Fugue, page 27
I went into the barn and left him to his batting practice.
Phoebe came out to the barn and found me welding. She didn’t say anything, only watched as the horse took shape. It wasn’t a fast process, and maybe that helped. I had time to think about exactly what I wanted to do next. The framework was in scale, though, and in proportion.
I was never a sculptor. Have I eaten enough of them to have some rudimentary skills? Or do I need to dissect the correct brain bug? Come to that, can I find a particular brain-bug? Can I sort them by skill set? There’s another project for later.
Phoebe sat down by my worktable and considered the horse. I dialed down the welding flame.
“What do you think?”
“It’s better than I could do,” she admitted.
“How do you know?”
“We did some sculpting in art class.”
“Oh.”
“You’re pretty good, Pop. It’s Gus, right?”
“No. And fetch me something to beat you with.”
She giggled and patted me on the shoulder.
“There, there, Pop. Of course I’m kidding. It’s a cow.”
I growled and she giggled again.
“I know it’s a horse, or will be. It’s coming together rather well,” she added, finally. “How did you get it to stand up? I mean, before you had all the legs on.”
“I started with those discs for the hooves and built up from there. Once I had the legs, I added connectors as part of the body. It’s a ground-up method.”
“It works. Is it for Bronze?”
“If she wants it.”
“Seems too small for her.”
“That’s for her to decide. It’s too big to stick on the fridge.”
“It’s bigger than the fridge,” she observed. “Can I ask a question?”
“Another one?’
“You know what I mean, Pop.”
“Ask away.”
“Jimmy’s making a racket in the back yard. I don’t mind, as such, I guess, but it’s usually a choonk from your pitching machine and sort of a thump as the ball hits the netting and backstop behind him. Twice, now, there’s been a crack! as he gets a piece of one. How long is this going to go on?”
“I’m guessing every day, maybe most of the day, until team tryouts.”
“For the school baseball team? Pop, tryouts are over. They’re already in summer practice.”
“This year, yes. He knows he’s awful. He’s got time.”
“He’ll need it!”
“Good thing he has it, then.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes and went back into the house. I went back to sculpting.
Later that night, I fired up my own mirror and spied on Chuck. He was still in the hospital. He wasn’t in restraints, but he also wasn’t discharged. Was it something I said?
Saturday, June 13th, 1959
I check in on Chuck periodically. Mostly, it’s because I want to be aware of any plans he has for being a dickhead. Partly, I had a faint hope of getting a clue as to who played mind games with him. I don’t like altering people’s free will. People should have the ability to make choices. And to suffer for them, if they decide to. The point is they get to decide what they believe and how hard they believe it.
Given what Firebrand and I could make out, it seemed to me Chuck had been programmed and sent on his way. I didn’t keep a constant watch on him, obviously, but nobody interfered with him again. This raised questions of whether or not he was being monitored by his manipulator. Was there some psychic link? If so, why wasn’t Chuck back to being a thorn in my metaphorical side? If not, how did the manipulator keep track of his actions? Did he bother to keep track? Was Chuck just a wind-up toy, sent off to make mischief? If so, why?
I dislike having immediate, important questions with no answers.
On Saturday afternoon, Jim’s father drove him over well before game time. Rodney was sitting in the shade of the barn with Phoebe, eating his sandwiches, gulping down water, and drying off. He’s allowed to use the hose to rinse himself and cool down. Mowing a yard in summer is never a good time. Phoebe drew on the barn wall, explaining how fractions work while he ate.
Closer to the house, Jim fired up the pitching machine. Mr. Abbott and I watched for the length of one smoke of his pipe.
“Mr. Abbott?”
“Mmm. Yes. Mr. Kent.”
“Pleased to see you again. How do you like it?”
“It’s ingenious. Hard on the boy’s hands, though.”
“He shows determination,” I replied. I wondered what he meant by ‘ingenious.’ Did they not have batting cages? Or did he mean the pitching machine?
“Mmm. A good sign,” he agreed, but his tone wasn’t approving. “He’ll need it. Takes after his mother, that one.”
“If I may ask, do you have any idea why he’s so determined to make the baseball team?”
“I’d say it’s down to me,” he admitted, quietly, puffing on his pipe. “I made it into the majors and promptly got drafted into the Army. Then a mortar told me to sit out the rest of my innings.” He shrugged. “I had a promising career as a baseball player. Now I’ve as good a one as a banker. Less running around, though.”
“I haven’t noticed a limp.”
“After the surgeons patched me up, I was good enough, but ‘good enough’ isn’t a pro. I’ll never run as fast or hit as well as I did.” He puffed on his pipe. “I’ll never pitch at all,” he added, quietly. “Not even for my boy.”
“I see. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he assured me. He puffed his pipe a few more times to be sure it was out, then knocked it, left-handed, against the heel of one shoe. “James says you tell stories around the table?”
“Interactive stories. They get to say what some of the characters do. It’s like making up a radio play as you go along. It’s fun.”
“Mmm. Not sure I approve. He talks about goblins and dragons and spells and such. A boy ought to have more important things on his mind than silly notions about fairytales and what-have-you.”
“Believe me, they use math and science a lot. You’d be amazed how physics is involved in calculating a catapult trajectory. Or a baseball trajectory.”
“Mmm. Perhaps. He seems to like it, but I never cared much for stories or for science. Just baseball. Then accounting, when I had to pick something else. How’s my boy doing in this batting cage of yours?”
“You said something about him taking after his mother? I take it she’s not very athletic?”
“Clumsy as a hog on ice.”
“Ah. Yes, he takes after his mother.”
“I was afraid of that. You gave him the stuff for his hands?”
“I did.”
“I almost wish you hadn’t. He’d give up on his foolishness sooner. He should stick to his books. He’s got no talent for baseball.”
“Maybe not. Skill can make up for a lot of talent.”
“I suppose we’ll see. Will he also be batting tonight, after your story-time?”
“I don’t know. I’d guess so. He hasn’t worn the shine off the new toy. He’ll stop being so enthusiastic after a while.”
“Mmm. Yes. Well, have him phone me when he’s done, would you?”
“Of course, Mr. Abbott. Unless Phoebe or I run him home. It would be no trouble.”
He nodded his thanks and we walked around the house to his car, a big, black 1956 Ford Continental. Bronze once told me she liked it, but acknowledged it would need a lot of upgrades before she would be happy wearing one. We had no plans to get one, but she appreciated the look of the thing. Mr. Abbott drove off and Firebrand piped up.
Boss?
“Yo.”
You’re being watched.
I switched to purely mental communication and thought back, Where? Who? Why? And like that.
I don’t know. One person. A man. He’s in the woods alongside the dirt road. He’s got distance-glasses and he’s watching. I can’t get a good read on him from here.
He’s watching with binoculars, not a rifle scope?
Correct.
Then I don’t think I care. We don’t do anything out where people can see. Unless—is he trying to see through the windows?
He’s watching you.
Hmm. I went inside. “How about now?” I asked.
He’s watching the house, but he isn’t using the lenses anymore.
“I’m starting to be curious, but I don’t have a good excuse for jumping him this instant.”
You also have your game shortly. You can’t reliably contain him in the basement in a way the young people won’t notice.
“I really need to do more work on the voidstation,” I groused.
Only if you want it to be useful.
“You are sometimes a great help,” I told it, “but only sometimes. I’ll get on it.”
I could be more help, it suggested.
“Oh?”
I hear there’s a war on in Tauta, yes?
“Not exactly. Would you like to set more people on fire?”
Who wouldn’t?
“Sometimes when you ask a question, it says more about you than the answer.”
While I set things up in the dining room, Phoebe and Bronze ran Rodney home before swinging around to pick up Cameron. The other players trickled in, always a little early, before Phoebe returned. She muscled the wheelchair out of the trunk and Cameron wheeled himself up the back ramp. Once inside, Phoebe held his chair in place and he stood up to transfer himself from the wheelchair to a regular chair.
Cameron blushed when everyone applauded. Even Jim. It hurt for him to clap his hands. He spent the last couple of days swinging a heavy stick until his hands were raw and blistered, but he still came back for more.
After that, it was kind of anticlimactic. All we did was locate and assault—stealthily, over the paladin’s objections—a fortress occupied by ogres. Elwood’s cleric cast a silence spell so the clanking, armored types didn’t give anyone away. They managed to clear out half a dozen ogres inside the dilapidated structure before one managed to raise the alarm. The rest came running. It was a fight, but they already chopped the total force by a third, piece by piece, before the real fight started. Combined with area effect spells to soften up the gathered enemy and a good choke point to limit access, it worked. Even the looting was fairly routine.
If they hadn’t got the ogres’ shaman in their sneaking, it might have been very different. Oh, well.
Perry—or his wizard—suggested they claim the old fortress as their own.
“I’m getting to the point I’ll need a laboratory, guys. I gotta do spell research. And I need a lab if I’m going to enchant stuff.”
“Why is the fortress abandoned?” Elwood asked.
“Because we killed the ogres,” Cameron suggested.
“That’s not what I meant! Why was it abandoned in the first place?”
“Because there were ogres?” Perry asked.
“Cut it out, both of you!” Elwood ordered. “My point is someone built this fortress and then left it here. —and don’t say they left it because it was too heavy to bring! Why did they go to the trouble of building it and then leave it?”
“Good question,” I replied. “The ogres were the new owners, but they aren’t talking.”
“Do we summon them up and ask their ghosts?” Perry asked. “Elwood’s cleric has a spell for that.”
“I don’t speak ogre,” Elwood told him.
“Guys? How about we note it as a place, then head to the nearest town?” Phoebe asked. “I can spend silver at the local taverns and ask around while Mr. Respectable and Father Pious consult officials and our social betters.”
“Good idea,” Jimmy agreed. His paladin—Sir Arthur, nicknamed Mr. Respectable—was frequently their best collector of information in civilized areas. It’s the charisma, really.
With the plan for next week sorted out, almost everyone went home. Jim got in more batting practice. Cameron packed up his papers while everyone else left.
When we were alone, he transferred himself to his wheelchair. His legs were working quite well. They were completely under his control again. He could even stand on his own, if he had to, but the muscle mass to do anything more simply wasn’t there. My spell’s timer expired yesterday, but I expected more recovery. I presume he wasn’t eating as much as I suggested. It was still good progress.
“Mr. Kent?”
“Yes, Cameron.”
“I see you have a batting cage out back.”
“Yep.”
“How’s Jimmy doing?”
“He’s terrible, but don’t tell him I said so. Don’t discourage him.”
“He knows.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does, which is why he wanted help. The point remains: Do not discourage him.”
“Yessir. I was wondering, though, if he’s going to get better?”
“Practice makes perfect,” I told him.
“I mean, get better soon.”
I raised an eyebrow at Cameron.
“Soon?” I repeated. Cameron flushed.
“I mean… you know.”
“You mean you want to know if he’s going to see a magical, almost miraculous improvement in his batting?” I asked. Cameron nodded. “No, he isn’t. He’s got a perfectly good batting cage and a pitching machine. It’s not something outside his ability to improve—like, say, a damaged spine. He has the tools he needs. Whether he makes the team or not is within his power to determine.”
“This is what my Dad calls ‘building character,’ right?”
“Probably. My own father used the phrase more than a few times. I’m still not sure what he meant by it.”
“But other things, things a person can’t do—those things sometimes need… correction?”
“I might call it ‘help,’ but I know what you mean. Sometimes the struggle for achievement builds character, too. It’s hard to know when to let people suffer, so they can find their own strength, and when to meddle.”
I kept quiet on the subject of how to know when to meddle. I’ve been around for quite a while and still don’t have a good rule for it. Hell! I still don’t have a rule, never mind a good one.
“I see. I think I see.” He contemplated for a few seconds. “Thank you, Mr. Kent.”
“It’s my pleasure, Cam. Do you want me to push you out?”
“I can manage, but thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Phoebe drove him home. I went through my sunset while Jim swung at baseballs. Once the sun was down, I called Jim in and drove him home in the truck. He would have kept going. I put lights on the cage, after all.
I got back first despite driving carefully. Dropping Jim off went quickly, though, since he lives much closer. Cameron lives in Redding, so it’s more of a drive. I settled down in the living room to read and wait.
Bronze pulled up out front and Phoebe came in quickly. She headed straight for the stairs.
“Hold on,” I called. She stopped halfway across the living room and looked puzzled.
“Pop?”
“You’ve been examining Swisher, Iowa City, and possibly the entire state of Iowa for quite a while. Any deal-breakers? Anything terrible about the place? Or anything wonderful? Picked out a house? You were looking at houses, yes?”
“Uhm…” she began, and trailed off, looking at a nice, blank section of wall. I waited. I didn’t say anything, just let an overwhelming silence build until it broke.
“See, Pop, it’s like this…”
I waited some more.
“You know the add-on to my mirror?”
“The micro-gate.”
“Yessir.”
“What about it?”
“It’s the first time I’ve been able to look at other worlds whenever I want.”
“Other worlds? Plural?”
“It’s a functional gate,” she pointed out. “I just have to aim it.”
“Go on.”
“Well… I’ve been looking around at lots of other worlds.”
“And you’re thinking we don’t have to live in Iowa?”
“Yeah…” she trailed off.
“Yeah, and?” I prompted.
“I made a friend.”
“As in ‘assembled,’ or ‘met’?”
“I met someone and made friends with her.”
“That’s okay.”
“Can you assemble a friend?” she asked, curious.
“Trying to make friends always has risks. You read Mary Shelley’s book.”
“Oh.”
“So tell me about your new friend.”
“Her name is Orrysa.”
“Like the mashed potatoes?”
“Or-eye-sah,” she repeated, carefully. “She’s a seer. Well, her mother is a seer and Orrysa’s learning. It’s how we met. She felt the scrying sensor and scried on it with her crystal ball so we could talk.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Oh, her world, my world, how they’re different. There are kings over there, but they’re little kingdoms. They have a lot more magic, but not much technology. Waterwheels and stuff. It’s like your Tauta in some ways, but not everybody has black hair and dark eyes.”
“I’m told the northerners in the Empire are somewhat lighter-complexioned. What’s Orrysa’s culture like?”
“Orrysa isn’t part of the major culture. She’s part of a nomadic group. They move from kingdom to kingdom offering magical services. People don’t trust magic-workers, for the most part, so they don’t stay anywhere long.”
“Good to know. You seem to have something on your mind, though. Care to share?”
“Pop, Orrysa is around fourteen and she’s about to turn pro.”
“Professional seer?”
“Yes. Scrier, I guess, but they call themselves a’ramas, which means ‘oracles,’ I think. They look at faraway places for people, send messages, sometimes get glimpses of the future, all that stuff.”
“So?”
“Pop, what am I going to be? I can’t exactly be a professional witch. At least, not here. Or can I?”
“No, I wouldn’t think it wise,” I agreed, thoughtfully. “The locals don’t have a high tolerance for magical shenanigans. Elsewhere? I’m sure you’d make an excellent village witch, if you wanted to.”
