”

Eddie spun. “What?” 

“Sit down.”

His voice was cold, much colder than a politician’s genial tones.

Eddie sat. 

He blinked in surprise. Why had he done that? He had fully intended to keep walking.

Yet here he sat. 

“Don’t do that,” said Wycliffe.

“What?” said Eddie. He started to rise. 

“Hit yourself.”

Again his voice was cold, the cold of an icy wind. Or perhaps a dying star.

Eddie raised his hand and slapped himself across the face. “What the hell?”

“Sit. And don’t stand again until I’m finished with you.”  Wycliffe’s eyes were hidden in pools of shadow beneath his glasses. “You’ve been quite a problem to me, Mr. Carson. I need to win a Senate seat, if I’m to take the presidency. I’d hoped to convince you to see reason.” Wycliffe smiled. “But I’m going to turn a problem into an asset.”

“What is this?” said Eddie. He tried to stand. His legs would not move. “What did you slip in my drink, you bastard?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Wycliffe. “Do you own a gun?”

“Yes, a revolver,” said Eddie. He blanched. He hadn’t meant to answer.

Wycliffe sneered. “This is what you’re going to do, Mr. Carson. You’re going to help me win this election. You will drive to your apartment. You will fabricate a letter, a suicide note, describing your longstanding homosexual relationship with Senator Fulbright. You will express your guilt and anguish over your perversion.”  His voice grew colder and colder, and every word hammered in Eddie’s brain like thunder. “You will also describe the occasional acts of drug-fueled mayhem you and the good senator enjoyed.”

“No!” said Eddie. “This is nonsense! I won’t write lies!”

“You will,” said Wycliffe. His eyes seemed like pits into the void. “Leave the letter in plain sight in your apartment. Then drive to Senator Fulbright’s campaign headquarters. You will take your gun and shoot the first five people you see.”  Wycliffe grinned. “Except for Senator Fulbright, of course. We wouldn’t want him to miss this, would we? Once you have shot five people, you will place the gun to your temple and use the last bullet on yourself. Tell no one of this.” 

“No!” said Eddie. “I won’t do any such thing.”

“You will,” said Wycliffe. He sighed. “One of Marugon’s messengers came through the Tower today, carrying a letter. His armies captured the king of Narramore and slaughtered all his Wizards. The poor old king was hiding in the smoking rubble of his last stronghold. Marugon had a public execution, I understand. It lasted for hours. The rabble loved it. Two pieces of good news in one day. My friend and ally has triumphed, and you will win my election for me.”  He grinned. “Marugon will be an emperor. In a few weeks I’ll be a Senator, and in another decade, I’ll be President of the United States.” 

“No,” breathed Eddie.

Wycliffe fluttered his fingers. “Go.” 

Eddie ran for the parking lot. Wycliffe was insane. Eddie decided to call the police. Instead he ran past the pay phone, got into his car, and drove off for his apartment. Eddie cursed. Why had he not called the police? He decided to drive to the nearest police station and tell them everything. 

Some time later, he pulled into his apartment complex’s parking lot. 

He ran up the stairs. He decided to call the state capitol in Springfield and warn them of the threat on Senator Fulbright’s life.

He unlocked the door, stepped into the living room, and reached for his phone.

Instead, he sat down at his desk and began to write the suicide note. His hands flew over the paper. He couldn’t make them stop writing.

Eddie began to cry.

Chapter 2 - A Car Accident

Anno Domini 2002

The phone rang. 

Simon Wester yawned and ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair. The air smelled sterile and stale, having been circulated through too many PC fans, and fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His tie felt too tight against his throat, and his chair was making his back hurt.

The phone rang again. 

Simon groaned, slid his book under the keyboard, and hit the connect button on his phone. “Good afternoon, you’ve reached Marchson Appliances Customer Service. How can I help you?”

A shrill voice buzzed in his headset. “What?”

Simon stifled a wince. “This is Marchson Appliances Customer Service. How can I help you?”  There was a long pause. “Ma’am?”

“Is this Customer Service?”  The woman sounded angry. “I’ve been trying to get Customer Service all day.”

Simon glanced over his shoulder at the other service reps in their phone stations. If he strained, he could almost see out the window. “Yes, ma’am, this is Customer Service. How can I help you?”

“I’ve been on hold all day!”

Simon scratched his chin and looked at the clock. Thirty-seven minutes until lunch. “Ah…I just picked up your call, ma’am.”  He checked the call log on his computer screen. “I think this is the first time you’ve called today.”

“It isn’t!” said the woman. Simon managed not to sigh. With luck, he could get her off the line before lunch started. “I’ve tried calling five times and was on hold every time! You people are incompetent!”

A headache flared behind Simon’s eyes. “We’re dedicated to serving customers, ma’am. How can I help you?” 

“I have a problem with my blender,” said the woman. 

Simon opened a ticket on his computer and started typing. “Yes, ma’am. Ah…do you know the model number?”

The woman sounded suspicious. “It’s a blender. It doesn’t have a model number.”

“Actually, it does,” said Simon. His headache thrummed. “It should be on the bottom…”

“Blenders do not have model numbers!” said the woman. “I have a college degree, and I know better than some high-school dropout…”

Simon’s overstressed temper flared. “I have a BA from Loyola and a Master’s from the University of Constantina. Don’t lecture to me.” His voice rose, and people from nearby cubicles glanced over. 

Not good. Simon forced himself to calm down.

“Look at the blender,” Simon said. “What does it say?” 

The woman sounded miffed. “It says…a General Electric…”

Simon smirked. “Sorry, ma’am, you have the wrong company. Try General Electric’s customer service line. Have a pleasant day.”  He broke the connection, tried and failed to find a comfortable position in his chair, and looked at the clock. Thirty-five minutes until lunch. 

“Rough one, Wester?” 

Rich, the occupant of the next cubicle, peered over the wall. Balding, overweight, and middle-aged, he unfailingly reminded Simon of a mustached toad.

“You have no idea,” said Simon. “You have no idea.” 

“You impress her with the Master’s from Constantina?” said Rich, smirking. 

Simon rolled his eyes. “I really impressed her. She was so impressed that she realized her blender was from General Electric, not Marchson.”

Rich snorted. “I hate those.”  He scratched his mustache. “Still, I suppose they taught you how to deal with that in grad school?”

Simon glared. “Would you just lay off it for once?”  

“Gentlemen!” Mr. Vanderhan lumbered to a stop in front of Simon’s cubicle, glaring over his glasses. His gut bulged against his cheap suit, and as always, he wore his Customer Service Supervisor badge on a lanyard over his tie. “Marchson Appliances is not paying you to snipe at each other. Answer your calls.”

Rich disappeared into his tiny cubicle. 

Simon nodded and waited until Vanderhan returned to his office. Then he retrieved his book, a copy of the Roman historian Tacitus in the original Latin, and got back to reading. Simon intended to write his own translation one day, when he found a job that gave him time for research. He looked at the clock and sighed. Thirty-one minutes until lunch. 

Simon’s phone rang again. “Good afternoon, you’ve reached Marchson Appliances Customer Service, how can I help you?”  

An enraged female voice drilled into his ears. “I’m suing you bastards!”

Simon winced. “Ma’am, if you’ll just calm down…”

“Your toaster set my kitchen on fire!” Simon turned the volume down on his headset. “It burned my curtains and melted a hole in the wall.”

Simon blinked. “Melted? How did…”

“I live in a trailer, dumbass.”

Simon bit back the first response that came to mind. “Thank you for clarifying. Do you know what caused the toaster to start on fire?” 

“How the hell should I know? All I know is that I’m going to sue you people for every dime you’ve got! I’ll get millions, I’m going to go on Judge Judy and put you people out of business. You bastards! I just bought new curtains.”

Simon’s headache pounded. “Ma’am, how did the toaster start on fire?”

“You think I’m some sort of electrician? Goddamn it…”

“Ma’am,” said Simon, his voice hardening. A suspicion grew in his mind. “A Marchson Appliances toaster will only start on fire if someone holds down the lever while something is in the slots. Was someone holding down the lever?” 

“You burned…”

“Ma’am, did someone hold down the lever?”

“My son,” said the woman, her voice dripping with acid. 

He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice and failed. “And just what was in the toaster at the time?”

There was another pause. “A…pair of Barbie dolls.” 

“So,” said Simon. “Your son was holding down the lever while a pair of Barbie dolls were in the slots? Just why do you think the toaster started on fire? But don’t think too hard about it. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

“Don’t talk back to me!” said the woman. “A toaster shouldn’t start on fire! I’m going to sue you personally!”

Simon’s temper snapped. “You people are idiots! What did you think was going to happen?” His voice rose to a shout. “Next time, don’t put Barbie dolls in the toaster!”  He slapped the disconnect button. 

Twenty-four minutes until he could take lunch. 

He leaned back in his chair and noticed that half the office was staring at him. “What?”

“Wester.”

Simon looked over his shoulder. Mr. Vanderhan stood behind him, hands on his meaty hips. “What do…”

The back of Simon’s chair broke. He fell back with a shout, his rump hitting the floor, his legs tangling around the remainder of the chair. The other service representatives burst out laughing. 

Mr. Vanderhan did not offer him a hand. “See me in the hall. Right now.”

Simon glared at his retreating back.

###

“You’re fired.”

Simon blinked. Marchson Appliances’ call center occupied the 37th floor of the Sears Tower. Through the windows he saw taxicabs moving along the street like tiny yellow bugs. He briefly entertained the notion of shoving Mr. Vanderhan out the window.

“Why?” said Simon. 

Mr. Vanderhan snorted. “You don’t know?” 

Simon folded his arms. “No, I really don’t.” 

But he did. He wasn’t going to give Vanderhan the satisfaction, though.

Mr. Vanderhan rolled his eyes. “I’ll be blunt, Wester. You’re arrogant. You’re abrasive to the other employees. You’re consistently rude to the customers.”

Simon shook his head. “You just described yourself.” 

Mr. Vanderhan smirked. “I’m the boss. It’s allowed.”

“I am not rude to the customers,” said Simon.

Mr. Vanderhan laughed. “What did you tell the last one? She called corporate headquarters, and I got an earful about that.”

“She deserved it,” said Simon. “She was an absolute idiot. Maybe she won’t let her son shove Barbie dolls into the toaster next time.” 

“Educating people is the job of social services, which you are not,” said Vanderhan. “You are, or were, a customer service representative. Your job was to be nice to the customer. Your job was to assist the customer, no matter how big of an asshole the customer happened to be. And I don’t care how many degrees you have. It is not your job to lecture the customer.” The elevator door hissed open. Two men in security uniforms stepped out. “Look, Wester. It doesn’t matter how many degrees you have. You have to put in a day’s work like anyone else. Don’t put me down as a reference on your resume. Security will escort you from the building.”

Simon scowled. “Don’t I get to clean out my desk…”

“No. Your possessions will be mailed to you in four to six weeks. Goodbye, Wester.” Vanderhan walked away.

“Come along, sir,” said the security men. They herded Simon towards the elevator. 

Simon glanced at his watch. “It would have been lunchtime.”

The security men did not respond. 

###

Simon sat on the bus, watching downtown Chicago roll past. “It was a miserable job, anyway. No insurance, annoying customers, and a huge commute. I’m better off, really.” 

The old man sitting across the aisle ignored him. A young black woman with a child in her arms gave him an annoyed look. Simon sighed and glared out the window. 

The bus shuddered to a stop. Simon got to his feet and climbed out, the July sun beating on his head. 

He walked five blocks to a parking lot ringed with a chain link fence crowned in barbed wire. The lot’s owner rented spaces to people needing to commute via bus or the EL downtown.

“See?” Simon said as he walked to the booth. “An hour commute, and I had to pay three dollars a day in parking. I’m way better off.” 

Simon approached his vehicle, a battered red Ford Aerostar minivan that had seen better days during its 180,000 miles. A pair of pigeons perched on the roof had left their droppings all over the hood and the windshield. 

He climbed into the van and rolled down all the windows. The air conditioning had stopped working about a year ago, but the van needed a new transmission before he spent the money. Though with no job, and hence no money, van repairs would have to wait.

It took him the better part of five minutes to get the van started. He gritted his teeth and forced the sticky gearshift lever into drive, steered through the rows of parked cars, and pulled into traffic. 

###

Twenty minutes later Simon pulled into his mother’s driveway and killed the engine. 

He and his mother lived near Cicero. Like his van, the house had seen better days. It had once been a spacious six-bedroom house with a big back porch and a greenhouse. Now paint peeled in profusion from the house’s wooden walls, the roof had developed a sag, and most of the panes of the greenhouse had shattered. The house looked like a wreck more and more every day. Neither Simon nor his mother could afford to fix the place up. 

Simon climbed the broad back porch and looked over the backyard. It stretched downhill in a sharp incline, leveling out before a thick stand of tangled trees. The trees were part of small forest of about twenty acres, surrounded on all sides by suburban development. For some reason, no one had ever built on the land. Why, no one knew. The woods remained untouched as Chicago and its suburbs grew up around them. 

Simon had spent days playing in those woods as a boy. He wished he could hide there now. Though now it wouldn’t be safe. Bodies sometimes turned up among the trees, dumped by drug dealers. He turned away from the forest and unlocked the back door, screwing up his nerve. 

Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink. He walked through a spacious dining room, flaked paint crunching beneath his shoes. A closed door led to the living room. Simon opened it and coughed as a cloud of cigarette smoke washed over him.

“Close the door, boy!” Surprise colored his mother’s rusty voice. “You want me to die of heatstroke?”

“The doctor said you’re not supposed to smoke.” Simon closed the door and squinted through the smoky haze. Maura sat in her recliner, the TV blaring her afternoon soaps. The air conditioner chugged away in its window. 

Maura Wester blew out a smoke ring, ashes falling across her robe. Her gray eyes were watery and unfocused in her narrow face, but they still cut right through Simon. “The doctor is a fresh-faced pencil neck. A lot like you. I’ve outlived two doctors. I’ll outlive him.”  She picked up her remote and muted the TV. 

“I don’t care if he’s pencil neck or not,” said Simon. “You shouldn’t be smoking at your age.”

Maura smirked. “I shouldn’t do a lot of things at my age.”

Simon reached out, snatched the cigarette from her fingers, and ground it out in the ashtray. 

Maura blinked. “That was rude.”

Simon sat down on the couch. “I don’t care. It’s a filthy habit. You should have quit years ago.” 

Maura folded gnarled hands on her lap. “You’re quite right. That’s your entire problem, Simon. You’re too smart by half.”  

Simon kicked at the carpet. “It’s not my only damned problem.”  

“Simon!” Maura’s voice cracked like a whip. “Your father didn’t have many rules, but he said no foul language was to be used in this household.”

Simon looked at the wall. “Sorry, Mom.” 

Maura’s eyes gleamed. “You’re home early.” Strands of yellow-white hair skittered over her face. “Why are you home early, Simon?” 

Simon looked at the floor. “I got fired.” 

There was a long silence. Maura glanced at the TV. “How did this happen?”

Simon kneaded the arm of the couch. “I lost my temper at a customer over the phone. Mr. Vanderhan threw me out the door.”

“Simon.” That one word carried more shame, regret, and incrimination than an entire speech. He looked at the floor. For some absurd reason, he felt like crying. 

“It’s not my fault.”

She flipped through the channels. “Why not?”

“The customers are idiots. This one woman, her son put a Barbie doll in a toaster and held down the lever until it melted. She wanted a refund!”

Maura looked at the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. “You did the same thing when you were six.”