Table of Contents

- SECTION  I FIELD TRIP TO BARSOOM

- ONE

- TWO

- THREE

- FOUR

- FIVE

- SIX

- SEVEN

- EIGHT

- NINE

- TEN

- ELEVEN

- TWELVE

- THIRTEEN

- FOURTEEN

- SECTION  II WAR

- FIFTEEN

- SIXTEEN

- SEVENTEEN

- EIGHTEEN

- NINETEEN

- TWENTY

- TWENTY-ONE

- TWENTY-TWO

- TWENTY-THREE

- TWENTY-FOUR

- TWENTY-FIVE

- TWENTY-SIX

- TWENTY-SEVEN

- TWENTY-EIGHT

- EPILOGUE

- Author

Published through Amazon.com, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. The personalities, characters and
people herein are purely products of the author’s overactive imagination which
was ensnared in the grip of nightmares in the wee hours of the night. Any
resemblance of the characters herein to real people, either living or dead,
should be a cause of serious concern for their welfare and a critical
indication of their need for immediate professional therapy. (Just those that
are still breathing, of course.)

RAVAGES OF WAR

Book Three of Genie and the Engineer

Text copyright © 2019, 2016 Glenn Michaels

Cover by Katie Griffin

Space, Sun and planet Earth. Western hemisphere. This
image elements furnished by NASA. by buradaki/Shutterstock

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or
distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not
participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in
violation of the author’s rights.

Purchase only authorized editions.

Works by Glenn Michaels

Genie and the Wizard

The Engineer Wizard

Orders of Magnitude

Ravages of War

Dedication:

To the reader:

Yep, this means you.

Not the fellow behind you, peeking over your shoulder while
you’re trying to read, the reprobate who’s chomping/masticating on that vile
cholesterol-clogged meatball-parmesan sandwich. Definitely not him!

But you. The enchanting, thoughtful, caring, well-mannered,
scholarly, health-conscious bibliophile that you are.

Kudos.

Many thanks to you and your discerning perceptiveness for having
read the two previous books in this series. Due to your support, I’ve now had
the privilege of writing and publishing three books! That’s two more than I
ever thought possible!

Couldn’t have done it without you.

Thanks for taking this journey with me. I’m ever so
grateful. And I hope you’ve had as much fun during our travels as I have had.

Glenn Michaels

Author’s notes:

Please note that this book, Engineer Wizard: Ravages of
War, is the sequel to The Engineer Wizard and Orders of Magnitude.
At this point, it really is necessary to have read the first two books before
reading this one. Nothing will make much sense in this book unless you do.

This book picks up where the last one left off and thus the
first two books lay out much of the background needed to appreciate the nuances
of events, plot, and characters of this one.

In addition, there was a thoughtful and enterprising individual
who sent me really nice emails and assisted by way of offering several useful
suggestions. In return, I’ve named (with his permission, of course!) a
character after him. In this particular case, the character is one of the good
guys. Hopefully, my correspondent will approve of his name-sake’s role and conduct
in the book.

As before, with the first two books, there are quite a few
sci-fi quotes, technical, scientific, and geographic references and historical
figures. And more than a few references lifted straight out of Edgar Rice
Burroughs’ Barsoom series. Therefore, readers are encouraged to continue
validating such information by way of their favorite web-search engine.

One other noteworthy caution: like the first two books, this
one is a blend of both urban fantasy and science-fiction. As such, it is
betwixt and between, neither purely one nor the other. Please keep this in mind
when delving into the pages herein.

SECTION  I

FIELD TRIP TO BARSOOM

ONE

Spacecraft Sirius Effort

79.7 Million miles from Earth

Friday 6:09 a.m. EST

November

The Sirius
Effort heaved violently to port, a loud thundering roar ripping through the
hull from stem to stern, the ship convulsing as if in agony. The whiplash of
the vessel’s wild gyration hurled Paul shoulder-first against the titanium-plated
bulkhead of the tiny lavatory, where he brutally rebounded, smashing his forehead
into the edge of the medicine cabinet door. Unconscious, he fell heavily to the
deck, the lurching of the ship rolling him up against the foot of the shower
stall.

To add insult to injury, the lights flickered twice and then
died completely, plunging the ship into total darkness.

The unexpected and violent motion of the ship hurled Capie
out of a dinette chair on Deck 3, sending her flying across the small room and crashing
solidly into the kitchenette counter at an awkward angle. Her left forearm
snapped cleanly, both the radius and ulna bones. Screaming in agony, she
suddenly found herself not only in the dark but in free fall as the ship’s ‘gravity’
unexpectedly and completely disappeared. With the ship both spinning and yawing,
she realized that she was now being tossed head first in yet another direction.
A quick flick of her right hand created a spell that brought her to a screeching
halt. Another spell from her and the lights in the compartment came back up.

“Help!” squealed a very high pitched female voice. “Me,
help!”

With a quick glance, Capie noted that Ariel-Leira, the
mirror woman that they had picked up in Transylvania, was briskly spinning in
midair, centered more or less over the small dining table.

With the restoration of light in the compartment, Capie
could now clearly see the awkward bend in her left arm, the unnatural way it
curved outward.  Horrified, she cast yet another spell, quelling the waves of
pain. With great care, she gathered the limp and damaged limb with her right
hand, pulling it close to her side and securing it in place with an additional
spell, this one very carefully crafted to encapsulate the arm and protect it
from further damage.

“Paul!” she yelled near the top of her lungs, the sound
echoing in the small space as she slowly revolved around her center of mass. “Paul!
What happened?”

“Me help, please!” cried a panicky Ariel-Leira again.

“Mom?!” squawked Daneel 1. “Are you alright?” A metal
framework—roughly sixteen inches cubed and sporting a motherboard with various
add-on cards and a LCD monitor with small speakers duct taped to one side—shot
up through the deck hatch from below. The Scottie swung in Capie’s direction,
where she could see the concerned look of the A.I. on the monitor screen.

“Just a broken arm and sixteen dozen bruises!” she snapped in
reply with an aggravated tone. “Take care of her!” she added, pointing at the
mirror.

“Right, Mom!” Daneel 1’s screen image snapped his fingers
and the mirror frame, with Ariel-Leira’s astonished face, swung smartly around
and banged up against a bulkhead and, with two quick flash-arcs, was instantly
spot welded into place.

“I heard a thump from above!” Capie clamored, glancing over
her shoulder and up through the deck hatch toward Deck 2. “And Paul doesn’t
answer!”

“I’ll check on him!” Daneel 1 assured her, soaring up
through the hatch in the overhead and casting a spell for lights in the
compartment on Deck 2.

He arrived just as Daneel 2, identical in appearance to his
‘brother,’ was dropping down from Deck 1, the cockpit. Daneel 2 was pilot on
the current watch, where he had been using the chutzpah talisman to maintain
the fusion process spell in the ship’s two engines, as well as keeping the
vessel on course.

Both Scotties spotted the unconscious form of Paul
simultaneously, slowly tumbling in midair in the ship’s tiny head.

“Dad!” they both shouted in surprise and alarm.

“He’s got a scalp wound!” observed Daneel 1, worried that
Paul, his father and creator, might be critically or even fatally wounded.

“He’s bleeding badly too!” added Daneel 2, as he advanced
closer to the drifting form. “I’ve got him! You take care of that head wound!
See if you can stop the bleeding!”

“What’s going on up there?!” Capie’s shout rang up from the
deck below.

“Dad’s hurt!’ Daneel 1 bellowed back at her. “We’re bringing
him your direction so please stand clear!”

“Paul!? Can you hear me?” Capie yelled all the louder, her
voice shrilling in near panic.

“He’s unconscious, Mom!” Daneel 2 shouted, as he used a
magical spell to maneuver Paul’s limp form down head first through the deck
hatch.

“Quick! Bring him down to the bedroom, on the bed and let’s
get him secured in place! Daneel 1! I need the first aid kit and, Daneel 2, get
me some damp washcloths!” Capie nervously rubbed her right hand on her left
sleeve. “And I’m going to need a doctor here too! Dr. Stephen Strange from
Marvel Comics would be a good choice. Dr. Strange! Front and center, please!”

Ω

“He’s coming out of it now, Mom,” murmured a familiar male
voice.

“Yes, I see,” agreed a wonderfully seductive female voice.

Paul smiled, enticed by the woman’s rich sexy modulation. He
opened his eyes to find that it was his wife above him. And Daneel 1. Well,
technically they were not above him, since he suddenly realized that they were
all in zero-g.

Hmm, zero-g meant the ship’s engines were not operating.

It was very hard to think, his head hurt so much. The
pounding in his skull was sort of a combination of having it squeezed in a vice
while his forehead was being brutally worked over with a jack-hammer. A rather large
and powerful jack-hammer at that.

“What happened?” he muttered weakly, slowly reaching up with
one hand in an effort to examine his head by touch.

“None of that, now!” his wife reproached him sternly,
pushing his hand away. “Don’t mess with my doctoring! Just lie still and be a
good patient.”

Paul blinked, noticing for the first time that his wife was
not moving her left arm, which she seemed to be holding tightly up against her
side.

“Your arm,” he muttered again. “What’s wrong?”

She pursed her lips and looked very annoyed. “Just a small
fracture. I already have three spells working on it, knitting the bones
together. Should be right as rain in a couple of days or so. I think.”

“What’s wrong with the ship? How come we’re in zero-g?” Paul
asked, only temporarily appeased with her answer about her physical condition. Under
other circumstances, he would have been far more focused on her injuries but he
knew that, with her magical powers, she wasn’t in any pain. A fractured bone
was not really any more of a concern to them now than say a hangnail once had
been, before they had acquired their powers.

Capie sighed and glanced over at Daneel 1. “Remember, he’s
resting. Don’t overtax him.”

“Gotcha, Mom,” the Scottie replied. “Dad, I’m glad to see
that you are awake now. We sort of need your help. We’ve, uh, got a problem
with the engines.”

Paul’s eyebrows furled. “What sort of problem?”

Daneel 1’s image in his LCD screen looked down and shrugged.
“It would seem that the port engine might have, uh, come from together. Sort of
exploded, you might say. A rather robust explosion too. And, in the process, it
took out most of the starboard engine as well. That’s why we don’t have weight
right now. No engines for thrust. And we were tumbling too but Daneel 2 and I were
able to fix that problem.”

“I thought you said you tested the engines before we left
Earth!” Capie snapped in a low voice in Paul’s direction.

“I did test them!” Paul protested feebly before turning back
to Daneel 1. “How long have I been out?”

Daneel 1 sighed and cast a quick glance over at Capie. “A
little over two hours. Mom didn’t want to disturb you while she was working on
your head wound—”

“I’ve been using a few spells on you,” Capie interrupted.
“You are in much better condition now than earlier.” She glanced back over at
Daneel 1. “Get to the point, please.”

“Right,” Daneel 1 said, with a wince. “With the engines
out—”

“Wait a moment, Daneel,” Paul implored him, raising a hand
gently into the air. “We were, what? 35 hours out from Mars?”

“33 hours, 42 minutes and 18 seconds, when the explosion
occurred, Dad,” Daneel 1 replied, knowing what was coming next.

“And with the engines gone…oh churlish toad-spotted
carbunkle!”

Capie flinched backward with surprised shock on her face.
“That was a Shakespearean insult, wasn’t it?”

“I Googled it a while back after you told me your father
used them,” Paul confirmed her guess with a restrained smirk, then turned his
head back in Daneel’s direction. “You haven’t been able to decelerate the
ship’s speed at all, have you?”

“No,” Daneel 1 reluctantly admitted. “Daneel 2 and I’ve been
working on it.”

“Is it really that serious a problem?” Capie asked, frowning
at the two of them. “There must be other ways to slow the ship.”

Paul eyebrows furrowed in concentration, still battling the
pounding headache. Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain the situation. “As
you know, we accelerated away from Earth at 1 gee for almost 40 hours. That
built up an enormous speed, over 3.1 million miles per hour. At midpoint, we
flipped and started decelerating, also at 1 gee. In order to intercept Mars at
the right place and the right speed, we needed to continue that deceleration. But
without engines, we’ll miss the rendezvous with Mars and continue flying past
the asteroids and the outer planets and out into interstellar space. Of course,
we would be dead from lack of oxygen long before we get that far. Does that
sound serious enough?”

Capie winced as she gently massaged her upper left arm.
“Yes, that’s pretty serious, all right.”

Paul grimaced and stared at Daneel 1 through narrowed eyes.
“Why didn’t you call up a super-intelligence to help you figure this out?”

Daneel 1 rolled his eyes and frowned, not answering the
question.

Sighing dejectedly, Capie started rubbing her forehead instead
of her arm.

“Try it for yourself, Paul,” she urged him.

He blinked for a few seconds, surprised by her response. Was
this some sort of trick? But it wasn’t hard. After all, calling up a
super-intelligence was the very first magical trick that he had ever successfully
performed.

“Okay, I will,” he grunted. “Okay, Merlin, front and center,
please. We need you!”

There was no response. Not even the small ball of
holographic smoke that sometimes appeared first.

Paul blinked several more times in complete confusion.
“Merlin?”

Nothing.

“Uncle Sam?” Pause. “Captain Montgomery Scott?” Pause.
“Star-Lord Peter Quill?”

Nothing.

“What’s going on, Paul?” his wife asked anxiously, gently
rubbing her arm again, her face one of deep concern. “When I tried to call up a
doctor for you, I got el zippo too.”

“Same thing for Daneel 2 and myself,” Daneel 1 informed
Paul.

“Then apparently, we have to fix the ship on our own,
without super-intelligence help,” Paul remonstrated, gritting his teeth. “Joy.
Fun.”

“But I don’t understand,” Capie said, thoroughly perplexed,
shaking her head from side to side. She reached out again with her right hand,
this time creating a holographic image of a flower in mid-air. “Our powers
still work! So why can’t we call on our expert advisors?”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “We’ll have
to figure it out later, CB. But right now, time is not on our side.”

Daneel 1 sighed and then smiled bitterly. “Getting back to
the problem with the ship, we tried tapping the solar sunlight, to use its
energy to decelerate us—”

Paul shook his head, grimacing and weakly waved his hand
again. “That won’t work. There are two reasons that won’t work. Solar power was
one of the ideas I looked into before building the Sirius Effort. A
spacecraft driven by solar energy would be so much more efficient and cleaner
than fusion power. But the energy density of sunlight is just not there. We
would need to capture oodles of square kilometers of it. Too big a challenge for
the four of us. Don’t get me wrong. It would help! But it’s not a viable
solution to our current situation.”

“That’s what we discovered as well,” the Scottie admitted with
a brief frown. “Same thing with the solar magnetic field.”

“The Daneels are such party poopers,” Capie mumbled with a
smirk. “I suggested the Solar Clipper books by Nathan Lowell.”

Paul’s frown instantly transformed into a grin. “With
Ishmael Wang? Quarter Share and so on? Brilliant books. Are you
suggesting solar sails?”

“Are you going to shoot that idea down too?” Capie asked,
abruptly apprehensive, eyeing her husband with a doubtful look. “The Daneels
did.”

Paul winced and gritted his teeth. “I, uh, did look at solar
wind technology before building the Sirius Effort. The density of the
solar wind is thin, only 7.1 protons per cubic centimeter. We would need a huge
solar sail, larger than the island of Manhattan. Sorry, but also not practical
in our situation.”

“Another party pooper heard from,” Capie observed sarcastically.
“You said there were two reasons those ideas won’t work. Dare I ask what the
second one is?”

He smiled but she could see that he really wasn’t happy to
answer the question. “It’s pretty simple, really. The chutzpah isn’t powerful
enough for the job.”

She blinked a few times. “Excuse me? Not powerful
enough? But how is that possible?”

Paul shrugged and rubbed his chin with one hand. “It’s all
relative. How do I explain this in less than two thousand words?” He sighed and
took a deep breath. “Let’s look at it this way. Daneel 1, at our current speed,
what is the ship’s kinetic energy?”

Daneel 1’s eyes narrowed briefly in thought. “One half times
the mass times velocity squared. Simple math. It is 4.36 times ten to the
sixteenth joules. That’s 43.6 quadrillion joules.”

Capie gulped. “That sounds like a lot.”

“It’s all relative, my dear,” Paul said again. “Now, Daneel
1, how long would it take for our chutzpah to slow the ship to zero velocity,
assuming a viable energy source and assuming the maximum power transfer rate
the chutzpah can handle.”

It was Daneel 1’s turn to shrug. “Two point three years.”

Capie groaned and looked away. “I didn’t realize that.”

Paul said, with a touch of sadness in his voice, “Yes, the
chutzpah is very powerful, especially compared to an ordinary talisman. But our
speed is incredibly high. The energy involved…well, the math is a real killer.”

“But we used the chutzpah to drive the ship,” Capie pointed
out.

“Not exactly, Mom,” Daneel 2 said. “We used the power of the
chutzpah to trigger a fusion reaction. We didn’t funnel the fusion energy
through the chutzpah.”

“The bottom line,” Paul said, “is that even if we had a large
enough energy source available, the chutzpah can’t be used to decelerate us before
we reach Mars.”

“So, what do we do?” Capie asked, closing her eyes and
bowing her head sadly. “What’s the answer?”

Daneel 1 coughed. “Dad, we still have lithium chlorate in
the tanks. Nearly enough to slow us back down. What we lack are the engines. So
Daneel 2 and I hit on the idea of Project Orion.”

“Oh, so you know about that project, do you?” commented Paul
with an appreciative nod at the Scottie. “A pulsed nuclear drive, the idea
going back to the 1950’s.”

Project Orion, a spacecraft propelled by a series of nuclear
explosions behind the tail end of the ship, would use the shock waves to push
against a thick protective shield of high temperature, high strength metal.

“It was used in a few sci-fi stories, back when the phrase ‘nuclear
explosions’ wasn’t politically incorrect.” Paul cocked his head to one side.
“The nuclear fuel we still have, apparently. But what did you plan to use as a
pusher plate?”

“We tried collecting all the pieces of the engines,” Daneel
1 explained. “Using the chutzpah, we were able to retrieve quite a bit of the
pressure chambers and the nozzles. We’ve spent the last half hour trying to
reintegrate the carbon nanotubes on a molecular level but it’s just taking too much
time to do. Maybe in a few days, we’d have something ready.”

“It’s already too late,” Paul announced with a small shake
of his head. “Two hours of coasting. We can’t compensate for that, not with one
gee of thrust.” He sighed heavily and started to push himself off the bed.

“Here, here!” Capie admonished him. “Just where do you think
that you are going?”

“To save our lives,” he replied, shooting her a reassuring
smile. “And I’m feeling a lot better,” he lied. “It hardly hurts at all.”

“Dad, you should stay in bed,” Daneel 1 recommended. “Just
tell me what we need to do and Daneel 2 and I will do it.”

“I don’t have a clue,” Paul reluctantly admitted as he
reached out to a handhold on the nearby bulkhead. “Not a single clue.”

TWO

Spacecraft Sirius Effort

86.3 Million miles from Earth

Friday 8:37 a.m. EST

November

Paul arrived at
the Sirius Effort’s cockpit to find Daneel 2 there. Daneel 1 wedged past
Paul and into the small space. To be sure, even with the two Scotties in the
small compartment, Paul could have squeezed in with them too, but it would have
been a tight fit, as well as totally unnecessary. Paul could see the
holographic display screen at the front of the small compartment quite well
from the cockpit’s doorway.

A part of his mind noted that Daneel 2 must have cast a
spell to enhance the image in the display. At least, Paul assumed that it was
that Scottie’s handiwork, since it was Daneel 2—as the current pilot ‘on
watch’—who was using the far more powerful ‘chutzpah’ talisman. Regardless, the
tail end of the Sirius Effort could be seen quite clearly in the
display, where even the detail in the shadows was sufficiently distinct and discernible.

The image told Paul that the situation was very serious and
his heart sank as he confirmed his worst fears.

The port engine was simply gone. Just totally freaking gone.

The starboard engine was not much better off. It wasn’t
gone, not quite. The forward wall of the pressure chamber was still there along
with the forward windings of the magnetic nozzle coils, the fuel pump and the feed
lines.

But everything aft of that was missing, the few remaining
edges nothing but torn and shredded metal.

“I can check ship’s stores if you would like, Dad. But I’m
99% certain we don’t have enough rolls of duct tape in the cargo hold to fix
that!” Daneel 2 pointed out with his usual dry sense of humor.

“Humph,” grunted Paul in misery. “Probably not.” He sighed
while internally trying to get a grip on his emotions and deciding what to do
next. “Daneels, is that the pusher plate you were building?” he asked, pointing
at a dark object floating near the aft end of the ship.

“Yes, it is,” Daneel 2 replied. “Daneel 1 told you about
that, huh? It’s too hard to do out here in deep space, in a time efficient
manner. We need a space dock, like Hephaestus, to repair our kind of
damage!”

“Hephaestus was destroyed in David Weber’s Mission
of Honor,” Daneel 1 clucked in a disapproving tone. “I vote for Star
Trek’s Utopia Planitia shipyards. Since they’re supposedly in orbit around
Mars, they’d be a lot closer anyway!”

“Daneels, please!” Paul replied before pointing at the
screen. “There doesn’t seem to be an engineering solution to our problem, due
to our current speed. Just not enough space and time to decelerate using known
science.”

“Not enough time to invent a warp drive then, huh?” Daneel 2
wisecracked.

“A magical solution instead?” Daneel 1 suggested. “But how?
I don’t see how a portal would help us here.”

“Let’s go back down to Deck 3,” Paul advocated, his brow
furled in deep thought. “I have an idea, but let’s discuss it with Mom first.”

Ω

On Deck 3, Paul ‘sat’ at the small dining table, which was
tucked up next to the kitchen. He waved a hand, creating a midair display
showing the planet Mars ahead of them. Seated next to him, Capie leaned forward
slightly, studying the display intently. Ariel-Leira was watching from her
mirror on the nearby bulkhead, listening in to the discussion.

“At our current speed, how long until we cross the orbit of
Mars?” Paul asked Daneel 1.

“Range is 38.2 million miles. ETA is 14 hours, 21 minutes
and 9 seconds,” was the response. “Assuming that we don’t find a way to start
decelerating before that.”

Paul nodded, still deep in thought.

Capie looked a bit nervous, lightly rubbing her upper left
arm with her right hand. “What are you thinking, Paul? Do you have an answer
yet?”

Her husband scowled and massaged his temples, trying to both
improve his thinking and to help get rid of that infernal blasted headache!

“Keep us waiting, please don’t,” scowled Ariel-Leira. Capie
shot her a look of annoyance and the mirror woman frowned, chagrinned.

“Maybe,” Paul replied cautiously. “I’m trying to think
outside the box here.” He pointed at Mars in the display. “Maybe Mars is the
answer.”

“A slingshot effect?” queried Daneel 1 with a hint of
disbelief. “That won’t work, Dad. We will cross the orbit of Mars too far ahead
of the planet. Closest approach will be, um…908,000 miles away. Aero-braking
won’t work either. Same problem.”

Daneel 2’s face screwed up in thought. “Dad, are you
thinking that we could tap the planet directly as an energy source?” he asked
slowly. “As you did with some of the monoliths back on Earth?”

“You got it in one, Daneel,” Paul admitted with a sad smile,
uneasy with some of the specifics of the ‘solution’ he was contemplating.

“But that would require physical contact with the planet,”
protested Daneel 1. “I’m not even sure if a portal can be created between the
ship and the planet, not at our speed. But that doesn’t matter since we are not
in range—not even close!”

“You’re thinking of sending one of us on ahead, aren’t you,
Dad?” Daneel 2 asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Capie blinked and sucked her breath in sharply. Daneel 1
looked at his clone in surprise.

“Yes, I am,” Paul acknowledged frankly.

“I didn’t see that one coming,” admitted Daneel 1. “But it
makes sense. I’ll go, of course.”

“Wait a moment here,” Capie hissed, frowning. “You’re
talking about sending one of them out into space? Without a spacesuit?”

Paul shrugged. “They don’t need air, CB. And they won’t be
out there long enough for solar radiation to hurt them.” He turned to face both
Scotties. “I think that both of you should go, to watch out for each other,
just in case. The buddy system, like for scuba divers.”

“I agree,” Daneel 2 said, with a nod of his head. “One
question, though. Where on Mars do we go? It’s a big planet. We need to find a
large monolith somewhere, or a contiguous section of the planet’s crust.”

“That’s a very good question,” said Daneel 1 in agreement.
“No one has ever been there so we don’t know if such a thing even exists
anywhere on the planet, let alone where to find it. That’s a big gamble.”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck again with one hand. “Earth
has a lot of such places. I’m willing to bet that Mars, with no weather or
erosion factors to speak of in play and less tectonic activity, will have some
too. That’s another reason for sending both of you. With the two of you looking,
it will double the chances of finding one. There are lots of extinct volcanoes
on Mars. You might find one like Devil’s Tower, with the core vent filled with
a solid piece of igneous rock.”

But Daneel 1 was shaking his head on his monitor screen. “Dad,
the timing is not in our favor for a long search. It will take us time to
portal to Mars, and in the process we will still have to decelerate down to
Mar’s orbital speed. Then we will have to search the planet and find a ‘big
rock’, as you say. And then, we will have to reach out through a portal,
latch onto the ship and decelerate it. And that will take the greatest amount
of time, because of the limited gee forces we can use, without killing you or
Mom.”

“Ugh. You’re right, bro.” Daneel 2 looked pained. “I hadn’t
thought about the deceleration factor.”

But Paul raised a hand to interrupt them. “I’m not
suggesting we funnel energy from Mars and use that as a force to slow the ship
down.”

“No?” Capie asked, puzzled. “Then what is your idea?”

“It will be more efficient if we take the ship’s kinetic
energy and funnel it to Mars instead,” Paul pointed out.

“Dah!” exclaimed the two Daneels in unison.

“That’s brilliant, Dad! If it will work,” pointed out Daneel
1.

“I’m missing something here,” admitted Capie, frowning. “Why
is that different?”

“Braking the ship would exert gee forces on you and Dad,
Mom,” Daneel 1 explained. “And to slow the ship fast enough, that might require
a LOT of gee force. Like what the astronauts experience on a shuttle launch.
But for hours, instead of just minutes.”

“Oh.”

“But a transfer of kinetic energy from the ship to Mars, we
routinely do that sort of energy transfer when we cast a spell using part of
the Earth’s energy to make the spell happen,” Daneel 2 added. “A transference
from the ship to the planet should pretty much be the same thing, except for
the huge amounts of energy involved. But, in theory, there shouldn’t be any gee
forces. The ship will just simply slow down due to the loss of energy. And
Mars—well, Mars is so big in comparison, it won’t notice the extra energy at
all.”

Capie nodded thoughtfully and looked over at her husband. “I
like the part about no high gees.”

“So, Dad, is that the plan?” Daneel 1 asked, studying Paul’s
expression intently. “Because if it is, then Daneel 2 and I need to depart post
haste. The further out from the planet the ship is when we try to slow it down,
the less energy we can transfer. If it takes us too long to find a monolith,
then the ship might get too far out of range on the other side of Mars, beyond
our reach, before we can stop her.”

“Sending them out into space…that just seems so…well,
dangerous,” Capie grumbled, her eyes downcast.

“Mom, it’ll be okay,” Daneel 1 reassured her, smiling
confidently.

“‘Piece of pie!’” Daneel 2 said, quoting Maxim Brajlovky in
the movie 2010: The Year We Make Contact.

Capie flinched. “One of the few sci-fi flicks I didn’t like.
And don’t forget, Maxim was killed when he went EVA.”

“Way to go, bro,” Daneel 1 said scornfully.

“I don’t care very much for this plan,” Capie told Paul
point blank, a puzzled expression on her face. “Isn’t this pretty risky?”

“Don’t like it much, I don’t either,” muttered Ariel-Leira
quietly.

Paul’s smile faded away. “Don’t worry, CB. Yes, there is
risk. I can’t deny that. But if you can suggest another, better and safer plan,
I’m all ears.”

Capie seemed to consider it for several seconds. “Couldn’t
we go with them? I think I’d much rather take my chances on Mars than on a
spaceship careening out of control through the Solar System.”

“Ooh, ouch!” Daneel 2 griped.

Paul gloomily waved a hand. “Sorry, but that is not an
option. I, uh, haven’t fabricated the spacesuits yet. And even if I did have
them, I don’t think we can handle the speed differential, the difference in
velocity vectors between us and the Martian surface. The Scotties can handle it
but we probably can’t.”

“No spacesuits?” Capie asked, blinking in surprise. “But—”

“There wasn’t time back on Earth to make them,” Paul
protested unhappily, swinging his arms wide. “We launched the Sirius Effort
early, remember? And the war in the Middle East. I never even managed to collect
the materials for them, let alone start fabrication.”

“Do we need them?” Capie asked, thoughtfully looking at the
chutzpah plugged into one of Daneel 2’s USB ports. “Couldn’t we just use magic
to create a force field bubble around us? Like in Star Trek: The Animated
Series?”

“I experimented a bit with that approach back in Australia,”
Paul admitted, wincing a little. “I didn’t have the chutzpah then, only
Hamadi’s talisman. But I couldn’t keep the field completely air-tight for more
than a couple of minutes. It was a real strain too. The chutzpah would probably
do a better job. But there’s only one of them. When we get to Mars, I’ll build
some spacesuits there. I have a couple of ideas I’m playing with.”

Capie frowned and then sighed heavily. “Okay, so we are
stuck here on the ship.” She paused, as she thought about it further. “I guess
I have no choice but to agree to it. But Daneels, please?! Be safe out there.
Okay? We need you both.”

“‘Compliance!’” chorused the two Daneels in unison, quoting
Max, the alien starship, from Flight of the Navigator.

“I’m sure that they will be very careful. Won’t you, boys!”
asked Paul grimly. “Let’s get the two of you set up with the right talismans
and a thumb drive with all the maps of Mars. Time for a little thirty eight
million mile EVA jaunt!”

“Right, Dad,” Daneel 1 chirped cheerfully. “Come on, bro! As
soon as Dad gets us the maps and I exchange talismans with him, we need to rig
a portable air-lock and get off this Flying Dutchman.”

“Luck of best, boys,” Ariel-Leira encouraged them with a
wide grin. “A Scottie wish I was.”

When Daneel 1 had McDougall’s talisman and a USB drive with
the Martian maps, Paul nodded at them and sighed heavily as the two Scotties dove
through the opening in the deck floor, on their way below.

“This is not an easy plan, CB,” he confessed to his wife. “But
I think it will work. It’s going to take them several hours to portal to Mars.
Right now might be a good time to get a little rest. Once we reach Mars, we’re
going to be really busy for the next few days with little chance for sleep.”

“Assuming we are still alive at that point,” Capie muttered
under her breath.

Ω

The two Daneels hightailed it to Deck 6 and hurriedly
created a temporary airlock out of sheets of titanium and two rolls of duct
tape from out of storage. Inside the small sealed compartment, they portaled to
the outside of the ship.

As Paul had predicted, the vacuum wasn’t a problem for them.
Physically, they didn’t notice the difference at all.

“Wow!” Daneel 2 remarked over the wireless link as he swung
around slowly in the blackness of space. “Lookee at all them stars! You know, it’s
really hard, floating here in space like this, to believe we are moving at over
2.6 million mph.”

“Like Dad said, it’s all relative,” Daneel 1 observed in a
distracted manner. “I have a bearing on our course to Mars. Dad was also right
about the solar energy density around us. We are pretty much limited to short
portal hops, say around 300,000 miles at a time. You’ve got the chutzpah. Open
us a portal, if you please.”

Daneel 2 complied, opening a two foot diameter portal.

“‘The word is given: warp speed!’” Daneel 2 said,
quoting Kirk from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn. And he ducked
through, closely followed by Daneel 1.

They were on their way.

A long series of portals took them ever closer to the planet.
As they drew nearer, they could actually see Mars, first as a small red dot,
but with each portal leap, the planet grew larger.

“We need to start decelerating our speed,” Daneel 1
recommended. “To match speeds with the planet surface.”

“Roger, wilco,” Daneel 2 said. “I will start our deceleration
at 5 gee when we get a little closer. I think that when we get really close,
I’ll try Dad’s idea and shunt most of our momentum to the planet.”

“A great idea,” agreed Daneel 1. “That’ll test out the
theory, to see how well it works.”

On their seventy-fifth portal jump, when Mars was almost 40%
the size of a full moon as seen from Earth, Daneel 2 blew a sigh of relief.

“There! One million miles from the planet. ‘Close enough to
smell them!’” he said, quoting Chekov from the Star Trek classic “The
Trouble With Tribbles.” “First, a microportal to the Martian surface…ah,
excellent! And now, a transference of kinetic energy! Voila!”

The effect was immediate. The two Daneels spiraled wildly
away from one another, tumbling through empty space like dice on a craps table.

“Banzai!” screamed Daneel 2. “Turbulent jaunt, there!”

“Awesomity!” shouted Daneel 1 in agreement, as he cast a
spell stabilizing himself and scurried back toward the other Scottie. “What a
roller coaster ride that was! But let’s not repeat it, okay? Imagine the Sirius
Effort doing that!”

“Too fast a transfer, to be sure!” Daneel 2 concluded. “It
seems that it worked, though. We don’t seem to be moving very fast now.”

“Agreed.” Daneel 1 sighed. “Now that we are here, we need an
operational plan. We can’t just go running higgledy-piggledly around the planet
looking for monoliths.”

“You’re quite right. Let me have a copy of the maps,
please.”

“On their way,” Daneel 1 assured him, transmitting the USB
files wirelessly.

“Dad suggested we start with volcanoes,” Daneel 2 reminded
his brother. “Hmm. Wow! Mars has a lot of really big ones!”

“Yep. Let’s start with the biggest one, Olympus Mons. If
that has what we need, then our search will be a really brief one.”

“And Olympus Mars is on the Tharsis plateau, along with…uh,
I count eleven other volcanoes. Ooh, howdy, the database says they’re
absolutely huge!”

“Then we are agreed. Olympus Mons first, and if we don’t
find what we are looking for there, we’ll search the other volcanoes in the Tharsis
region,” Daneel 1 declared. “Shall we get down to the planet now? After all, we
have a ship to save.”

“Tallyho!”

Ω

Since they were basically now in range of the planet, they
were able to tap enough of the planet’s heat and gravitational energy to portal
directly to a point 300 miles above the equator.

“Uh, oh,” Daneel 1 groaned. “Would you look at that!”

“A dust storm,” bellyached Daneel 2. “A big dust storm! It
must cover half the southern hemisphere!”

The northern half of the planet’s surface in front of them,
at least the part that they could see, was free and clear of any obstruction.
There the features and elements of the surface could be seen in extremely high
detail.

But south of the equator, only half the surface was so
clearly visible. The rest was a smear of muted browns and greys.

“I guess we arrived in the dust storm season,” Daneel 1
observed. “Summer time in the southern hemisphere, when Mars is near perihelion.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Fortunately, the Tharsis plateau is mostly in
the northern hemisphere and none of it seems to be affected by the dust storm.”

“They really aren’t that bad,” Daneel 1 realized. “The dust
storms, I mean. The Martian atmosphere is only 1% that of Earth’s. A 100 mile per
hour gale here feels like a light breeze by comparison. Nothing like in the
movies Mission to Mars or The Martian. And the dust is never so
thick that visibility drops to zero. Hollywood dramatic license.”

“Right. You want to split up to check out Olympus Mons? We
could do it faster that way.” Daneel 2 pointed out.

“Not really, no. With the chutzpah, you can do the scan of
the caldera fifty or sixty times faster than I can using McDougall’s talisman.”

“Ah, an excellent point,” Daneel 2 conceded with a small
frown. “Okay, we’ll do it together,” he proclaimed as he opened a portal down
to the planet’s surface. “Olympus is so big, even with the chutzpah, it’s going
to take at least two hours to vet it anyway.”

Ω

Nearly the size of Poland, Olympus Mons was a shield
volcano, consisting of the accumulation of layer upon layer of lava flows from
volcanic eruptions over the course of roughly 100 million years. The mountain,
about 370 miles in diameter, stood 72,000 feet tall, approximately two and a
half times taller than Mount Everest on Earth.

At the summit lay a complex of at least six calderas. These were
craters, created by the collapse of the crown at the top of the main vent when the
magma chamber underneath emptied. For Olympus Mons, the six calderas formed a
composite circular area 50 miles long by 37 miles wide.

The two Scotties arrived in the center of the largest
caldera, floating only a few feet off the ground. They were instantly
disappointed with the scenery around them.

First of all, there was very little variation in the colors.
All the rocks and sand were muted colors of brown and dull reds. The sky was
lighter in color but not all that different from the ground.

In the distance, sections of the caldera rim could be seen,
reaching toward the sky, in places up to 2 miles above the caldera’s floor.

Surprisingly, the ground around them was mostly flat, with
very few rocks of any size. As Daneel 1 looked around, he saw no hills, mounds
or depressions of any kind. Nothing until the far horizon where the ground
sloped up to the rim.

“Let’s get started,” Daneel 2 proposed, snapping his fingers
and forming a midair display in front of them. The image thereon was of the
structure of the ground beneath them, focused on showing any fault lines and
discontinuities in the bedrock below.

“What a mess!” exclaimed Daneel 1.

“Yeah,” mumbled Daneel 2.

What they saw did not make them very happy. There were
individually large pieces of rock here, yes. But nothing larger than a small
house. Certainly nowhere near the size they were looking for.

“Let’s go higher, increase the scale of the display and
start a spiral search pattern,” Daneel 1 recommended. “And ‘order the Columbus
to open its course two degrees on every lap from now on,’” he said, quoting
from the Star Trek episode “The Galileo Seven.”

Startled, Daneel 2 looked back in surprise. “‘But Captain,
two degrees means they’ll be overlooking more than a dozen terrestrial miles on
each search loop.’”

Grinning back at him, Daneel 1 quoted Kirk’s next line. “It
also means we have a fighting chance to cover the majority of the planet’s
surface.’”

“Dad would be proud of you for that quote,” Daneel 2 noted.

“Well, it is appropriate. Daneel, I’ve got a bad feeling
about this. The ground below us is fractured in a million pieces. Yes, I know,
this is just one tiny spot but if all the calderas are like this, it might take
us a long time to find what we came to find.”

“Right. Then let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover!”

“Ooh, that was punny, that!” observed Daneel 1.

“Ha! Touché!”

Together, they lifted higher into the air and began their
intensive but hectic search.

THREE

Spacecraft Sirius Effort

22.4 Million miles from Mars

Friday 5:52 p.m. EST

November

“They’ve been
gone for hours now,” Paul complained as he pinched the bridge of his nose and
squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, I know that portaling that far takes time. But by
my calculations, they probably reached Mars a couple of hours ago, at least. They
should have something to report by now!”

“Well, dear, they do tend to take after you,” Capie pointed
out. “You know how men love to communicate.”

Paul grimaced and glanced at his fingernails, resisting the
urge to chew on one.

“I’m going to check on them,” he declared to no one in
particular. “So, I will create a magical high gain antenna outside the ship…and
link it to my cell phone. There! I set up a phone number with Daneel 1 before
we left Earth. Let me send him a text message.” He held the phone up near his
mouth, to use the speech-to-text feature and spoke slowly. “Hello, Daneel 1?
How’s it going? Your status, please.”

Paul hit the Send button and nodded thoughtfully. “At our
range, it will take a minute and a half for Daneel to get the message, due to
light speed limitations. So, about three minutes to get a reply.”

Capie waited patiently while Paul continued to fidget,
neither daring to say a word.

Finally, the phone chirped, quoting from Captain America,
Civil War, “‘You have a metal arm? That is awesome, Dude.’”

“Interesting. That text alert is for Daneel 2. Let’s see…”
Paul said, touching a couple of buttons. “He says, ‘Not so good, Dad. We’ve
been on the planet for three hours now. The Olympus Mons and Alba Mons
volcanoes are a bust. Their calderas are all fractured into relatively small
pieces. We’ve just started scanning Arsia Mons and ditto for it so far. Daneel
2 and I’ve decided that if Arsia Mons doesn’t shake out, then we will only do a
cursory scan of the other volcanoes in the Tharsis region. If that fails, then
we’ll do a quick check of the non-volcano mountains in the area too, like
Gonnus Mons and Tanaica Montes. Then we’ll move on to the Elysium volcanoes. So
far, the Martian volcanoes are nothing like Devil’s Tower, Dad. We’re thinking
that when the calderas collapsed, they did so violently enough to shatter. It’s
the only explanation that makes sense. Oh, and Dad, there’s a huge dust storm
covering half the southern hemisphere. I hope we don’t have to do any searching
there. I wouldn’t care to get all that dust in my electrical connectors.”

Capie made a face. “Not good about the dust storms.”

Paul nodded grimly, then held the phone back up.
“Understood, Daneel. Good luck in the search.” He slid the phone back in a
shirt pocket. “Maybe we should be working on a Plan B. You know, just in case.”

Ω

The search of all the likely and some of the unlikely
candidates at Tharsis was in vain. Nothing came close to meeting their needs.

And they were running out of time. At the speed with which Sirius
Effort was moving, they only had another 2.5 hours before it crossed the
Martian orbit and then maybe another 45 minutes after that before it moved so
far out of range that there would not be time to decelerate the ship and bring
it back to Mars. They moved on to the Elysium region.

A little under an hour later, they had sadly confirmed that
nothing in that area—none of the volcanic mountains nor any of the non-volcanic
mountains of the Tharsis Plateau—were large enough to do the job either. At one
point, Daneel 2 even did a scan of a section of the vast stretch of plains in
the territory. The result was just as disappointing as the volcanoes.

“So, bro, what next?” asked Daneel 2, irritated at their
lack of success and the little time that was left to them. “There are quite a
few volcanoes in other parts of the world.”

But Daneel 1 was shaking his head on his monitor screen and
frowning. “I’m thinking now that we wasted too much valuable time on volcanoes.
So far the largest rocks we’ve found were just plain old vanilla mountains.”

“Like Phlegra Montes and Gonnus Mons.”

“Exactly! I’ve looked at the database Dad gave us. We’ve
already checked the two largest such candidates. Most of the rest are either in
the Argyre Planitia region or are scattered around the rim of the Hellas Planitia.”

“Hmm. Both of those are well south of the equator,” Daneel 2
pointed out looking both very annoyed and edgy.

“But the dust storms have not reached Argyre, at least not
yet. On the other hand, the largest mountains are at Hellas and there are more
of them there too.”

“Let me guess. That’s the center of the dust storms,” Daneel
2 surmised with a pinched expression.

“Dead bang on, bro. In fact, since Hellas has the lowest
elevation on the planet, that’s where all the dust collects at the end of the
season and it’s where the dust storms start the next year! Well, most of them
anyway.” Daneel 1 paused and sighed before continuing. “On the third hand, both
Argyre and Hellas were created by very large asteroid strikes that punched huge
holes in the planet’s crust.”

Daneel 2 snorted and rolled his eyes. “Which means that any
large rocks in that area were smashed into tiny pieces hundreds of millions of
years ago.”

“Précisément! So, bro, what think ye?” Daneel 1 asked him,
tilting his head to one side. “We simply don’t have time to check out both
areas. We must pick one. But which?”

Daneel 2 rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Here’s what I
think. I think Murphy is in full control of this day. He has been, ever since
the port engine exploded. So the mountain that we are looking for will be in
the last place we expect or want to find it in.”

“Hellas Planitia it is then. We need a portal, if you
please.”

“Going to be hard to navigate in that dust storm, you know.
Visibility must be less than ten percent of normal. What’s the local time
there?” Daneel 2 glanced up at the sun. “About 4 p.m. here so it must be around
noon at Hellas. At least that is in our favor though I doubt it will help much.
I’ll keep a protective bubble around us while we are there,” he volunteered as
he popped open the appropriate portal and dived through, with Daneel 1 hot on
his heels.

Ω

They emerged into a gloomy twilight-lit landscape where the
visibility was exceptionally poor.

Here the ground was extremely rocky, from pebbles all the
way up to massive boulders. Rolling hills, escarpments, gullies and ravines
covered what little could be seen of the area.

“Wow, I didn’t know that it would be this dark!” exclaimed
Daneel 2. “Okay, casting a spell to ramp up the light sensitivity on my webcam.
There! That’s somewhat better. But I still can’t see anything more than a
quarter mile away!”

“It’s the dust,” remarked Daneel 1 in a distracted manner as
he glanced around. “Really rugged terrain. I bet even mountain goats would have
a hard time in country like this!”

“This just confirms my suspicions,” Daneel 2 said with
conviction.

“Which are?” asked Daneel 1 with a frown.

“‘If there’s a bright center to the universe, you’re on the
planet that it’s farthest from,’” Daneel 2 said with a deadpan look, quoting
Luke Skywalker from Star Wars IV, A New Hope.

“Oh, good one,” Daneel 1 remarked, sighing dejectedly. “Hmm,
I don’t see any mountains near us. Maybe we are too far off the ground. Let’s
go lower.”

“10-4.” Daneel 2 paused a moment. “Naw, not helping very
much. Still can’t see any mountains but we must be close.”

“Let’s switch to radar mode,” Daneel 1 advocated, popping up
a large midair display in front of them. On it, a bright green line swept
around in a circle, several large white pips flashing briefly into existence at
widely divergent angles.

“Quite a few mountains around us,” Daneel 1 remarked. “I bet
Anseris Mons is the one closest to us. According to the database, it’s the
tallest mountain in these here parts.”

“But not the largest, bro,” Daneel 2 countered. “There’s one
to our southeast that is quite a bit larger and then two really big ones to the
east northeast.”

“I agree that they are larger but that doesn’t mean much and
you know it. They might be like other mountains we’ve seen, just layers of
sedimentary rock. And we’ve seen a few too that were just a collection of outcroppings
the size of city-blocks.”

“Look, we don’t have time to argue!” Daneel 2 contended,
wagging a finger at him. “Let’s split up. You go check Anseris. I bet that the
big one to the southeast is Hellas Montes. I’ll go check it out.”

“Well, okay. If you insist. But please be careful!”

Daneel 2 opened a portal and then exited via same. Daneel 1
hurriedly formed a protective bubble around himself and frowned, turning to the
northwest. Anseris Mons was so close that he didn’t need a portal. Instead, he
raced through the air and started a scan of the rising landscape below him as
he flew.

Ω

Hellas Montes was indeed quite large, at 93 miles in
diameter and rising more than 18,000 above the surrounding plains.
Unfortunately, as Daneel 2 soon discovered, it was not a contiguous piece of rock
but was instead a mosaic of rocks of all sizes. None of them were truly super-sized.
On the other hand, it was encouraging since some of the really large rocks in
the mountain were the largest that he had seen so far on the planet. Just not
large enough for their purposes.

“Well, that was a waste of a good twenty minutes!” he
muttered to himself vehemently. He thought of calling Daneel 1 but rejected the
idea. There wasn’t anything to report.

He brought up a radar display again and studied it. There
was a small mountain to the west-northwest and another larger one to the
southeast. Northward, the radar plot disclosed another series of blips and a
really big one to the far north. Comparing the position of all the radar returns
with the database, he was able to put a name to each and every one of them.

All except one. There was one mystery blip and it was a big
one, to the northeast. Strange, but it didn’t seem to be in his database. Well,
no matter. There were plenty of other mountains to check out and precious little
time left, a little less than an hour, to do so. Soon, very soon, the Sirius
Effort would be crossing the orbit of Mars.

Ω

Both Paul and Capie had taken turns with afternoon naps on
Deck 4, though neither one had slept well.

Capie fixed a decent meal on Deck 3 which the two of them
pretended to enjoy, though little was actually consumed. Their conversations
were short and half-hearted, each avoiding the topic most central to their
thoughts. They saw no sign of Ariel-Leira who had apparently grown bored of
waiting and was off somewhere doing her own thing.

Paul became more fidgety by the minute, checking his watch
more frequently as time went by. His behavior was driving Capie crazy.

“Something wrong with your watch,” she finally asked in a
sarcastic tone.

Her husband flinched and grimaced, biting his lower lip
before answering. “In a few minutes, we’ll be crossing the orbit of Mars. And
still no word. I wouldn’t have believed that it would be this hard to find one
really large mountain-sized rock on Mars!” Paul sighed and looked at her. “Do
you mind if I open a magical viewport and look at the planet? We’re nearly as
close as we’re going to get on this course.”

“Sure. I’d like to see it too.”

Snapping his fingers, the standard midair display appeared,
this time with the planet Mars in the center of the image. The left side was in
total darkness, the right in full daylight, with the eastern edge of the Argyre
Planitia emerging from the terminus.

“You should text them again,” Capie urged him.

He nodded, pulling the phone from his pocket. “At this
range, the delay is much shorter, only ten seconds there and back but still too
long for a conversation.” He held the phone up close again. He was so rattled
that he couldn’t think of a single appropriate sci-fi quote to use in the
situation. “Daneel, please! How’s it going?” Hitting the send button, he waited
for an answer.

It took nearly a minute before the phone chirped, quoting
from Deadpool, “‘House blowing up builds character!’”

“What’d he say?” Capie asked as Paul opened the text.

“It’s from Daneel 1. He says ‘No dice at Tharsis or Elysium,
Dad. We’re on the northeast rim of Hellas Planitia, checking out the mountains
in the region. So far, it’s no go here either but there are more mountains to
be checked. Sorry that this is taking so long. We’re aware of the timing. We’re
going as fast as we can. I wish there were other options but none I can think
of. We can’t even beam you out at the last moment, like Kirk in “The Doomsday
Machine.” Sorry, Dad.’”

They were silent for several moments. Finally, Capie
stirred, pushing herself through the air over to the kitchen and getting a
bottle of water from the fridge.

“What was that part about not beaming you out?” she asked as
she worked the twist cap off. With a spell, she kept the water in the bottle
until she could properly drink it.

“We can’t portal off the ship,” Paul explained as he lowered
his head. “Even just the two of us because we have too much inertia. And then
there is the problem of air, or rather the lack thereof. Given a little more
time, we might be able to solve that problem. But the difference in momentum,
between us and the planet, is almost guaranteed to kill us, if we tried to
portal down to Mars. Scotties can do it. But not us fragile humans.”

“Oh. I see. So we just wait?”

Paul nodded slowly. “No other choice that I can see, no.”

Ω

Daneel 2 was in a total quandary. For the life of him, he could
not choose what to do next!

And there was so little freaking time left! By his calcs,
the Sirius Effort was past Mars now, heading for the asteroid belt and
the outer planets. At the moment, it was still in range and could be stopped,
if he or Daneel 1 could just find the right rock!

And that was the rub. He had checked the two largest
mountains in the northeast corner of Hellas Planitia, both of which had been
supreme disappointments. And Daneel 1 had called to report the lack of success of
two more candidates that he had been investigating.

That left two large mountains in the region yet to be
checked: Tyrrhena Mons to the far north on his radar plot and the unknown
mystery mountain not in his database. According to his best guess, the anonymous
mountain was at the southern end of the Trinacria Region, at 27°S, 93°26’E. And
it was far larger than some of the other mountains he had visited. Why it
wasn’t in his database was a mystery. Go figure!

Time. As in not enough of it. He could check Tyrrhena or ‘John
Doe’ Mons but not both. And Daneel 1 was on his way to check out another
possibility, a small mountain—really more of a hill—not far from Anseris Mons.

It was up to him. Mom and Dad’s lives were on the line here
and it was all up to him.

Of course, it might all be academic. It was possible,
perhaps even probable, that both Tyrrhena and John Doe were a bust too. In that
case, there truly was no hope here.

In total desperation, he created two small portals, the
other ends of which were within a foot of the summits of each of the two
mountains. Then he created two magical arms and hands. Reaching through, he
sort of achieved a quasi-physical contact with both mountains. Close enough for
government work, that is.

Of course, he understood that this was not a suitable method
to vet the mountains in question. It was altogether possible that the end
points of his portal were adjacent to minor rocks, one or both of which were
perched on top of a monolithic mountain.

No doubt about it, quick and dirty it was. And given how
poorly the day had gone and how much jeopardy his parents were in, Daneel 2 was
expecting little to come of his experiment.

So when he touched the two mountains, the unexpected shock
quite literally knocked him out of the air, collapsing all of his magical
spells. The impact with the Martian soil jarred his circuit boards and he
rolled down a slope into a boulder.

“Oh, my!” he exclaimed. “That actually hurt! So that’s what
pain feels like! The Normals can keep it!”

Ω

It didn’t take long for Daneel 1 to figure out that the
small mountain was not what he was looking for. A deep scan of the bedrock was
not required. One quick look on his part was all that was needed.

They were almost out of time! Daneel 2 had mentioned two
large mountains to the east of Daneel 1’s location. Likely he would need help
checking them.

“Daneel 2? I’m on my way to help out,” he said over the
wireless link.

Oh-oh. The wireless link was down! No signal at all!

“Daneel?!” he screamed but he knew it was pointless, without
a link.

He opened a portal to the northeast, 250 miles away. And
charged through it.

Ω

“Daneel! Oh, fret, the wireless link is down!” screamed
Daneel 2 as he floated back into the air, restoring the anti-dust bubble around
him. “No time for troubleshooting right now!” And he opened a portal, storming
through even before it was fully stabilized.

Ω

Daneel 1 was absolutely frantic as he raced through the air.

Daneel 2 was not responding to his calls. It seemed unlikely
that anything could have happened to him. After all, he had the chutzpah!

A glance at the time told him that there was only ten
minutes left until the Sirius Effort was out of theoretical range. Ten
minutes!

His duty was clear. Mom and Dad came first. Assuming that he
could do anything about it in the time available. Afterward he would look for
Daneel 2.

A quick spell for a radar display. There, a large mountain
off to his left. Gee, the thing was humongous! Over a hundred miles wide with a
plateau on the summit that was nearly 20,000 feet above the terrain!

There wasn’t time to check the database for a name. He
opened a portal and shot through it.

“Wow, what a mountain!” he exclaimed, as he emerged from the
other end, roughly a hundred feet above the summit.

And then, a flicker of motion drew his immediate attention.

It was Daneel 2, cresting the summit at the southeastern
edge, slowly coming to a landing a hundred or so yards from the edge.

“Daneel!” Daneel 1 shouted, as he dove in that direction.

But Daneel 2 did not respond. At least not until Daneel 1
came within visual range of his webcam. Then he blinked in shock, waving back
at his brother.

“What’s wrong with your wireless?” Daneel 1 asked, feeling
highly relieved that the other Scottie was still alive.

Daneel 2 pointed to his ears and then shook his head.
Instead, a news ticker began scrolling across the bottom of his display.

“Took a fall. Wireless damaged. Touch John Doe Mons here. Go
ahead.”

Looking perplexed, Daneel 1 extended a magical hand and made
contact.

The results absolutely stunned him speechless.

“Oh, my…wow!” he muttered.

The news ticker started up again with a new message.
“Microportal Dad. Tell him. Warn him. Then do it!”

Daneel 1 nodded, still stunned. The mountain below him was
one solid rock extending well down into the crust. The power available was—well
more than they needed! In fact, it gave him an idea.

Using the mountain to draw on the power of Mars, he reached
out into space, easily finding the Sirius Effort, already more than a
million miles past Mars. Zooming in, he opened a microportal into the cabin
space on Deck 3, forming a holographic image there.

“Dad! Mom! We found one!” he announced with a huge smile on
his face. “Get yourselves strapped in, fast! Standby!”

“Daneel!” shouted Paul with great relief in his voice.
“Wonderful news! We strapping in now! Ready for deceleration!”

“Right, Dad! But I’m changing the plan a little. You’ll see
in a second. Standby! And…Now!”

A mere thousand miles ahead of the Sirius Effort, a
large portal opened up, more than 300 feet in diameter. Less than two seconds
later, the ship raced through it, dead center…

And then emerging from the other end, two million miles
closer to the sun but still heading outward at the same speed.

Paul studied the display, perplexed, his mouth slowly
falling open in shock. Which gradually faded as he realized why Daneel 1 had
used a portal.

“Oh, I see,” he muttered, with a smile. “You’ve moved us
back along our track. Now you have time to decelerate us at your leisure.”

“Yes. Daneel 2 and I discovered that sudden changes in
momentum can have some serious side-effects. I’ll tell you about that later!
Get set, I’m going to slow the ship down and put it into standard orbit. Oh,
and get out your DVM and o’scope, Dad. Daneel 2 is in need of some repairs.
Nothing serious, so don’t worry. He’s just lost his wireless card.” Daneel 1
grinned even more widely. “Frankly, I’m not sure I don’t prefer him this way.”

“Oh, thank God!” breathed Capie in relief. “We made it after
all!” Then she gave Paul an inquisitive eye. “You can fix Daneel 2’s wireless
problem, right?”

“‘Easy as cake, dear,’” he managed to say with a straight
face, quoting Maxim from 2010: The Year We Make Contact.

“So many men, so little aspirin!” Capie muttered under her
breath with a scowl.

“Did you say something, dear?” Paul asked, tilting his head
to one side.

“You need to stay strapped in, dear,” she said, smiling
sweetly and pointing at the couch.

FOUR

Spacecraft Sirius Effort

“Standard orbit” around Mars

Saturday 5:24 a.m. EST

November

The previous
evening, the two Daneels—using John Doe Mons as a very powerful
amulet—successful bled off the kinetic energy of the Sirius Effort,
transferring it to the planet Mars and then, with the use of portals, placed
the ship in a fairly high and stable orbit.

After the ‘fun-filled’ activities of the day, Paul had
declared a rest break, allowing several hours to recover from the stress of the
emergency.

The next morning, after a simple breakfast, Paul convened a
meeting with everyone present, including the mirror woman too.

“Are we landing today, Cradle Robber?” Capie asked, holding
one of the wall-mounted straps. “I’m ready for some gravity again, even if it
is only one-third of Earth’s.”

“Not quite yet, Child Bride,” Paul confessed, shaking his
head. “There is the little matter of the landing struts. They hold the ship upright
when we land. At least, they would, if we had them.”

“Oh! I take it the explosion damaged them,” she guessed.

“One of them is in fair shape. The second one is pretty
badly mangled. And the third one is in small pieces halfway to the asteroid
belt by now.” He sighed. “Fortunately, we have spare titanium stock in storage.
With the Daneels available to do EVA, we will work on that today and get them
repaired.”

“What do we do once we land, Dad?” Daneel 2 asked.

“Mom and I need spacesuits,” Paul answered, pursing his
lips. “We have some of the materials that are needed but not all. We’ll need
carbon, quite a bit of it—say a ton or more. Most likely you will find that as amorphous
graphite, sometimes associated with mica or quartz. We will also need tungsten
or better yet, palladium. And sulfur or preferably selenium.”

“Wowee, Dad,” whistled Daneel 2. “All that for spacesuits?”

“These won’t be the typical spacesuits. Nothing like what
the astronauts wear.”

On his LCD screen, Daneel 1 smiled and shook his head. “Why
am I not surprised?”

“There’s something that I’ve been meaning to ask you, CR,”
Capie asked with eyebrows raised and her head tilted to one side. “Just where
do you plan to stay while we are on Mars? You’re not thinking about John Doe
Mons, are you? Not with all of those dust storms there, right?”

“Dust storms?!” said Ariel-Leira. “Ugh! About dust storms to
me nobody anything said!”

Paul chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Ariel. We
aren’t landing at John Doe Mons. Oh, sure, it would be really convenient to
have that mountain as a neighbor. But with Hellas Planitia right next door too?
No thanks. No, there are lots better places to go. And we don’t have to live
next to a monolith. A portal gives us access from anywhere on the planet. So,
in theory, we can stay anywhere on Mars.”

“Approve I,” the mirror woman said with a huff.

“Good, that was what I was hoping you would say,” Capie
commented. “Yes, and I’ve thought about this, quite a bit,” she said, with a
faint smile. “I want a home above ground, one with a nice view too. And I know
just where I want it to be.”

“You do?” Paul asked, raising one eyebrow in surprise. He
hadn’t realized that she was planning that far ahead.

“The best view on Mars is of the Valles Marineris.”

“Of course,” he concurred, briefly nodding. “Perfect! The
Grand Canyon of all Grand Canyons in the entire solar system. One of the
chasmas?”

“Yes, the Coprates Chasma, I think. Along the north wall, on
the edge of the Ophir Planum.”

He nodded. “From there we would have an excellent view of
the chasma, all the way to the floor and all the way to the far southern wall.
How big is it?”

“40 miles wide and 6 miles deep.”

“Wow!” said Ariel-Leira with a wicked grin. “Please, prime
window spot I want!”

Paul smiled. “I think that can be arranged.” Then he turned
back to his wife. “You know the stats better than I do, oh daughter of an
astronomer!”

Capie hugged him. “You know what they say about a house. The
three most important considerations are location, location, and location. It
will be a great location for our home, Gathol.”

“Gathol? Oh, yes, of course. Edgar Rice Burroughs. I forget
which book. But Gathol was a city set on a high mountain. Seems appropriate. Then
so be it,” Paul responded appreciatively. “I suggest that we get ready after
lunch to take us down on a reentry glide path. I’ll get Daneel 1 to plot it for
us.

Ω

“Coming up on deorbit burn in three minutes,” Daneel 1 said
from the cockpit. “Standby for RCS burn to flip the ship in thirty seconds.”

“RCS?” Capie turned her head to ask Paul, with a puzzled
look on her face.

Capie and Paul were strapped into their seats on Deck 3
watching a midair display in front of them. On the screen was an over the
shoulder shot of Daneel 1 in the cockpit, where another midair display in front
of the Scottie showed the curvature of the Martian surface.

Paul grinned sheepishly. “I told him that he could use a
Space Shuttle re-entry timeline. The, uh, RCS was the Reaction Control System.
They were small rocket motors used to turn or flip the shuttle when it was in
space.”

Capie snorted. “You’re such a nerd! And a bad influence on
the boys!”

“Tell him you,” Ariel-Leira said, giving her full
endorsement.

“Well, that’s going a bit far, don’t you think?” protested
Paul.

From the cockpit, Daneel 1 could be heard muttering to
himself, as he studied a holographic control panel in front of him.

“‘Now, landing thrusters…landing thrusters, hmm. Now if I
were a landing thruster, which one of these would I be?’” he chanted, quoting
Londo Mollari from a Babylon 5 episode.

Capie gave Paul an accusing stare. “You were saying?”

“I, uh…”

“Five…four…three…two…one…firing!”

The cockpit display changed, the surface of Mars falling
away as the ship began to flip over. After nearly another thirty seconds, the
surface of Mars reappeared, only now it was at the top of the display.

“Maneuver complete. Standby for deorbit burn in two minutes.”

“No thrusters. No engines either,” Capie grumbled. “Why did
we flip over? What was the point?”

“Well, hey, it’s the first manned landing on another planet,
not counting the Moon,” Paul protested. “They’ve earned the right to play a
little.”

Capie’s eyes rolled heavenward. “I shudder to think then,
what Daneel 2 is doing down at John Doe Mons. He’s supposed to be our backup.”

“I have a hunch he’s playing the part of Houston Control,”
Paul guessed with a wry smile.

“Figures!”

Daneel 2 chose that moment to appear on the cockpit display.
“Stand-by for energy transference to John Doe Mons. Mom, don’t worry. This will
be a controlled re-entry all the way down. No aero-braking, no aerodynamic
heating, no shock waves, and no high-gee loads. Daneel 1 and I will simply
decelerate the ship linearly until it descends to the surface.”

Daneel 1 picked up the narrative. “We are orbiting in the
equatorial plane. As you know, Mom, Coprates Chasma is south of the equator, at
13.4 degrees latitude. Rather than shift orbital inclination to match, we’ll
descend to the equator and once we are low and slow, change course toward
Coprates Chasma. Any questions? No? Okay. Please standby.”

“Transference starting…now!” Daneel 2 announced.

The Sirius Effort began to slow from orbital speed,
but the transference of kinetic energy was not without discernible effects. The
ship shuddered noticeably and threatened to spin off in a random direction.
However, the two Daneels worked in concert to keep the vessel on track,
descending gradually on the intended path.

“See, dear?” Paul said with feigned casualness. “The Daneels
have the situation under control. ‘This is the captain. We have a little
problem with our entry sequence, so we may experience some slight turbulence
and then—explode.’”

“Captain Malcolm Reynolds, the movie Serenity,”
asserted Capie with a roll of her eyes. “Under the circumstances, not funny.”

“No, not,” muttered the mirror woman, hands on hips and with
a disapproving scowl.

“It’ll be okay, I promise,” Paul reassure them. “This is far
less of an effort for the Daneels than braking the ship down to orbital speed.”

“Thank the Great Bird of the Galaxy for that!” Capie noted
with a sarcastic twitch of one corner of her mouth.

“Deorbit burn completed,” Daneel 1 declared. “Reorienting
ship to re-entry attitude.”

The view on the cockpit display rotated once more, returning
to show the Martian surface again at the bottom of the screen.

“Passengers, please note that along the way will we will be
able to see the Amazonis Planitia, Olympus Mons and also several of the largest
volcanoes on Mars,” Daneel 1 announced, enjoying playing the part of a tour
guide. “Also visible will be Noctis Labyrinthus to our south. Those are a maze
of canyons and valleys to the west of Valles Marineris.”

“Guided tour, good one, love I,” declared Ariel-Leira, clearly
admiring the view through Daneel’s holographic viewscreen. “World dirty one,
though.”

Capie reached out and created her own display on the table
top in front of her, showing the external view outside the hull of the ship. “It
really is an amazing sight. And we are the first people to see it up close and
personal this way.” She sighed wistfully. “To be our home for the next few
months. We’re like Christopher Columbus, Neil Armstrong, Lewis and Clark, Leif
Ericson, Jacques Cousteau, Daneel Boone, Edmund Hillary—“

Paul chuckled and smiled at her. “Please, dear. Not the whole
list.”

She frowned but continued to stare at the display. “Pixilated,”
she muttered with an amused snort.

Ω

“The Tharsis Montes region is up ahead,” Capie breathed
quietly. “I’m anxious to see it close up. On the left is Ascraeus Mons,
followed by Pavonis Mons and Arsia Mons. I think Arsia Mons is just a little
south of the equator.”

Paul nodded. “Yes, I believe it is. We will pass between
Pavonis which is 7.5 miles tall and Arsia which is 8.7 miles tall on our way to
the Valles Marineris. It should be quite the view.”

They flew over the huge volcano, Pavonis Mons, the rim of
which stood 46,000 feet above topographic datum (the Martian equivalent of
sea-level.) Not long after to the south could be seen the Noctis Labyrinthus
(the Labyrinth of the Night), a patch-work area mish-mashed with fractures in
the planet’s crust, some of them thrusting downward miles deep. On occasion,
those canyons were covered by fog, a testament to the presence of water in the
region.

As the ship dropped lower in the thin Martian atmosphere,
the vibrations in the ship’s hull actually decreased.

Now the spacecraft’s speed fell below two thousand miles per
hour. With the ship’s altitude at a mere five miles above the planet’s surface,
Daneel 2 abandoned his post at the John Doe Mons and portaled aboard, taking
station with Daneel 1 in the cockpit. The craft banked slowly to the right,
passing over deep craters and valleys. Ahead, coming over the curve of the
planet, was the first sight of Valles Marineris—or more specifically, the
western edge of Candor Chasma.

In the far distance, they saw a crack develop in the very
crust of the planet. Both Paul and Capie were mesmerized by the landscape below
them. The terrain was rugged in the extreme, with features unlike any on Earth.
Jagged tears in the planet’s crust converged on a protracted and fantastically
huge crack in the globe. The scale was mind-boggling, making the Grand Canyon
look like a small ditch in comparison.

“It’s so big! And the color,” Capie noted with a pinched
frown, crossing her arms over her chest. “The landscape is all browns and dark
dull reds. No greens, no blues. It’s so…”

“Monotonous,” Paul said, finishing her thought for her.

“Yes, that’s the right word.”

“Melas Chasma is over to the far right now,” volunteered
Daneel 1 on the main display. “Ophir Planum is ahead, on the far left. And
Coprates Chasma is coming over the horizon now. We should be able to land in
just a few minutes.”

“Are you sure about the new landing struts, CR?” Capie asked
her husband with a serious look.

“Pretty sure,” Paul answered with a nod and another
reassuring smile. “If by some chance it doesn’t hold, Daneel 1 is wearing the
chutzpah and he’ll keep the ship from falling over. Right, Daneel?”

“Right, Papa-san,” came the reply.

“Sights such awesome are,” said Ariel-Leira, clapping
briefly. “Trip wonderful, what a!”

“Touchdown coming up,” Daneel 2 called out. “Two minutes
out…mark! Secure for landing.”

Despite his assurances to his wife, Paul tensed as the
display showed how close they were to the surface. He noted that Daneel 1 had
picked a spot on the Ophir Planum well away from the edge of the Coprates
Chasma, at least three hundred yards. He approved. The last thing they needed
was to have the cliff edge collapse under them.

“Ten seconds…five…three…two…one…touchdown! Houston, this
bird is down!” Daneel 1 declared.

With a knowing smile, Capie turned to face her husband.

“Welcome home, honey.”

Paul blinked and rubbed his chin with one hand. “Welcome
home? This is Mars.”

Her grin blossomed larger as he fell into her trap.
“Exactly. Everyone always says that men are from Mars.”

He snorted and gave her one of his patented looks.

She chuckled. “Just saying. I knew you were from out of this
world the moment I saw you.”

“That…could be taken either of two ways, CB.”

With a sly smile, she said. “Yes, dear.”

FIVE

Ophir Planum

Just north of Coprates Chasma

Mars

Saturday 10:30 a.m. LMST (Local Mean Solar Time)

November

Day 1

Without spacesuits, they remained on board to begin planning
the design of the Gathol House. The two Daneels portaled out using the
temporary airlock, heading off to perform geological surveys and prospecting
for the minerals Paul needed to fabricate the spacesuits he had in mind.

Disappointed that she could not go with the Scotties,
Ariel-Leira retreated from view in the mirror. On such occasions, Paul knew not
when they would see her again.

“The Valles Marineris,” Capie noted, studying the display in
front of her. The viewpoint was an overhead shot, from three hundred miles
above them. “2,500 miles long and up to 60 miles wide. A tectonic crack with
evidence of water flow. You think that there might be water deposits in the
floor of the chasmas?”

“That would be nice,” Paul concurred as he rubbed his chin
with one hand. “We could supply our water from there, instead of importing it
all the way from the poles. We’ll check it out after we get started on the
house.”

“Yes, the house!” mused Capie. “I have some ideas and
preferences on the layout. I think I told you that we need to put it on the
precipice of the north cliff, right? Hmm, I’ll want windows all around, to get
the best views, of course. Maybe a dome house, like the city in Stargate
Atlantis or Logan’s Run.” She waved a virtual pencil and notepad
into existence. “I’d better make a few notes.”

Paul smiled as he considered how best to plan tasks for the
next few days.

“As soon as the suits are made,” he said, “we’ll go out and
do a survey of the cliff itself. Make sure it is strong enough to support the
house. Then we can begin gathering the construction materials.”

Capie eyed Paul intently. “I know you are anxious to get
started on your Scottie production line and making chutzpahs too. But I really
want your help finishing the house first.”

Paul nodded in agreement, completely in sympathy with her
request. “No problem. It should only take a few days at most to build a really
great looking house. I think for the windows, we will need something stronger
than glass. Perhaps transparent aluminum…”

“Funny man,” Capie responded, with a bemused smile. “Scotty,
in Star Trek IV, The Voyage Home. There be whales coming?”

“Not from my side of the family!” he said, snickering in
amusement. “Or, if you prefer, we could make them from diamond,” he added, a
bit more seriously.

“Diamond windows? Surely you’re still joking,” Capie
assumed.

Paul shook his head. “Not at all. Diamonds are just carbon,
in a crystalline structure. Oh, sure, in nature, it takes tremendous heat and
pressure to make a diamond. But with magic, we can line up the carbon atoms and
link them together in batch lots. Making a diamond window should be no more
difficult than making a glass window.” He paused thinking for a moment. “Of
course, there are other options, such as graphene and a variety of plastics and
of course different types of glass. But for us, diamond windows will be easier
to make and structurally stronger.”

“I never thought of that,” Capie admitted, then looked at
him in approval. “I like the way you think. Diamond windows indeed. You’re kind
of handy to have around.”

“Anything to please my lady,” Paul said, bowing, delighted
at how quickly she seemed to be adapting to Mars.

He caught her eye. “And why limit it to just windows? Why
not the roof as well?”

“Ooh, that’s an interesting thought. To live in a totally
transparent house, huh? Since we are the only people on Mars, why not?”

“Well, we do have Ariel-Leira and the Scotties with us.”

“The interior walls will not be transparent,” Capie added
firmly.

“I agree,” he responded, grinning.

“Time’s a wastin’,” she declared. “Let’s get started with a
design. You’re the engineer. You can be the one to put it on paper.”

Ω

The Daneels returned late that evening and reported to Paul that
the prospecting expedition had been eminently successful, that they had found
not one but two large graphite deposits, both of them in the Tharsis region.

The selenium had been a bit more challenging. Chemically
similar to sulfur, on Earth selenium was frequently found as selenide (Se2-) in
sulfide ores. Using that information as a guide, the Scotties had found a
rather substantial deposit of pyrite (FeS2) with trace amounts of Ferroselite
(FeSe2) in the badlands of Ulysses Colles north of the Biblis Tholus volcano.
Using a filter portal, they had been able to extra the selenium directly.

By far, the hardest to locate was the palladium. Even on
Earth, the rare metal was only found in conjunction with gold and platinum
group metal ores such as polarite and cooperite, typically in the form of
palladium sulfide. After a fairly intensive search, Daneel 2 had turned up scattered
deposits not far from Alba Patera, a large volcano northeast of Olympus Mons.
Using a filter portal, the Scotties had managed to extract a little over
fifteen pounds of the extraordinary metal.

Ω

The next morning, after a modest breakfast of ham and eggs,
Paul once again gathered everyone together at the small kitchen table, this
time to talk about the manufacture of the two spacesuits. The mirror woman was
still off somewhere, on her side of the mirror, and hadn’t been seen for more
than a day.

“Am I going to need a degree in physics, chemistry, or
electrical engineering to understand this discussion?” Capie asked, with raised
eyebrows. “Or could we just save time, cut to the chase, and let you just make
them.”

Paul frowned then shrugged with a wry grin. “Okay, I admit
it. I get carried away sometimes with the science.”

“Really, Dad?” asked Daneel 2, smirking. “Gee, what a
surprise!”

“Okay, okay, point taken,” Paul responded, waving a hand in
surrender. “I’ll keep it short and simple, I promise. But I have to explain at
least the basics to you because I need your help in making these suits.
Otherwise, it will take me a couple of weeks to do them by myself.”

“We understand. Go ahead,” Capie informed him, her voice tinged
with a degree of reluctance.

“Excellent!” Paul proclaimed, then waved a hand to create a
midair holographic display. In it was a picture of an astronaut in full spacesuit
gear, standing on the Moon, a golf club in one gloved hand.

“Now, when most people think of a spacesuit, this is what
they think of, correct?”

“But you have something better in mind, right, Dad?” Daneel
1 asked with a chuckle.

Paul snapped his fingers and the astronaut and the lunar
background disappeared, to be replaced by a bare male mannequin, standing with
its legs apart and its hands extended a few inches out to each side.

“Right. The full-fledged suits worn by the Apollo
astronauts, the A7L model, was eleven layers thick and weighed up to 200
pounds, including the backpack. Now, what I am planning on is a suit that
weighs a lot less and is far more flexible.”

The mannequin suddenly acquired a set of apparel: a black
form fitting garment with a high collar, long sleeves and leggings that
included footies.

“A number of sci-fi books have used the concept of
skin-tight spacesuits, including David Weber’s Honorverse series. NASA calls
them Space Activity Suits (SAS). I’ll skip the details. Let’s just say that
people have been working on this type of design for decades trying to overcome
the problems involved. Yes, they have advantages. But they have disadvantages
too.”

He waved his hand again and the garb on the mannequin
changed. And although this version of the ‘spacesuit’ was similar to the
skin-tight suit, there were differences too.

“That doesn’t look quite as snug as before,” commented Capie
with a frown. “But I like the metallic silver color better than the black.”

“Good eye, CB,” Paul remarked. “This suit does have a more
relaxed fit, on purpose. It will be a bit stiffer to move around in than a SAS,
once it is inflated, but it alleviates the technical problems too.”

“What’s so special about this version?” Daneel 1 asked.

“Good question,” Paul replied with a smile. “I’m so glad you
asked. This version will be made of layers of graphene and a transition-metal
dichalcogenide also called a TMDC, specifically palladium diselenide. That was why
I asked for the palladium and selenium. Both the graphene and the palladium
diselenide are single layer materials, both incredibly strong and both very flexible.”

“Why use two types?” Daneel 1 asked, puzzled. “They both do
the same thing, right?”

Paul’s grin grew even larger. “Because carbon is the
principle element in diamonds. Selenium is an element of earth and palladium is
a precious metal.”

The light bulb in Capie’s eyes clicked on. “You’re making a
talisman! Precious stones, precious metals and an element of the earth! That’s
clever!”

“It’s why I really couldn’t make these on Earth,” Paul
pointed out. “They would have immediately drawn the attention of Errabêlu.
Once they are fabricated, I will let the Daneels take them outside and perform
a talisman ceremony on them. As a talisman and a suit that covers your entire
body, a simple spell is all you will need to keep the air inside from leaking
out, to protect you from injury and to keep you warm. They won’t be as powerful
as McDougall’s or Hamadi’s talisman or even one of the Oni talismans. But they
are, shall we say, tailor made for this specific purpose.”

Capie snorted, studying the suit that the mannequin was
wearing intently. “It needs a woman’s touch, obviously.”

“What about helmets?” Daneel 1 asked. “Mom said you are
planning to make diamond windows. Can you do diamond helmets as well?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Paul informed him.
“And of course, the suits need a source of oxygen as well. Back on Earth, I
purchased two closed oxygen re-breathers like what skin divers use for
underwater work. They’re in the storage hold.”

“I saw them,” Capie admitted with sober look. “And wondered
what they were for. You will give us a class on how to use them, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Paul said, with a wry grin. “But first, I
need to teach you how to make graphene and the palladium diselenide.”

He waved the mannequin out of existence, replacing it with an
image of a number of small black balls idly floating in space.

“Now, assume that these are carbon atoms, which each have
four valence electrons…”

Ω

It took three days of intensive work by all four of them to
learn the proper fabrication techniques and then to make swaths of fabric for
testing and fitting. Finally, when they had gained sufficient confidence, they
took the appropriate physical measurements, produced several large sheets of
the material and used them to put together two bona fide Lost in Space style
spacesuits.

After thorough testing, it was decided to put them to good
use the very next day.

Ω

Paul and Capie bounce-walked in the light gravity, heading
south away from the ship, the two Daneels floating along gracefully behind
them. Since Ariel-Leira had shown up again, Paul had her in tow behind him,
floating along a few feet off the ground, doing a slow rotation to let the
mirror woman see all of the surrounding terrain.

Capie keyed the microphone on her portable UHF Motorola
radio with a small spell. “Oh! Oh!” she cried, coming to a sudden halt.

Paul was instantly alarmed. “What is it?” he barked.
“Something wrong with the suit?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” she hissed while waving him
off. “The suit is working just fine,” she said with satisfaction and more than
a bit of pride in her voice. “It’s light and not hard to move around in at
all.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I feel a quote coming on!”

“A quote? Now? At a time like this?” he cackled, generating
a disbelieving sigh of relief. “You had me going there for a second!”

“It’s just that all of this…emptiness…has inspired me,” she patiently
explained. “A quote from one of my favorite vintage science fiction movies.
‘Another one of them new worlds. No beer, no women, no pool parlors, nothin’.
Nothin’ to do but throw rocks at tin cans, and we gotta bring our own tin cans.’”

“Yeah! Cookie in Forbidden Planet!” exclaimed Daneel
2. “Love that movie!”

“Good one, Mom,” declared Daneel 1.

“It really is a great quote,” Paul admitted, shaking his
head. “Come on. There’s work to be done.”

They proceeded three hundred yards further south,
approaching the edge of the precipice, coming to a complete stop several yards
from the brink.

“Not too close,” Paul warned.

No one else said anything. They didn’t have to. The view
from the cliff’s edge was indeed stunning.

Far, far below them, was the bed of the chasma. All across
the floor of the canyon, they saw drifts of red sand like waves of water on a
lake, frozen in a single moment of time. A low rocky ridge in the center of the
chasma stretched toward the east. Another, shorter ridge of rocks angled toward
the west.

“Look, there have been landslides here,” Capie said,
pointing below them.

Evidently there had been. They could see the circular
pattern of sand at the foot of the north wall where it spread out across the
floor of the chasma. Thousands of tons of rock and dirt had fallen there.

“We really will have to make sure this ledge is fully
secured before we build here,” Paul repeated.

To the south, a seemingly incredible distance away, lay the
south face of the chasma, some 35 miles distant. On either side of them, they
could see the inward curving of the north walls and the rocky strata of the
parapets. The view was the most magnificent natural scene that Paul had ever witnessed,
easily surpassing anything he had seen back on Earth.

“View fantastic is!” approved Ariel-Leira.

“We agree!” Daneels 1 and 2 chorused.

“I can live with this,” Capie smugly concluded. “This will
do nicely, Paul. Quite nicely.” And then her look sobered into sadness. “Dad
would have loved seeing this.”

Paul reached out, bringing her in close, touching his helmet
to hers.

“I miss him too,” he told her tenderly.

Ω

Working as a team, they hollowed out a series of large rooms
underground a hundred yards back from the lip of the chasm. The excavated dirt
went into the chasm, of course. By late afternoon, they finished the
construction of several storerooms and space for two large workshops.

“We are going to need air soon for these rooms,” Paul
observed. “Daneels, if you please, would you extract oxygen from the Martian
soil and nitrogen from the Martian atmosphere for us. It shouldn’t be hard to
gather what is needed. Portal everything in here.”

“Acknowledged, Dad,” Daneel 1 replied. “On our way.”

Capie was looking around at the bare red rough rock walls,
which were not very aesthetic.

“Not too bad, considering the circumstances,” she said with
a thoughtful expression on her face. “After all, ‘It took the Starfleet Corps
of Engineers ten months in spacesuits to hollow out these spaces. What I did here,
I did in less than a day.’”

Paul barked in abrupt laughter. “Dr. Carol Marcus. Star
Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. My, you are on a roll today.”

“I thought you might like it,” his wife remarked with a grin
which faded quickly into a sigh. “It’s a good thing that we are not living down
here,” she noted, eyeing the walls grimly. “This place is pretty depressing.”

Paul chuckled. “They’re just storerooms and workshops, CB. Now,
when we get the Gathol House built, that’ll be all yours, my dear, to decorate
as you please. However, right now, I think I will go create a latrine for, uh,
temporary use. Later, I’ll need to design and build a working bathroom with
associated plumbing.”

“Understood. Please, don’t let me stand in your way,” she
said, with exaggerated conviction. “In the meantime, I think I’ll go find
something to eat. I’m starved! I wonder if there are any fresh apples in the
ship’s stores.”

Ω

Paul was finished with the latrine and had started working
on one of the workshops, carving shelves and tables out of pure stone when the
Daneels returned. The underground chambers had been successfully stocked with a
50/50 mix of nitrogen and oxygen at 6.1 psig; thin but breathable.

That task completed, Paul sent the two Scotties off to begin
unloading all of the supplies from the ship. He watched as they set up a portal
from the Sirius Effort to the first storeroom and began the process of
passing boxes and packages through. Then he himself returned to his work.

Tomorrow, they would begin building the house. Titanium,
carbon, iron and silicon topped the list of required materials, quite a few
tons of each. Deposits of those and several other minerals would have to be
found and mined. Yes, sir, lots of work.

Ω

Dragging himself back to the ship was difficult. Every
muscle hurt. And judging from all the aches and pains, every bone, every
individual blood cell, and every hair follicle did too.

He found Capie on Deck 3, waiting with a lasagna, rolls, and
salad, one of his favorite meals. After stuffing himself to the brink and then
taking a warm shower, he felt a lot better.

In the meantime, Capie had turned down the bed on Deck 4,
with fresh clean sheets. Dressed in a white night gown, she lay on the bed
waiting for him, the stuffed puppy Patches in the crook of one arm and a sly
smile on her face.

“You know I like it when you wear that nightgown,” he
growled happily, suddenly feeling a whole lot less tired.

She smiled seductively and patted the bed in front of her.

“I hope you are ready to cuddle,” Paul suggested coyly.

“Just try to get out of it,” Capie purred, with lips parted.

SIX

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

Gathol House

Friday, 8:21 a.m. LMST

December

Day 7

There were so
many things to do before actual construction could even begin on Gathol House,
that Paul felt overwhelmed by it all. More geological and mineralogical surveys
to find all the right ores and minerals. The mining and processing of said materials.
Transporting everything to the house’s construction site. (And yes, it would
help if they could find a suitably large rock somewhere in the Valles Marineris
vicinity to use for magical spells!) Manufacturing building materials (sheets
of diamond, titanium and iron I-beams, aluminum piping, sheets of stone veneer
for the interior walls, etc. etc.) And then there were the site preparations,
including the assessment of the site for load bearing strength.

After all of that, then they could start the excavations for
the footings and foundation work. And for the wall anchors too, if they were
needed.

When breakfast was concluded, the four of them divided up
the work and headed in separate directions.

Ω

By the end of Day 20 after landing, when they collapsed in
near exhaustion on a sofa in the living room, the house was essentially
finished, except for some minor potential tweaking Capie planned to make in the
months to come.

And it was gorgeous.

The living room, by far the largest space in the house,
occupied the entire southern half of the dome. The sofas and easy chairs all
faced outward, to present their occupants with the wonderful views of the
Coprates Chasma, extending from east to west, including views of portions of
the north cliffs. Capie had provided the room with all sorts of deft feminine
touches including paintings, decorative lamps, strategically placed end tables,
knick-knacks, lacy white linens and throw pillows, polished marble and granite tiled
floors, and intricately carved moldings for the wainscoted walls. The north
side of the dome held the kitchen, an intimate dining room, a master suite with
a palatial sized bathroom, and an office with two seemingly genuine roll-top type
desks. And Ariel-Leira was prominently hanging on a wall close to the front
window, giving her a preeminent view of the scenery outside.

Each room of the home had received personal attention with
decorations and finishing touches that would have been the envy of Better
Homes & Gardens or House Beautiful.

Paul was pretty proud of the finished product and even more
proud of his very talented and increasingly beautiful wife. He snuggled closer
to her on the sofa.

“That’s Phobos, isn’t it?” Capie asked him.

Paul looked up, to the west, through the diamond dome over
the house. An irregularly shaped pale grayish moon was quickly rising above the
Pavonis and Arsia volcanoes into the sky.

“Yes, that’s Phobos. Compared to our moon, it’s sort of
weird,” he commented reasonably.

“I remember Edgar Rice Burroughs called it Thuria in his
Barsoom books. Hmm, I also remember its only 14 miles in diameter,” Capie said.
“And it orbits a lot closer to Mars than the Moon does to Earth. In fact, it
probably can’t be seen from the northern or southern latitudes at all.”

“I believe you’re right,” Paul said with a smile. “Not
exactly a lover’s moon, is it?”

“No, but I’m glad we can see it from our house. It adds to
the scenery,” she said, approvingly.

Paul smiled casually. “I’m glad you like it.”

She glanced around. “Where are the Daneels?”

“In the workrooms,” Paul replied with a yawn. “They are
doing more excavation work for me, expanding the storage areas, making room for
the raw ores we will need for the Scotties and chutzpahs. We will need quite a
bit of work space for all the fabrication processes for the Scotties,
especially. And the circuit boards, CPUs and other hardware. Oh, and more
laboratory space for you and your Magic Bullet Elixir project.” He yawned
again, this time longer than before. “Now that the Gathol House is done,
tomorrow we will start mining the minerals for the fab of the new Scotties.
Silicon, copper, gold, platinum, germanium, iron…”

“I got it, dear,” Capie interrupted him, leaning closer to
put her head against his chest. “Now, to change subjects on you, I would like
to ask you for some additional help in keeping this house clean. It won’t take
long, not if we stay ahead of it. ‘I will clean the house on even days and you
will clean it on the odd days.’”

Paul chuckled quietly, quoting the next line. “‘We’re going
to clean the house every day?’”

She grinned mischievously. “‘No, only on the odd and even
days.’”

“Nog and Jake Sisko,” Paul responded, correctly identifying
the source of the quote. “Star Trek Deep Space Nine. For a Star Trek
series, that ended a little odd, don’t you think?”

“It did. Much different than The Next Generation or Voyager,”
she agreed. “But don’t change the subject. You have the odd days, I have the
even ones. Right?”

When he failed to respond, she turned her head and looked over
at his face.

He was sound asleep.

“Hmm.”

Ω

Day 23

“So we are only fabricating the hardware for twelve new
Scotties?” Daneel 1 asked with sincere surprise.

Paul and the two Daneels were in the workshop dubbed as the
Hastor Room (from Burroughs’s book A Fighting Man of Mars), examining
the cardboard boxes on the workbench, each one loaded with a variety of
electronic components, from resistors up to integrated circuits, all purchased
on Earth and transported to Mars in the storage hold of the Sirius Effort.
Indeed the only missing components for the new Scotties were the printed
circuit boards, the CPUs, and various hardware pieces and mounting brackets.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Paul admitted, a bit embarrassed.
“Did I forget to mention that before? Sorry. I’ve been sort of busy. To be
sure, in the not too distant future, we will need the hardware for lots of
Scotties. And we’ll need to foster forty-nine new lines of Scottie progenitors as
well. So what we need is a nice efficient production schedule to accomplish
everything in the shortest possible time frame.”

“All of which makes perfect sense, Dad,” Daneel 2 observed
thoughtfully. “So why twelve…oh wait! I get it. That’s how many spare Oni
talismans we have. Duh!”

“Right. The fastest way to get more Scotties online is to
clone the two of you. That might take us a couple of weeks. On the other hand, it
will take ten weeks to nurse new progenitors to adulthood and then start
cloning them.”

“Got it. So all twelve of the new Scotties will be Daneels?”
Daneel 1 asked. “Yes that makes sense as well. With fourteen of us operational,
the work will go a lot faster.”

“Exactly,” Paul agreed as he rubbed his hands together,
smiling. “We’ll split the fourteen Scotties into teams. A team to continue
mining raw materials, a second one to process them, another one to assemble the
new Scotties, and the last one to make new talismans.”

“Talismans?”  Daneel 1 asked. “You aren’t going to make
chutzpahs?”

But Paul just shook his head. “Not at first, no. The isotope
conversions would take too long. Later, when we have a lot more Scotties up and
operational, we’ll invest the time. But right now it’s more important to have
as many Daneels as we can get, even if all they have are standard talismans.”

“We have almost all the hardware we need for twelve more
Daneels,” Daneel 2 pointed out, waving a hand on his monitor screen at the
workbench. “Except for the CPUs, some hardware and the printed circuit boards.”

“I suggest fabricating the CPUs first,” recommended Daneel
1. “And for that, we need a clean room.”

Paul smiled and nodded pleasantly. “I agree with that.
Fortunately, that isn’t too difficult.”

With a wave of his hand, the walls, ceiling and floor took
on a glazed look as Paul fused their surfaces, preventing them from
contributing any further dust or dirt particles into the air. Then he cast a
second spell that condensed all of the particulate matter and water vapor in
the air down to a single small ball of mud floating gently in front of him.
With a twitch of his finger, it was hurled into one of the adjacent workshops.

“I’ll take care of it later,” Paul asserted with a negligent
wave of his hand.

“That’s the problem with housekeeping on Mars,” Daneel 2
whimsically complained. “Not a rug to sweep dirt under on the whole planet.”

“The CPU templates are still packed away in the Astok
storeroom,” Daneel 1 said.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Paul admitted with a thoughtful
frown. “You remember how much trouble we had with the original designs.
Especially the heating problem and the data bus sync issues. Well, I have a
couple of ideas for improvements in mind—”

“‘I know engineers! They LOVE to change things!” Daneel 1
said, quoting McCoy in Star Trek The Motion Picture.

“Indeed,” Paul responded, doing a fairly credible effort of mimicking
Teal’c from StarGate SG1.

Ω

Day 28

Paul was in the Talu Workroom (from The Warlord of Mars),
watching the fabrication of the first of the CPUs for the new Scotties when a
six inch hologram of Capie appeared in midair in front of him. “Dinner is
almost ready,” she announced.

“Hey, that’s great news,” Paul said with a grin, wiping
sweat from his brow with the back of one arm. “I’ll be right up.”

The hologram smiled impishly. “I did a little improvising. It
turned out pretty good, too, if I say so myself. I hope you like spaghetti?”

“As a matter of fact, it is a favorite of mine,” Paul
replied with a chuckle. “I’m on my way!”

Their dining room table settings were most impressive. Silver
plated dishware, diamond drinking glasses and titanium flatware. Synthetic
flowers sat in a china vase in the middle of the table. An embroidered
tablecloth sported intricate floral designs. Red and white checkerboard
placemats with matching napkins lent a hint of Italian ambience to the room,
not to mention the soft Italian music playing in the background.

Paul nodded in approval. “Outstanding!” he told her. “First
class. From this point forward, you are the official interior decorator and
chief cook!”

She bowed. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Paul held out the chair for his wife, then eagerly grabbed
one for himself. He was enough of a gentleman to serve her plate first but he
doubled the amount on his plate and dug in with gusto, twirling the noodles around
his fork before stuffing his mouth full.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his eyes closed as he savored the flavor.

Capie grinned as she ate a bite. She didn’t say anything,
just watched her husband as he ate in enjoyment.

After a few minutes, Paul slowed down a bit and grinned his
appreciation at his wife.

“Best spaghetti I’ve had in ages. Thanks!”

“You’re welcome.

Paul noticed that the music was playing an Italian song he
actually knew.

He hummed to it. “When the Moon hits you eye, like a—”

“You should ask for your money back,” Capie advised him.

“My money?” Paul asked, as he stuffed a roll in his mouth
and chewed. “What money?”

“For your singing lessons, CR,” she replied, with a smile.
“Well, I guess my husband can’t be perfect in all things.”

He gave her a mock glare. “Oh, it’s that way now, is it? Not
perfect, heh? I was just getting warmed up. Listen to this!”

And he cast a small spell, changing the tune being played
and then another spell aimed at his vocal cords, before letting it rip.

Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer’s gone, and all the flow’rs are dying

‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow

Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow

‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, and all the flow’rs are dying

If I am dead, as dead I well may be

I pray you’ll find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me

And all my grave will warm and sweeter be

And then you’ll kneel and whisper that you love me

Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so.

For several moments after Paul finished the last note, Capie
said nothing, frowning instead, deep in thought.

“You didn’t like that?” Paul asked, puzzled by her reaction.

“Yes, I did,” she replied with a sad smile. “It was
beautiful. Beyond beautiful. I’ve never heard that song sung better. Thank you.
In fact, I have never heard any voice sing any song like that before. You did
use magic to alter your voice, right?”

Paul shrugged, still not understanding why she hadn’t liked
his performance. “Yes, I did. I used a combination of Andy Williams, Dean
Martin, Frank Sinatra, Jim Nabors, David Archuleta and Harry Connick, Jr,
combining the best elements of all their voices. Sort of like what Data did
when he was playing a violin in the episode “The Ensigns of Command” in Star
Trek: The Next Generation.”

“Yes, I thought so,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “You
did a very good job of it. But it has made me realize something.”

Paul frowned, now confused. “What?”

“This magic business,” she said. “Color me slow but I’ve
never quite realized until now how much of an impact it will have on us. I
mean, it can do far more than just cure spinal injuries. It could give me a
perfect singing voice too, right? And painting skills, dancing skills, playing
any instrument known to man, and so on and so on. And it can make me the most
beautiful woman on Earth and nearly immortal as well. In fact, it’s taken until
this moment for me to fully understand why the wizards of Errabêlu look
down on mere Normals. It would be hard not to do so when they have
perfect talents and perfect bodies that live nearly forever while everyone else
is so obviously imperfect and thus inferior.”

Paul considered her words. “Yes, it’s the Gary Mitchell
syndrome in the Star Trek episode “Where No Man Has Gone Before.” And
yes, this thought occurred to me earlier as well. This kind of power is
addictive as well as dangerous.”

“Yes, it is,” she acknowledged. “Paul, please promise me
something. Please don’t let it change us. I love you just the way you are, with
all of your imperfections. Please don’t make yourself into a Gary Mitchell. And
I will work on keeping myself imperfect too. Let’s not become what they are:
arrogant, sadistic, and selfish monsters.”

Paul nodded and smiled. “It’s going to be hard, you know. We
use magic for so many things. It’s faster and so much easier to use than muscle
power. But it’s a deal. I too love you for yourself, though I do want to see you
become perfectly healthy. But otherwise, I agree. We need to work at staying as
we are.”

What a wonderful and special woman he had married!

SEVEN

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

Gathol House

Wednesday, 3:33 p.m. LMST

December

Day 33

Capie was
quietly building herself up to a full-blown conniption fit, stomping around the
room, slamming down boxes of books and other supplies on the stone tables in
the room and practically throwing items into drawers and onto shelves.

She was slaving away in the Dejah Lab (from A Princess of
Mars), another in the maze of underground manufactured rooms north of the
house. This particular chamber was rather large, more than two thousand square
feet of floor space. For the moment, it was far more than she needed but, in
time, her research and production of the MBE drug would fill all this space and
several more laboratories like it, once they were hollowed out as well. She
anticipated employing an entire army of Scotties in these rooms for that
purpose at that time.

Right now, she would have been happy to have the assistance
of just one such Scottie.

The hardware and supplies she had on hand were those she had
brought from Earth in the cargo hold of the Sirius Effort, and they had
been, by necessity, limited. However, there was more than enough to begin her
research. And the quantity was such as to keep her busy for a few hours,
sorting and organizing it all and setting up the appropriate working areas.

Up until three hours ago, Daneel 1 had been giving her a
hand with all of the drudge work and they had been making fairly decent
progress unpacking and putting everything into its appropriate location. But
then Paul had casually dropped in and begged/borrowed/stole the Scottie ‘for a
while, for a special project,’ to be returned promptly, just as soon as his
small task was complete.

But three hours! Really! Capie was becoming increasingly
convinced that she had been duped and that Paul had no intentions of returning
Daneel 1 for the rest of the day. Indeed, she now strongly suspected that this
would become a common place occurrence in the future, where his projects and
work schedule might be, in his mind, of higher priority than anything she was
working on.

Hence the growing anger on her part.

It just wouldn’t do, she suddenly decided in a huff. If she
didn’t nip this sort of behavior in the bud now, Paul would never learn to cut
her any slack in the future. And the Okar Workshop (The Warlord of Mars),
where he was working today, was only fifty yards away via the interconnecting
corridor. Time to pay him a visit and get Daneel 1 back.

In one-third gee, it was not easy to tromp out of the room but
somehow Capie managed it.

The adjoining corridors were roughly hewn out of solid rock.
Since they were considered industrial and temporary at that, Paul had decided
that there was really no particular purpose in improving their appearance.
There wasn’t even any lighting or provisions for such.

However, there was a three-way sign at the corridor
junction, posted there by one of the Daneels, though neither she nor Paul could
get the perpetrator to admit doing it. The sign pointing to the left read “This
Way!” The one to the right: “That Way!” And the third sign pointed straight up,
reading “The Other Way!”

The only concession that Paul would make with the corridors was
to level and smooth out the floor, both to accommodate wheeled carts and
dollies and also as a safety issue in terms of eliminating potential trip
hazards.

As Capie rounded the junction in the tunnel, she picked up a
head of steam and stalked through the doorway of the Okar Workshop. Paul was
turned, his back to her, working on some item or other on one of the work
benches.

“Paul!” she barked, coming to a complete halt and putting
both hands on hips. “Where are Daneels 1 and 2? How can I get any work—”

And then a hind portion of her brain got through to her
conscious mind, loudly telling her that something unusual was in the room with
them. Something—no, two somethings—that were floating in midair.

“What the…?”

Paul turned, grinning widely and pointed at the two objects.
“Dear, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but ‘These are not the droids
you are looking for,’ he said, quoting from Star Wars 4: A New Hope. “Instead,
I’m honored to introduce to you the latest additions to our household, Daneel 3
and Daneel 4. Boys, say high to Mom.”

The two Scotties were vastly different in appearance to the
first two Daneels. Both of the new Scotties were carbon black cubes, each
eighteen inches on a side and otherwise completely featureless. No monitor
screen, no switches, no seams, no vents, no LEDs—nothing. Just black panels.
And floating freely in midair, two feet above the work bench!

Daneel 3 spun 90 degrees and a very strange thing happened. A
holographic image of a head appeared, projected out the top of the cube. It was
instantly recognizable as Daneel’s head, with the same blond hair, the hazel
eyes and the hint of freckles on nose and cheeks. But as a pure holographic image
now, not on a LCD screen. What was more, it was totally life-like and utterly
realistic. The total effect, with the black cube and his head sticking out the
top, somewhat resembled a jack-in-the-box, an idea which she hurriedly
dismissed.

“Hi, Mom,” said the Daneel image with a knowing smile.
“Surprise! ‘Tony Stark was able to build this in a cave. With a box of scraps!’”

The other cube popped up an identical holographic image of
Daneel’s head. “Daneel 4 reporting, Mom. How’s it going in the lab? Need a
hand?”

“That’s a great idea, Daneels. You’re both free now to go
help her,” Paul announced, with the wave of a hand before turning back to
Capie. “Sorry it took so long, CB. There was a glitch in the personality cloning
process. But how do you like the new look?”

Capie gulped and finally found her voice again. “I’ve been
after you for months to do something about their unsightly neo-cubism appearance.
But I didn’t expect a black cube!”

Her husband nodded, apparently amused by her comparison of
the Scotties to a form of art. “The exterior panels consist of sheets of 10,000
layers of graphene. Extremely strong. And the talismans are tucked inside their
frames. I beefed up the interior structure as well. These Daneels are bullet
proof and can take a lot of pounding. In fact, this design is so successful
that I’m doing a make-over of Daneels 1 and 2.”

Capie glanced over at the workbench and could see the
chassis of one of the other Daneels, strung out in pieces, the LCD monitor off
to one side.

“Hi, Mom,” said Daneel 1 on its screen, as it waved to her.
“I’m positively delighted to get rid of the duct tape. Black is so chic, don’t
you think?”

Daneel 2, sitting further down the bench, also waved from
his LCD monitor. “The duct tape look was getting a bit ratty. But basic
black…I don’t know. I’m thinking of adding red and white racing stripes.”

“Naw,” Daneel 3 said, chiming in to the argument. “Green and
yellow dots, mate, that’s the ticket.”

“It’ll take me a couple of hours to get Daneels 1 and 2
squared away,” Paul told Capie, as he scratched one ear. “But please, feel free
to take Daneels 3 and 4 with you.” He turned to the new Scotties. “Please help
Mom all you can. Let me know if you have any problems, okay?”

“‘Compliance!’” the two new Daneels said in unison, floating
toward the doorway.

“Come on, Mom,” said Daneel 4. “I have an idea on how to
arrange your chemical cabinets.”

Paul raised an eyebrow at Capie. “What were you saying when
you came in, CB?”

“Who, moi?” she asked with a feigned innocent air. “I just
wanted to see if you have any preferences for dinner.”

“No, not really,” he replied with a small smirk. “Surprise
me.”

With a quick grin, she said, “Funny man.” Then she turned
and left.

Humming to himself, Paul turned and resumed work on a new titanium
bracket for Daneel 1.

Ω

Day 38

“Dad? Oh, Dad?”

Paul turned to face the black cube floating up behind him.
With fourteen operational copies of Daneels all active, he had found it
necessary to paint a small number on the upper right corner of each of their
cubes, in order to keep track of which one he was talking to at any particular
moment.

“Yeah, Daneel 1? What’s up?” Paul asked.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” the Scottie asked, his
holographic face projecting above the cube looking a bit apprehensive.

Paul chuckled. The task of keeping fourteen Scotties busy
every day had rapidly gotten beyond his ability to keep up. So instead, Paul
had appointed Daneel 1 as the group leader, a sort of squad sergeant, as it
were. Paul’s intent was to eventually build an entire military organization,
complete with all of the associated ranks. At the moment, however, Daneel 1 was
taking Paul’s general overall directions and translating them into specific
work tasks for all the other Scotties. Which seemed to be working rather well.
Paul was delighted that Daneel 1 had been able to step up to the plate so
handily.

“Of course,” Paul replied. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, Dad, I’m a little confused on direction here,” the
Scottie admitted. “I know that you intend to create another six Daneels in the
next generation of Scotties. But, at the moment, we only have three spare CPU
modules and the discrete components to fabricate maybe four, possibly five
motherboards.”

“Correct,” Paul said agreeably. “And then there is the lack
of talismans for those six new Scotties.”

“Right. Now, Mom is keeping three of us busy helping her.
And I’ve got Daneels 2 and 3 looking for pallasite meteorites, Daneels 5 and 6
at Syrtis Major mining komatiite, Daneels 4, 7 and 8 mining bertranite near
Olympus Mons, and Daneels 9 and 10 scouring the planet looking for tantalum. So
far, they aren’t having much luck.”

“What’s the confusion?”

“I understand the need for the talismans,” Daneel 1
admitted. “But what good will the talismans be without the Scotties to go with
them? Shouldn’t we also be collecting new material for the CPUs? And what do we
do about the lack of the discrete components? The diodes, transistors,
capacitors and such? All of the ones we’ve used so far we brought with us from
Earth. Shouldn’t we now fabricate the other discrete components we need here on
Mars?”

“Lots of questions, I see,” Paul noted with approval. “So
let’s answer a few of them. As you know, Christmas is coming up pretty soon, and
that is going to disrupt our schedule a bit. There really isn’t time to add six
new Scotties with talismans before the holidays, so we are going to modify our
objectives a little.”

Daneel 1 looked even more bewildered. “In what way?”

“First, by all means, I want to keep the Daneels on the
mineralogical surveys. We need to know where to find the metals and minerals
for the new Scotties. We will focus on their construction after
Christmas. And don’t worry about the discrete components. I have a plan to
furnish them later. But for right now, I would like to concentrate on two other
tasks, other than the surveys.”

“And they are?”

“First, I want to make two chutzpahs, one for Capie and one
for you. That’s all we can afford to make, for now. So, have the Scotties mine
what is needed for just two chutzpahs from the deposits they find, process it,
and perform the isotope conversions. But don’t do the chutzpah ceremonies. Not
yet.”

“You said there were two tasks.”

“Right. Second, I want two volunteers for a special
mission.”

“A special mission?” Daneel 1 asked frowning. “Is it dangerous?”

“It could be,” Paul admitted uncomfortably. “I need them to
go to John Doe Mons. They won’t have to stay there long. Two days, maybe. For a
special high power project.”

“Is it a secret?” Daneel 1 grimaced and looked down. “More
important, do I really want to know what they will be asked to do.”

“Oh, I think you will approve.”

Ω

Day 44

“Have you talked to Ariel-Leira recently, CR?” Capie asked
with a hint of aggravation.

Paul grimaced, instantly peeved, knowing exactly how his
wife felt. The mirror woman had recently started whining about the view out the
window, how static and how brown it all was, insisting on a change of venue.
Unfortunately, it was already the best view on the entire planet.

The two of them were at the breakfast table, eating pancakes
covered with maple syrup with a side order of bacon. The meal had been prepared
by Daneel 14, who was doing most of the breakfast cooking these days.

“I’m open to suggestions on her situation,” he muttered.
“I’m thinking, at the first chance we get, we send her back to Earth.”

“Amen to that idea!” Capie chuckled curtly.

A change of subject was needed here, Paul knew. Fortunately,
he had one.

“What’s on your schedule for today?” he asked with an
innocent air. “Have you got time to come see something important?”

“I’m really busy right now!” protested Capie irritably as
she waved a fork in her husband’s direction. “I am busy mapping all the human
DNA strands. You have no idea how complicated that is!” she added.

“You will want to make time for this,” Paul assured her with
his most charming smile. “And it won’t take long. A couple of hours, if even
that much.”

“But you won’t tell me what this is all about?”

“It’s a surprise,” he informed her.

“Not my birthday, our anniversary, nor is it Christmas yet,”
she muttered. Then she sighed and put on a tired smile. “Okay, but only because
I love you. And I want to leave Daneels 6 and 9 working in the lab while I’m
gone.”

“Sold!” Paul responded with a wide grin.

Ω

“Where are we?” Capie asked as she stepped free of the
portal and glanced around the horizon through the diamond helmet of the
spacesuit she was wearing.

“Ascraeus Mons,” Daneel 1 replied. “The second tallest
mountain and volcano on all of Mars, a mere 59,793 feet tall. Of course, we are
not quite that high up since we are standing on the main caldera. It’s more
like 48,600 feet above datum. We are approximately dead center of the volcano
so it’s possible to see most of the rim around us, except for where the other,
older calderas overlap.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why are we here?” Capie asked, glancing curiously
over at Paul.

Several feet away, a new portal opened up and four more of
the Daneels flew through. All four had extruded holographic ‘arms’ out the
sides of their cubes. And in their ‘hands’ each one was carrying an object.

Capie’s breath caught in her throat. “Is that an emerald
crystal? And a block of tantalum?” She swung on Paul. “A talisman? Or a
chutzpah?”

Paul grinned mischievously. “A chutzpah, of course.”

“For me?” she said, practically squealing in sudden delight,
and she threw herself at him, hugging him hard, as difficult as that was to
accomplish with the two of them wearing spacesuits. “That is so wonderful!”

Paul shrugged. “The Daneels did most of the work, of
course.”

“Oh, CR, you are the most wonderful man on the whole
planet!”

“Dear,” Paul said, suddenly puzzled. “I’m the only
man on the whole planet.”

“Silly man. You know what I mean.” And then she released
him, stepping back. “Oh, but how do we get a piece of the sun from here? Don’t
we need a really big rock? Shouldn’t we be at John Doe Mons instead of here?”

“Great question, Mom,” Daneel 4 said first, before anyone
else could say a word. “But you are standing on the biggest rock in the whole
world already.”

It was Capie’s turn to look bewildered. “But I thought all
of the calderas were pretty much made of lots of small rocks, shattered when
they collapsed inward.”

“They are…at least all of the other calderas still are,
except this one,” Paul explained. “I asked for a couple of volunteers and got
Daneels 8 and 11 to go to John Doe Mons. They used that really large rock to fuse
enough of the seams of Ascraeus Mons’s caldera to make it into one really
monstrous sized rock. They fused enough of the seams and cracks to join most of
the rocks in this part of the caldera together. True, it’s a hodge-podge
confab. But it’s more than big enough to reach to the sun for ten grams of
helium.”

Capie reached out with one gloved hand to grip one of his
and squeeze it in delight.

“You are an amazing man,” she said again. “But now I have
another question.”

“What’s that?” Paul asked.

“Well, on Earth, we used rare igneous Earth rocks and we
used meteorites, or in other words rocks from outer space for the chutzpah. But
here on Mars…well, will the same process work here? Won’t the magic be
different? I mean, shouldn’t we have brought some Earth rocks with us to use in
the chutzpah we make here?”

“That is a very insightful question,” Paul acknowledged.
“And I considered bringing some komatiite from Earth with us but I decided we
couldn’t really do that, not for all the chutzpahs that we are going to end up
making here. After all, each Scottie will need a chutzpah too and it just
wouldn’t be possible to haul all that rock from Earth.”

“Oh. So, you are hoping that using rare Martian rocks will
accomplish the same purpose?”

“Exactly. And I believe that it will. After all, our chutzpah
and talismans, which were fabricated on Earth, work just fine here on Mars. I
don’t see why talismans made on Mars wouldn’t work on Earth. Right?”

“That makes good sense,” Capie agreed with a quick
appreciative nod. “Now, I have a request.”

“Name it.”

“I want to cast the spells this time,” his wife insisted apprehensively,
chewing a bit on her lower lip.

Paul gave her a small bow. “By all means. I was hoping that
you would ask. Do you remember the words I used for the ceremony?”

“They are etched into my memory, believe me!” she swore and
then laughed.

With a flourish, she stepped forward, sweeping an arm in a
huge circle and created a large 150 foot diameter white circle, eight inches
wide and two inches thick. In response, a puff of red dust popped up a few
yards outside the circle. Another fling of her arm produced a white hexagram inside
the circle, with the apexes almost but not quite touching the circle. Outside
the circle, everyone watched as more dust rose from the ground, a hazy cloud of
red forming in the air. Capie then nodded at the Daneels holding the components
of the chutzpah. They grinned, each one releasing their cargo and sending it
gliding forward to hover over one of the apexes, where they bobbed slightly up
and down, as if anxious for the ceremony to begin. A red dust storm formed
outside the circle, gathering strength, the sky growing darker overhead.

Capie waved both arms over her head. “In the name of the
Green Lantern, the Flash and Wonder Woman, let there exist a dome of denser atmosphere
above the circle.” Gradually, a mixture of mostly carbon dioxide and a bit of nitrogen
gathered from the surrounding area, the pressure inside the circle rising
steadily toward six pounds per square inch.

She pointed to the tantalum block at the first apex. “Let
the tantalum represent the wealth of the planet Mars!” She swung to the next
apex. “Let the pallasite meteor represent the link to the heavens! Let the
komatiite rock represent the power of the core of Mars and may the emerald
represent the beauty of the planet Mars!”

A lightning bolt flashed from the ground halfway around the
circle, reaching upward hundreds of miles into space. Another one struck out
from the ground near the tantalum and blasted a section of caldera wall several
miles distant.

Capie knelt down to touch the ground with the fingertips of
her left hand. “Let the power of this rock on which we stand be used to reach
all the way to the Sun, to the photosphere of its surface and gather from there
half an ounce of helium plasma, to be brought here and enclosed in a tight
force field above the fifth apex!”

A white soccer-sized sphere appeared at the fifth apex,
suddenly blazing with a brilliant white light. The helium had arrived. Paul
glanced over at Daneel 1, who was clapping his hands and bobbing up and down,
obviously enjoying the whole performance.

A series of six dust devils formed, each positioned a mile
off an apex of the hexagram. They grew monstrous in size but without the power
they would have had back on Earth. They did, however, reach very high up into
the atmosphere.

Moving back to the left, Capie shouted, “Let there be a huge
speaker above the tantalum and let it be playing the soundtrack from Lord of
the Rings!”

A speaker appeared and the stirring theme song from that
series of movies began to play.

“Let there be a second speaker there!” she yelled, pointing
to the second apex. “Let it play the theme song from Hook!”

Pointing to the third apex, she yelled, “Let there be a
speaker there playing How to Train Your Dragon! Let there be a speaker
over the emerald playing The Sorcerer’s Apprentice! Over the helium from
the sun, let there be a speaker playing the theme from The Forbidden Kingdom!
And over our heads, let there be a speaker playing the theme from X-Men!”

Even in the reduced atmospheric pressure, the volume of the
six speakers was painful to Paul’s ears, the sound loud enough even to
penetrate his spacesuit. With a casual wave of one hand, he magically created a
zone of active noise control inside his helmet. He could still hear the din—indeed
the ground beneath their feet vibrated with its volume—but it now reached his
ears at a mercifully lower volume.

The dust devils had morphed into full scale tornadoes now,
much larger and much closer than before. Lightning bolts crashed around the
perimeter of the circle, the sound of thunder joining in with the music.

A Mars quake shook the ground and Paul watched as small
crevices opened up in the ground, angling toward the white circle. He frowned.
It would seem that some repair work to the caldera would be needed after each
chutzpah ceremony. Capie, however, seemed not to notice, instead waving a pair
of sunglasses into existence in front of her eyes. Remembering the ceremony on
Devil’s Tower, Paul thought it a great idea and duplicated her spell.

Capie yelled at the top of her lungs, “When in the Course of
human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political
bands…”

As she spoke on, the tornadoes merged into one giant whirlwind,
a wall of red dust just outside the white circle. The quake in the ground below
them also intensified. A glance upward revealed a solid phalanx of lightning.
From all Paul could see, this ceremony was just as intense as the one on top of
Devils Tower.

Capie finished quoting from the Constitution and the
Declaration of Independence, then said, “In the names of Lewis Carroll, Robert
Jordan, J.R.R Tolkien, and Terry Brooks, may all the parts of my chutzpah come
together in the center and may they fuse into one coherent whole.”

When she finished, she waved the objects forward. Paul
gripped her right shoulder and slowly, together, they approached the center,
the other items of the talisman gliding forth as well.

As had happened on Devils Tower, the items met in the
center, Capie stretching forth her hand as the tantalum, emerald, helium,
komatiite and pallasite merged together.

The familiar blinding white light washed everything away,
leaving spots in front of Paul’s eyes.

A minute went by, the intensity of light and sound here
every bit as strong as it had been for the ceremony on Earth. Then the noise
and the light gradually faded away.

“Wow, Mom! Awesome!” Daneel 7 bellowed.

“A truly marvelous ceremony, CB,” Paul crowed in delight.

Capie stood there, the pride radiating from her face as she
held forth a brand new chutzpah armband. From where Paul stood, it appeared nearly
identical to his own. The same pure white color, the same size and shape, but
with emblems of fantasy emboldened on its surface instead of engineering
symbols.

She held it up high so that he could see it clearly. “‘At
last, after two thousand years of research, the Illudium Q-36 explosive space
modulator. At last…!’”

Paul chuckled. Leave it to her to quote Marvin the
Martian at a time like this.

EIGHT

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

Gathol House

Friday, 8:17 a.m. LMST

December

Day 49

“Do you know
what day this is?” Capie asked as they sat at the breakfast table and munched
on reconstituted scrambled eggs and canned ham.

Paul smiled benignly, knowing full well where this
conversation was headed. “Of course. It’s the day before Christmas Eve. I plan
to give everybody tomorrow and Christmas day off, of course, to celebrate the
holiday.”

Capie stabbed at her scrambled eggs, frustrated. “This will
be my first Christmas away from home.”

Paul put his fork down. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry, but
I don’t see a way for us to go to Chicago anytime in the near future.”

His wife apparently wasn’t hungry because she laid her fork
down and sighed. “I don’t either. I guess the biggest problem is that it
doesn’t even feel like Christmas. No Christmas carols, no decorations, no tree,
no special treats, no presents, no feeling of Christmas at all. No chocolates,
even. And worst of all, no father to share Christmas Day with!”

Paul reached over to lay his hand on top of hers, squeezing
it gently while offering an understanding smile. “Losing a parent is not easy,
I know.” He paused for a moment. “As for the rest of what you said—well, I
wouldn’t know about that!” he continued, with a more mischievous smile. “I
guess it might be time to spring my little Christmas present on you. Maybe then
you won’t be so down in the dumps.”

“You have a present for me?” she asked, a sliver of hope in
her voice. “How? You can’t exactly go Christmas shopping on Mars.”

“My dear, who said we were going to celebrate Christmas on
Mars?”

She blinked and looked even more hopeful. “Earth? Are we
going to Earth? I thought we were too busy. And the ship has no engines,
remember?”

“My dear,” Paul shook his head in mock admonishment. “It’s
Christmas!”

“I know that insufferable grin of yours,” Capie sternly eyed
him. “You have a plan and you’re just dying to show how smart you are. So, tell
me, oh intelligent one, what is your plan?”

Paul chuckled. She had him dead to rights. Again.

“Well, it’s not really a big deal,” he replied. “The rock
that the Daneels fused together in Ascraeus Mons is more than enough of an
amulet to portal us most of the way to Earth, even as far around the Solar
System as it is from us right now.”

She stared at him in shock. “We can portal to Earth? Just
like that? How far is it?”

“In round numbers, 149.43 million miles. Even with Ascraeus
Mons, we can’t go that far, not all in one jump. But with spacesuits, we can
now do what the Daneels did, and make the last part of the trip in multiple
jumps. No sweat, not really. And, just for safety sake, I want to keep the last
portal to the Earth’s surface a short one. Imagine the energy signature we
would leave otherwise! No, I’d like to stop short a bit, say to within 10,000
miles of the surface and then portal one last time, straight to Earth. Sort of
sneak up on it a bit, to avoid anyone in Errabêlu from noticing. If we
are careful about how we use magic on Earth and avoid the capital cities, and
Chicago and Lancaster, California, we should be okay.”

She winced at his stress on those words but made no comment.

Paul smiled, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I want us to
have a good time without looking over our shoulders while we are there. And I’d
like to allow the Daneels to go too, all of them. I’ve been thinking that they
could use a little more field experience on Earth, to get the lay of the land,
as it were. And maybe enjoy a little Christmas time for themselves as well.”

“And maybe take the mirror woman back to Earth too?” Capie
asked, beaming happily.

“Categorically and most assuredly, that’s a big 10-4,” Paul
affirmed, nodding earnestly. “She has rather worn out her welcome here,
hasn’t she?”

Capie came around the table and wrapped her arms around her
husband, squeezing tightly.

“I love you,” she whispered in his ear, then pulled back and
giggled in glee. “Where do we go for Christmas?”

Paul shrugged. “I thought we’d start in Napapiiri, Finland.
I understand the Santa Claus Holliday Village is one of the great places in
Europe to see during the holidays. Highly recommended.”

“You are romantic,” she accused him, amused. “I was
starting to wonder.”

“Oh, and before we go, I’ve arranged for Daneel 1 to do a
little Christmas shopping for us. He already has my list—”

“That’s a great idea,” Capie declared, jumping up from the
table and practically sprinting out the doorway. “I need to make a list too!
Oh, where do I start? There are so many choices…” and her voice faded away as
she hurried out of range.

“I think I’ve unleashed a giant shopping spree,” murmured
Paul to himself.

Ω

They assembled outside the Gathol House, Paul and Capie,
along with all fourteen Daneels. Visibility was a bit on the poor side these
days, what with the dust storm that was currently raging within two hundred
miles of the chasma. The storm in Mars’s southern hemisphere had grown larger,
now lapping north over the equator a few hundred miles. The way it was growing,
Paul fully expected it to engulf the entire planet in the next couple of weeks.

Inside his spacesuit, Paul was dressed in black dress
slacks, a white cashmere turtleneck sweater, black leather loafers with gold
studs and a camel corduroy jacket. Not to be outdone, Capie was wearing medium
heel slippers, a loose fitting pair of black slacks, a chiffon lace blouse with
a blend of pink and black colors, and a black cardigan coat that stretched
below her waist.

“I can’t wait to get to Earth and get out of this spacesuit,”
she carped. “It’s a little warm with both these clothes and it too!”

“Is everyone here?” Paul asked loudly, to divert the
conversation.

“We are ready, Dad,” Daneel 1 confirmed with barely suppressed
enthusiasm in his voice.

“We will use the caldera rock in the Ascraeus Mons and
portal about two-thirds of the way to Earth,” Paul explained to them. “From
there, we’ll take shorter jumps until we get to within 10,000 miles and then
from there everyone can use their own talisman to go down to the Earth’s
surface. I suggest Chongqing, in southwest China, one of the largest most populated
cities on Earth. We will split up there and go our separate ways until 9 p.m. HAST
of December 25th. Then we will all report on the crest of the mountain of Lehua
Island in Hawaii. We’ll start the return trip to Mars from there. Are there any
questions?”

“None, Dad,” Daneel 1 replied with a confident smile. “And
thanks, Dad, for the holiday. I promise that no one will get into trouble. We
are not sailors on leave.”

Paul chuckled in appreciation. “Mom and I will start off in
Finland. From there, we will likely go to Cologne, Germany.” He took a moment
to study Daneel 1’s countenance. “Are you sure you don’t have a problem taking
the mirror woman to that senior citizen’s home in Denver, Colorado?”

“No sweat. We’ll take care of it. Have a nice holiday, Dad.
We will see you tomorrow evening,” said Daneel 2 with a wave of an extended holographic
arm.

All the Daneels shouted enthusiastically. Within minutes,
they had all portaled to the caldera of the Ascraeus Mons where Paul reached
down to touch the Martian surface and initiate a much larger portal spell.
Capie stepped close. A huge portal sprang into existence, more than 30 feet in
diameter and 100 million miles long.

With a grin, Paul waved an arm toward the portal. “Wagons
forward! Yo!”

Arm-in-arm with Capie and followed by fourteen Scotties,
they stepped through.

Ω

In China, Paul turned both his and Capie’s spacesuits over
to Daneel 1 for safekeeping.

Then they did indeed start their holiday by portaling to St.
Petersburg, Russia to quickly buy some heavy winter wear. From there, they
proceeded to the Santa Claus Holiday Village in Finland, as Paul had planned,
where they ambled around the city streets. Nearly six inches of fresh snow lay on
the ground, the sky a crystal clear blue. Ah, and the village with all its
decorations was everything the internet claimed it was, a holiday delight to be
experienced and thoroughly enjoyed.

Christmas danced in the air here like fairies spreading
magic spells. (Hmm, did fairies really exist too? Paul made a mental note to
check on that later.)

After their jaunt, they popped through a portal to Cologne,
Germany, where they spent a couple of hours walking around the market plaza,
just across from the gigantic gothic cathedral of Kölner Dom. There was no snow
here yet, but the air was still crisp enough to see their breath in the air.
The city seemed alive with the Christmas spirit and they walked the avenues,
enjoying the decorations, the scents and the sight of people scurrying to and
fro, intent on their holiday errands.

They ate a lavish meal in the Casa Calcada restaurant in
Porto, Portugal and left by portal to jump the Atlantic to see the sights in
New York City. Paul confessed that he had always wanted to see Christmas in
that city since watching Home Alone 2. And the two Armsteads did very
much enjoy themselves, visiting the huge well-decorated Christmas tree and all
the Christmas lighting at Rockefeller Center, and then window shopping at
Bloomingdales, Macy’s, Saks, and Lord & Taylor. But the crowds were a bit
much and they left to attend the Christmas Eve Pageant at the West Tisbury
Congregational Church on Martha’s Vineyard, an outstanding Christmas event that
dated back several decades—one that was highly recommended by the general
public.

They strolled the snow lined streets of Boston, admiring the
city’s many and wonderful decorations; then they portaled to Aspen, Colorado
for a carriage ride through snow filled streets. From there, they returned to
Boston and retired for the night at the XV Beacon Hotel where their room
sported a gas fireplace and comfortable New England décor. Daneel 1 dropped by
for a few minutes to deposit several gifts wrapped in brilliantly colored
Christmas paper, then he zipped out again via portal.

Paul and Capie cozied up together in front of the fireplace,
roasting marshmallows, drinking hot chocolate, and listening to all of their
favorite Christmas carols.

Ω

In the morning they exchanged gifts, where Paul gave Capie a
diamond bracelet and three very expensive 1.6 oz. bottles of Clive Christian
No. 1 perfume for women. In addition, he passed along gifts given to her by the
Scotties, including several boxes of gourmet chocolates from Pierre Marcolini,
LA Burdick, Leonidas and MarieBelle. Paul’s presents from Capie included a TAG
Heuer men’s Carrera chronograph watch, a dark gray Italian silk/wool suit and,
from the Scotties, a graphing calculator, a binary clock, and a portable
retractable whiteboard, complete with a set of colored marking pens.

Capie smiled when Paul opened the package with the suit.
“Dear, I love you to death but you really do need some new clothes.”

He smiled and gave a nod in agreement. “We can work on that
when we get back to Earth on a permanent basis. I’m sure we can come up with
some new clothing for both of us. But the suit here is really nice. I love it!
Thanks!”

They dressed, checked out of the hotel and ate brunch at The
Capricci, a five star restaurant on the Italian island of Anacapri in the city
of Capri. They dined outdoors, on the patio where the fresh warm breeze from
the Mediterranean Sea was a stark contrast to the snowy vistas of Finland,
Boston, Aspen and New York City.

Afterwards, they portaled to Venice, touring Saint Marks
Square, Doge’s Palace, and Basilica San Marco, followed by a sumptuous dinner
in Ai Mercanti and, of course, an extended and very romantic gondola ride along
some of the more scenic canals of the city.

A trip halfway around the globe took them to Las Vegas, just
in time to get premium seats in the Reynolds Hall at the Smith Center to watch
the full orchestra production of The Nutcracker. From there, it was a
short portal hop to the Bellagio Fountains to enjoy watching the dancing
streams of crystal clear water synchronized with all the popular seasonal
tunes.

At 11:30 p.m. PST (8:30 p.m. HAST), they took a series of
short portal jumps to the desolate crest of the uninhabited island of Lehua,
just north of Ni’ihau Island. They stood on the cliff above the rocky shoreline
below them, looking across the moonlit breakers of the Pacific Ocean. Here the
ocean breeze was quite pleasant.

Capie sighed. “I had a wonderful time,” she confessed sadly.
“Oh, why does time have to go by so quickly?”

Paul hugged her, recognizing that her rhetorical question
didn’t need an answer from him. Indeed, he was wondering the same thing.

Not far from their location, a portal opened up and several
black cubes floated through. The Daneels were starting to arrive.

“It’s almost time to go,” he stated sympathetically. “This
won’t be the last chance we have to holiday like this. We have many years ahead
of us.”

She smiled and kissed him deeply. He returned her kiss with
great enthusiasm.

“I love you,” she declared, as she pulled back, her eyes
locked on his.

“And I you,” he responded. He reached out an arm, taking the
spacesuit that Daneel 1 had for him while Capie reluctantly accepted hers. They
had so much experience with putting them on that it was only the work of a
couple of minutes plus a few spells to don them and seal them up. Then, with
Paul opening a portal, they strolled leisurely through, hand in hand.

First stop would be the Moon, to the peak of Mons Huygens,
the largest mountain there. Then they would use a series of portals back to Ascraeus
Mons on Mars. Tomorrow, it would be back to daily grind, in their preparations
to make war on the wizards of Earth.

NINE

Dracula’s Castle

Mount Izvorul Călimanului

Călimani Alps

Transylvania, Romania

Saturday 10:24 a.m. EET

January

Seven of them
in the room. Only seven.

The most powerful people in all of the world.

The greatest wizards of Errabêlu.

All of them, together, constituted the most privileged, the
most exclusionary and supreme ruling body on the face of the entire Earth.

The Conclave of Magi.

They were gathered in the Hecate Room, which was the
Transylvanian Castle’s State Room, named after the Greek goddess of magic
herself. The State Room, only marginally smaller than the Great Hall, was the
room reserved for entertaining the most distinguished, the most eminent of
guests and nobles. Designed to impress, the Hecate Room was extraordinarily and
lavishly furnished and decorated with thick Oriental rugs on most of the
polished wooden floor, an abundance of ornately carved furniture and with
several elegant and intricate tapestries, striking paintings, and plaques and
crossed swords draped or hanging on the walls. On one end table sat a large
walnut hourglass, on two others baroque candelabrums, their small flames
flickering in the room’s still air. The south wall consisted entirely of huge
stained glass windows, depicting scenes drawn straight out of the Middle-Ages,
with kings, queens, knights on horseback, and flying fire-breathing dragons. In
the wall opposite of the windows was the large open hearth of a great
fireplace, lined on the outside with massive granite-gray stones, and on the
inside with fire-bricks blackened by centuries of soot. Above the solid
six-inch thick oak beam that served as the mantel for the fireplace, hung an
enormous maple-wood carved picture frame in which was mounted a highly
elaborate sigil—a magical symbol—from The Lesser Key of Solomon. In the
fireplace, a roaring fire cackled brightly among a huge pile of hickory logs,
casting dancing shadows throughout the room while at the same time heating the
room to a toasty temperature.

In a semi-circle in front of the fireplace was arrayed a
wide variety of large wooden chairs, seven of them in total, each one
personally selected, furnished and occupied by a wizard of the Conclave.

Oliver Jacob Clarke, Errabêlu of the United States,
was tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, made exclusively of American
Ash. His was the center seat—his current right, as the ruler of the world’s
most powerful nation. Of medium height, trim but of athletic build, he was a
distinguished looking man with long jet black hair and a hint of gray at the
temples. Wearing a simple Western style business suit, Clarke’s appearance was
more of a mid-level diplomat or a corporate businessman.

Born in England in the year 1435 and acquiring his powers at
a young age, Clarke had very early on recognized the potential in the new lands
of the Western Hemisphere, the ones discovered by Columbus and his other
contemporary explorers. Despite the empty wilderness and the primitive nature
of the inhabitants thereof, Clarke had promptly immigrated to the New World,
staking his claim to all of North America. He had, without delay, established
himself in full and total control of the small governments both in New York
City and Kingston, Ontario. And his gamble had eventually paid off, though it
had taken centuries to bring his efforts to full fruition.

In the seat to Clarke’s right sat Oleg Nevsky, the Errabêlu
of Russia. Oleg held the distinction of being the oldest person in the room—indeed,
even one of the oldest of the wizards of all the Earth, though his age and
appearance seemed to be more equivalent to that of a typical forty-something
year old male. Sporting wide shoulders, a heavily muscular build and a stern
visage, Oleg was staring into the fire, his mind obviously somewhere else at
that moment. He had come from very humble, impoverished beginnings, born of
peasant parents in a small Slavic village in the eleventh century. Struggling
all his life, he had fought tirelessly and ruthlessly to establish a stable but
powerful government among the Russian peoples, using every method available
(including revolution, war,  and murder) to accomplish his goals.

On Clarke’s left side, Yuan Wu, the Errabêlu ruler of
China, held out his goblet to the Oni who was serving the room’s occupants with
liquid refreshments. Wu was the youngest member of the Conclave, only assuming
a seat thereon in 1952, usurping the Errabêlu wizard of Pakistan. Since
that time, he had steadily advanced through the decades to occupy the third
most powerful chair in the Conclave. Wu was, even for a wizard of Errabêlu,
extremely brutal and ambitious. No one else on the Conclave doubted Wu’s lust
for power, his ambition driving him toward the goal of gaining control of both
the Conclave and the world.

Saito Masayo, of Japan, held the fourth seat, to the right
of Oleg. With templed hands, he dispassionately waited for the meeting to
start, his expression stoic and patient.

Nacci Misra, one of the two women wizards in the room,
occupied the seat to the left of Wu, as ruler of the nation of India. Cecily
Fairfax of Great Britain, who was lowering herself into her chair to Nacci’s
left, was the other female. To Saito’s right was Duncan Ruggiero of France,
leaning on one elbow, idly staring into his wine glass as he slowly swirled the
contents therein.

Clarke took a swig from his mug, nodding satisfaction to the
Oni standing near, still holding the pitcher of ale.

“Now, get out,” he muttered, idly waving a hand in the
direction of the door. The Oni backed away hurriedly, shutting and locking the
thick wooden door behind itself.

With a casual gesture of one hand, Clarke sealed the room in
terms of magic. Now, nothing could disturb them nor could anyone outside the
room listen to anything that was said.

“I hereby call this emergency session of the Conclave of
Magi into order,” he intoned in a stiff, formal voice.

“Please! Save us from stodgy protocols,” Cecily implored
with annoyance, slapping down her glass of gin and tonic on the end table next
to her seat. “The brass tacks are what we want. That wizardry high-jinks in
your country two months ago. Was that your handiwork? Have you broken the
Aleppian Accords?” she demanded to know, referring to the ancient pact of
bylaws agreed to by all the wizards of Errabêlu, drafted in the old city
of Aleppo, Syria several centuries previously.

“That…event…in Wyoming was none of my doing!” insisted
Clarke.

“That outburst, explosion, or whatever you call it, created
a talisman, did it not?” Nacci challenged. “All wizards know that a
super-talisman such as that event obviously created, is illegal by the
Accords.”

All seven heads nodded in acknowledgement. The wizards of Errabêlu
very strictly adhered to those Accords. While it was perfectly permissible
by their statutes to do battle one-on-one (and sometimes two-on-one) including
murdering each other, it was not acceptable behavior to start an arms race.
Thus building a talisman far more powerful than those possessed by other
wizards was not allowed.

“Judging by the energy released and the weather disruptions,
that talisman must be fifty, maybe a hundred times the power of the talisman
all the rest of us carry,” judged Wu with a scowl. “Such a talisman must be the
size of a horse drawn carriage, perhaps larger. Not very practical. It
shouldn’t be too difficult to track down, given its nature.”

Clarke made a wry face. “Good luck on that. It’s no longer
in the United States—that much I can guarantee.”

“If you did not create it,” Saito asked, inclining his head
to one side. “Who did? The alleged rogue wizard, of whom we have all heard so
many rumors?”

“Oh, he exists, all right,” asserted Ruggiero sullenly,
staring into his wine glass again. “His name is Paul Armstead. Celeste found
him in North Africa a year ago, where apparently the Oni of the Errabêlu
wizard of Pakistan had chased him. He said he was from California. He claimed
he was given his powers by a genie only a few days before.”

“Preposterous!” scoffed Wu with a deep frown.

“Agreed!” said Cecily with a glower.

Ruggiero held up a hand. “Celeste and I felt the same way.
We were certain that he was, uh, a spy, perhaps from a member of the Conclave—”

“Not from me!” snapped Oleg with a glare.

“Or perhaps from some other wizard,” hastily amended
Ruggiero. “That’s why we didn’t just kill him outright. We were, uh, trying to
interrogate him, in an attempt to get some answers.”

Saito pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He escaped from you, is
that it? Very unfortunate. How did he manage to escape from you?”

“A great question,” muttered Nacci, her look casting daggers
in Ruggiero’s direction.

Sighing, Ruggiero set his wine glass down and made himself
look back at her, hardening his expression to stone. “To be honest, I still
don’t know how he did it. The best guess I have is that he made water explode.”

Every other wizard in the room reacted in surprise. For
several seconds, they were silent as they considered the impossibility of
Ruggiero’s claim.

“I’ve never heard of a magical spell that can do that!”
insisted Oleg, banging down his tankard of Kvass on the end table next to his
chair and crossing his burly arms over his thick chest.

“There isn’t any such spell,” Cecily contended.

Ruggiero shrugged but didn’t argue the point.

Saito leaned forward. “Back to my question. That business in
the American west. Was this rogue wizard responsible or not? Does anyone know
for sure?”

There was more silence in the room as each waited for
another to speak first.

Clarke broke the impasse. “It would seem that no one really
knows. But I personally have no doubts that it was him. Especially considering
what I do know about this rogue wizard.”

“Which is?” Nacci asked, raising her eyebrows.

“MacDougall and Hamadi have both been taken out,” Clarke
responded, before taking a sip of ale from his mug.

Wu looked up sharply. “So that rumor is true also?
MacDougall is missing?”

“It would seem that he is dead,” Clarke admitted ruefully.
“So McNamee, in Australia, has told me. McNamee—well he gave me a story of how
McDougall showed up, chasing Armstead to the outback of Western Australia. It
gets rather wild after that.”

“How wild?” asked Cecily, eyebrows raised.

Clarke responded with a solemn expression. “It involves the
launching of a homemade spaceship.”

Ruggiero took a quick gulp of his wine. “Yes, that’s pretty
wild.”

Saito grimaced. “There were stories, even pictures of a so
called alien spaceship in the Middle East. Was that the same craft?”

“McNamee says not,” Clarke informed them, shaking his head
sadly. “A totally different ship. But that ship in the Middle East was probably
from Armstead too. You see, right around that same time, was when Hamadi
disappeared.”

“Ah!” hissed Oleg, slapping a knee with the flat of his
hand. “That explains why that little war brewing in the Middle East fizzled so
quickly.”

“Is Hamadi dead too?” Wu asked pointedly.

Clarke shrugged. “No one I’ve talked to has any idea.”

Saito nodded slowly. “So, this rogue wizard, if he could
build working spaceships, make water explode, take out two of our number and
stop a war in the Middle East, then why can’t he do other impossible things?”

“Such as creating a super powerful talisman,” Cecily said
sullenly.

“Exactly,” Wu said, nodding in agreement.

“If he can create talismans a hundred times more powerful
than ours, then he is incredibly dangerous,” Wu said, stating the conclusion
everyone else in the room was thinking.

“We must get rid of him, obviously,” Oleg firmly declared.

“That might prove to be difficult. There has been no sign of
him since early November,” Clarke said with a heavy sigh. “We can’t catch him
if we don’t know where he is hiding.”

“Then we must know more about him, learn his weaknesses.
Perhaps draw him out into the open.” The old Russian glanced around at the
other wizards. “Who has the answers?”

“He does have a weakness,” Ruggiero declared with a grim
smile. “He’s a Normie lover, you know.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” agreed Saito, glancing at the fire
thoughtfully. “It’s why he used that spaceship in the Middle East to stop the
war, to save the lives of Normies.” He jerked back around, raising his eyebrows
and looking at Clarke. “And last summer, at the Olympics, was it he that rode
that bomb into the stadium?”

“So it would seem,” Clarke concurred, with a furrowed brow.
“Which makes Ruggiero’s point a very interesting one.”

Cecily nodded vigorously. “Yes, I agree too. We can use that
against him, as has been suggested, to draw him out into the open and into a
trap.”

“An excellent idea,” Wu conceded with a small smile. “We
need something like a disaster of some type, or possibly a war, something that
is killing a lot of Normies, in a place that we can surround with several
wizards and lots of Oni.”

Clarke leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to one
side as he considered the options. “The current hotspots in the world are the
Middle East, Afghanistan, several countries in Africa, Turkey, Ukraine, and
Mexico. There are lesser conflicts scattered all across the globe, of course.
Pick one.”

Nacci chuckled in evil delight as a thought hit her. “The
trap would be more effective if it was killing his fellow countrymen. He would
care even more about them than the deaths of Normies say in Somalia.”

“An excellent suggestion,” remarked Oleg with a grudging nod
in her direction. “Yes, something that is killing or puts a lot of American
lives at risk.”

“A terrorist attack, like 9/11?” Ruggiero suggested.

“I have a better idea,” Clarke announced, sitting up
straight and turning to Wu. “How about starting up a little war? We know he’ll
respond to that, based on the events in the Middle East. A nice conflict
between the United States and the People’s Republic of China.”

Cecily nodded. “Yes, that idea has merit.”

If Wu was at all disturbed or surprised by the suggestion,
he gave no sign of it. He faced Clarke squarely. “What exactly do you propose?”

Clarke’s smile was enigmatic. “Let’s start with the South
China Sea, shall we?”

TEN

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

Kamtol Nursery (from Llana of Gathol)

Thursday, 9:28 p.m. LMST

February

Day 83

Paul paced back
and forth nervously from one end of the underground room to the other, his
hands clasped behind his back, his head hunched forward. Every so often, he
would pause and glance at the LCD monitor sitting on the workbench, looking for
some sign of activity on it. When he confirmed that it was still blank, he
resumed the pacing.

Capie leaned back in a seat fashioned from native rock,
waiting silently and patiently.

Finally, when even she grew tired of watching her husband
wear himself out, she said, “Dear, don’t you know by now that babies have their
own schedules?”

Paul hesitated for a moment but kept walking. “This is not
quite the same thing,” he grunted irritably.

“Dear, all babies are like this,” Capie said in a reasonable
tone, “be they organic or digital. Patience, please.”

Daneel 1 floated back through the doorway and into the room.

“Nothing yet?” he asked, wearing a tentative smile on his
holographic face above his black cube.

“No, nothing,” snapped Paul, with a scowl. “I’m thinking
something went wrong with the personality transfer matrix.”

The matrix, a software program designed to filter the
elements of intelligence from the mindset of a Scottie, was designed to allow
the creation of a minimal personality, in essence, planting a newborn baby into
the CPU of a new computer. In theory, the new baby would develop into a totally
different person, one quite different from Daneel. In fact, Paul’s primary goal
with this type of matrix was to allow the creation of a female Scottie, with
all the so-called instincts of the feminine version of a flesh and blood woman.

Daneel 1 had been chosen as the software “donor” to the new
Scottie and the process had actually been completed hours previously. And, to
improve the chances that it would work, they were using the same PC machine
that Daneel 1 had been created in, before being transferred into the superior
hardware that he possessed now.

“You’re too impatient, CR,” Capie said with a knowing smile.
“Call it a mother’s instinct, if you will, but I know, without a shade of a
doubt, that this is going to work. Trust me.”

Paul grunted but had no other response as he continued
pacing back and forth.

Ω

“There!” Daneel 21 practically squealed, watching the LCD
screen. “I saw a dot of light, dead center of the screen!”

Paul lunged forward, taking hold of both sides of the LCD
monitor and studying the display carefully. “Are you sure?” he challenged.

“I saw it too,” Daneel 1 assured him, with a sigh of relief.
“It was quick. Maybe only on for a half second.”

“What color was it?” Paul asked cautiously, as he released
the screen and rocked back on his heels.

“White,” Daneel 1 replied, with a growing smile. “Isn’t that
what happened during my gestation?”

“It was indeed,” replied Capie, with a knowing grin on her
face. “It was indeed. See? It’s going to be all right, CR. And it’s going to be
a girl too.”

Paul spun and looked at his wife in surprise. “And how the
devil would you know that?”

Capie chuckled in reply. “Please! I just know it. What a
silly question.”

Three days later, a baby girl Scottie was “born” and Daneel
21 was assigned as her nanny.

The Armsteads, after much deliberation, decided that Capie
would, from this point forth, choose all of the girl Scottie names while Paul
would continue to select the boy names. Capie picked the name Jocasta for the
newborn, after the Marvel Comics Avengers superhero. Paul wholeheartedly
approved.

Ω

With the Ascraeus Mons caldera ‘highway’ open, the Daneels
had established a steady stream of traffic back and forth to Earth for a
variety of supplies, including all of the discrete components needed to
continue manufacturing of the new Scotties. This saved a considerable amount of
time, not having to develop assembly lines for such mundane items as resistors
and the like. Why reinvent the wheel, after all, when such components were
readily available in practically unlimited quantities from any supplier on
Earth?

At the same time, Capie was able to acquire perishable
groceries on a regular schedule. Items such as milk, butter, cheese, eggs,
bread (and chocolates) were added back into their diets once again. And pizza,
Paul’s favorite meal, became a regular weekly staple.

The creation of more Daneel clones proceeded apace, the
numbers swiftly building.

And, with access now to Earth, Paul purchased forty eight
‘hot’ desktop PC models, installing them in the nursery rooms. Within a few
days, a new Scottie progenitor (a boy this time) was born. Paul named him
Harlie (from David Gerrold’s book When H.A.R.L.I.E. was One). The next
Scottie, a girl, acquired a day later, was named Vicki (from the TV series, Small
Wonder).

Paul was insufferably pleased with himself, spending hours
each day in the nursery, cooing at the babies and telling them science fiction
stories. His plans were working out extremely well! Indeed, they were ahead of
schedule!

Ω

Day 94

“Paul, I’ve got a problem,” Capie announced mournfully a few
days later as she slammed down her pencil on the counter-top and slumped into a
chair next to the laboratory work bench.

They were in the Thuvia Lab (Thuvia, Maid of Mars)
where Paul was giving her a hand with pre-clinical development of the MBE drug.
Specifically, they were conducting a few experiments, exploring a variety of
concepts for developing the right antigens. Unfortunately, the work was going
exceedingly slow.

“You mean we’ve got a problem,” Paul corrected her.
“I take it that the internet searches the Daneels have been doing for you didn’t
turn up anything?”

“No, they did not,” Capie dolefully admitted, brushing a
stray strand of hair from her forehead. “There is no option here that I can
see. I have to go back to Earth. Do what you did in San Jose. Namely track down
the experts in the field and interview their avatars.”

“Can’t you let the Scotties do that for you?” Paul asked as
he lowered himself into the chair beside Capie’s. “They’ll have an easier time
getting around on Earth than you will.”

But she was shaking her head. “It would take too long that
way. Too many round trips to Mars and back, just to bring me a snippet or two
of information at a time. No, I need to go there, do the avatar interviews in
person. Much faster that way.”

Paul nodded, suddenly gloomy.

“There’s something else I want to try when I get there,” Capie
added gingerly, looking at Paul pointedly. “I want to try calling up a SI, a
super-intelligence. I would like to know why we can’t do that anymore.”

“Because we left Earth, right?”

“That’s the theory. But why is Earth important for that
spell to work?” she asked with a long face. “Anyway, I want to put it to the
test. I wish I’d thought of it when we were there for Christmas but I had other
things on my mind back then.”

He smiled, reaching over to squeeze her hand gently. “So,
when do you want to go?”

She leaned back in her chair, seriously considering the
question. “In the morning. I would like to take a dozen Daneels with me, to
help with all the leg work.” She sighed. “I won’t lie to you. It might take
some time to find the answers I need.”

“I understand,” Paul replied, adding his own sigh to hers.
“Please keep in touch. I’d like nightly reports, please. And—”

“Yes, I know. Stay out of the capital cities.”

“You read my mind.”

Ω

Capie locked the hotel door of Room 408 behind her and
kicked off her shoes. It had been an incredibly long day and she was looking
forward to climbing under the sheets in a nice comfortable bed for a decent
night’s sleep.

The trip from Mars to Earth had been exhausting enough. But
she didn’t have the luxury of just dropping straight down to the United States,
at least, not from orbit. A detour had been needed through some remote location
and she had needed a place to store the spacesuit as well. Daneel 7 had picked
the North Pole, which had the virtue of being about as remote as you could get
in the northern hemisphere. The spacesuit had been tucked away securely, well
hidden in a glacier.

From the Pole, only a few additional portal hops had been
needed to get her here, to the Rochester Marriott in Minnesota. Only a stone’s
throw, as it were, from the Mayo Clinic. She was even too tired to eat
anything. That would have to wait until tomorrow morning, after a good night’s
sleep. After breakfast, she would then begin the process of hunting down the
right doctors, going where they lived and getting close enough to create their
avatars for some extensive and in depth questioning.

She collapsed in one of the room’s soft chairs, leaning back
and closing her eyes. Daneel 7 and the other eleven Scotties that had come with
her were in the room next door. Since they were, in essence, more machine than
‘human’ they didn’t need quite as much rest or sleep. Instead, they would be
making extensive use of the hotel internet facilities during the night, looking
up the information she would need for tomorrow.

In the meantime, her curiosity was getting the better of
her. Before she changed clothes and crawled under the covers, she was dying to
know if she could access a SI or super-intelligence now that she was back on
Earth. One corner of her mind argued that it would only take a minute and then
she would know the answer.

Opening her eyes again, she snapped her fingers and half held
her breath. “Tia, have you got a minute?”

The familiar ball of smoke appeared, swiftly growing in
size, dissolving into the holographic image of the Queen of Fairies, standing
in the middle of the small room. The individual bowed to Capie. “Nice to see
you again, my dear. Are you having a fun time on Mars?”

Capie breathed a jubilant sigh of relief. “So! You still
exist after all!”

Tia snorted in amusement. “Of course.”

Capie leaned forward, her fatigue temporarily forgotten. “So
why can’t I call on you anyplace but on Earth?”

The question seemed to amuse the holographic personality
considerably and she chuckled. “Ah, you haven’t figured that out yet? Do you
not know the source of our knowledge, from where we come? Think, youngster,
think! What are we, Merlin and myself and all the others like us? What is our
source of existence?”

As tired as she was, Capie blinked in surprise and
considered the question. The SI’s had a source? That made sense, in a way. They
had to come from somewhere, right?

In a flash, the answer came to her.

“You’re a creature of Earth,” she declared with sudden
conviction.

“Not the planet, no,” argued Tia. “The people.”

Capie nodded. “That’s what I meant. There was a book I read
once, by Keith Laumer. Oh, what was the title!? Yes, The Infinite Cage!
That was it! About a telepath that could access the thoughts, the personalities
of all the people of Earth. Everything they knew, all at his fingertips! That’s
what you and Merlin are, right!”

Tia nodded, an amused smile still on her face. “Ipsum,” she
replied, in Latin.

Capie chuckled. “It makes so much more sense now! No wonder
we couldn’t contact any SI while on Mars or in space! ‘Beam me up, Scotty,
there’s no intelligent life there, right!’ Geez! Wait until I tell Paul!” But
then her mirth died down, transforming itself into gleeful satisfaction and
determination.

“That’s good. Very good,” she pronounced. “Tomorrow, I’ll
have access to not only the avatars of some very professional medical experts
but also to you and a bunch of other SI’s. You are going to help me figure this
MBE drug problem out. There has to be a solution and you’re going to help me
find it!” She grinned wildly. “This is going to work out just fine!”

Ω

Just three days later, she was back on Mars, Paul greeting
her in the living room of the Coprates Chasma house with a vigorous kiss and a
huge hug.

“Welcome back!” he proclaimed, setting her back down on her
feet again. “I missed you, can you tell? Tell me about the trip. Did you find
what you were looking for?”

“Relax, CR,” she pleaded, catching her breath after that
wonderful kiss. “Yes, I did. And do I have a story to tell you…!”

ELEVEN

One mile north of Beting Serupai (James Shoal)

South China Sea

Aboard the fishing trawler, PKFB85

Friday, 5:21 a.m. MYT

March

“Khalid!”
shouted Captain Iman bin Akim of the Malaysian fishing trawler PKFB85, as he
dropped down the ladder from the pilothouse and onto the ship’s working deck
forward of the aft superstructure. “Mind the port beam! And watch the warp!” He
stood on the deck, watching the deck hand move slowly to the port side to check
the equipment.

The PKFB85 was a fairly small and practically ancient
vessel, dating all the way back to shortly after World War II. It was only
fourteen meters long with a beam of four meters and a gross weight of less than
fifty tons. As such, it had been in the captain’s family for three generations
now. Iman’s grandfather had acquired it in a deal with a Malaysian merchant
company, the details of which his grandfather had never explained.

Not that it mattered to Iman. It was his ship now, after his
father had passed away five years previously. But the open question now was how
long Iman could keep it.

Fishing off of the west coast of Sarawak, Malaysia was not
the successful enterprise that it had been in his grandfather’s day, nor even
in his father’s. There were many reasons for the decline in the business,
ranging from increased costs in supplies and labor, to competition and to
overfishing of the traditional areas in the South China Sea. As it stood, Iman
was barely making ends meet this season. If the trends kept up, then it might
well be the last profitable season he would ever have. Next year…well, next
year was shaping up to be a pretty bad one. The trawler needed extensive repairs.
Both net winches were giving him a lot of trouble. Like many other items of
equipment on the trawler, they were long overdue for replacement. And, if the
truth be known, such expensive replacements were simply out of the question.

If the situation did not improve and soon, he could lose the
trawler, possibly as early as next year. Then he and his wife would have to
find other employment, a difficult task considering the state of the current
economy. He might be able to get a job on one of the big commercial trawlers.
After all, Iman had decades of experience with fishing beam trawlers. True,
there seemed to be a lack of such jobs here on the coast of Sarawak but he had
heard that the fishing off the west coast of the Malaysian peninsula was still
doing fairly well. Too bad that he couldn’t afford to move his operations seven
hundred miles west.

Daylight was breaking to the east behind him. From the calm
state of the seas, it would likely be another hot muggy day here just north of
the equator. The seagulls trailing the ship were thicker than usual too, but he
ignored their raucous cries. Iman glanced back up at the port beam where the
warp ran through the block, then followed the cable back into the sea near the
stern of the ship. His experienced eye told him that the tension and position
was returning to normal.

“Ship!” yelled the pilot, Syamri, the short dark-skinned
native positioned in the pilothouse above him.

Syamri’s warning cry puzzled Iman. The South China Seas crawled
with ships of all sizes and types. There was not a day that went by that a
dozen or more weren’t seen passing through the area. Yet Syamri must have seen
something unusual.

“Where away?” he shouted back.

“Broad on the starboard bow! Looks like a warship!”

Now that was bad news indeed. Warships in these waters were
few and far between. Worse, if it was a Chinese warship, which was a distinct
possibility, it could be very bad news indeed.

The last time Iman had looked at his chart, his ship was a
few miles south of the Chinese exclusion zone. The idiot Chinese were claiming
the vast majority of the South China Seas for their restricted use. And like
most of the Malaysian fisherman, Iman had no desire to tangle with them so he normally
made it a point to avoid fishing in the disputed territory. But it was possible
that with the drift of the current and the push of the wind, his ship might
have crossed the line.

Iman vaulted up the ladder to the pilothouse, grabbed up the
binoculars from the wall peg and searched the horizon. It was indeed a Chinese warship
and, what was worse, it was headed straight at him, with a bone in its teeth.

His blood suddenly turned to ice water. The warship had a
forward deck gun and it was manned and—it was pointing directly at him!
Even as he watched, a puff of smoke exploded out the end!

“Hard a port!” he yelled at Syamri, before leaning out the
side of the pilothouse. “Release the warps!” he screamed at Khalid.

A tower of water suddenly jumped out of the sea on the
starboard side, the roar of an explosion shattering the pilothouse windows,
spraying glass in their faces, and the ship rocked hard to port.

Iman reached out to Syamri, pulling him from the wheel. “Abandon
ship! Abandon ship!”

He never heard the second shell, the one that landed
squarely on the forward deck.

Without warning, he found himself flying through the air,
the world spinning around him, and plunging into the water hard enough to knock
the breath out of him. He fought, kicking and thrashing his arms wildly,
struggling to reach the surface.

Which he did, popping out into the open air. For several
seconds, he found he still couldn’t take air into his lungs, he had been hit so
hard. It was a fight for his life, staying above the waves, sucking in air and
desperately trying to regain some measure of control.

“Iman!” screamed a voice close by. “Iman!”

He spun as he continued to thrash in the water. There, only
a few yards away, he could see Khalid, one arm flung over a large plank. His
other arm was working to hold up Syamri, who was either dead or unconscious.

“Swim to me!” yelled Khalid. “I need help with Syamri!
Swim!”

Iman was not a very good swimmer but he managed to kick his
shoes off and make his way through the waves to Khalid’s side. Once he had a
hold on the wood, he grabbed Syamri’s other arm. Together, he and Khalid
managed to flip Syamri over and keep the man’s mouth and nose above water.
Well, most of the time.

A few yards away, Iman could also see the stern of his boat
as it tilted to a vertical position, the entire bow and midships either gone or
under water. As he watched, horrified, the stern slid downward, plunging
beneath the waves.

His ship, gone. Despair gripped his soul, squeezing him
tightly. He knew not what would be worse, surviving this day without his ship?
Or just letting go of the wood and ending it all here and now.

Ω

The two jets, one slightly below and behind the other,
bolted through the clear blue sky at just under the speed of sound, vectoring
south southeast at a true altitude of 10,000 feet. Ahead and above them at
35,000 feet was the contrail of an airliner, Singapore Airlines Flight 910, on
its regularly scheduled run from Singapore to Manilla. The single-seater fighter
jets were military, Chinese J-11B’s, powered by twin-engine Shenyang
WS-10 turbofans, both capable of 59,400 pounds thrust in full afterburner.

The fighter jets banked left and pulled up, now on a curved
intercept with the civilian aircraft, approaching it from behind and below.
They accelerated slightly in order to close the distance with their intended
and unsuspecting target.

The pilot in the lead J-11B activated his radio. In Mandarin
Chinese, he said, “Target acquired.”

His controller, stationed back at the Yongxing Island
airstrip on “Woody Island” in the Paracels, responded very promptly, also in
Mandarin. “You are authorized to proceed against the intruder.”

The pilot gulped, knowing that his next action would cost
the lives of hundreds of innocent people. Nevertheless, he had his orders and
would not shirk from them.

Switching his fire control radar from search to track mode, he
noted the closure rate and distance to the airliner. When the range had
decreased to five miles, he activated the Russian made Vympel R-27R
missile on the inner starboard weapons pylon, locking the missile to the
target. As the J-11B closed to four miles, within the optimal target range of
the medium range missile, he closed his eyes and pressed the firing button on
the control stick.

The plane shuddered, the missile dropping away from the
wing. With a practiced jerk of the control stick, the pilot brought the plane
level again. The R-27R, a radar guided air-to-air missile, dropped only thirty
feet before the solid fueled engine fully ignited. Thereafter, it accelerated
rapidly, up to Mach 4.5, racing straight ahead.

At this range, it was no contest at all. In five seconds,
the missile covered the four miles between the planes, smashing the airliner’s
main starboard wing just inboard of its engine. The result was almost
instantaneous, with the starboard wing shearing from the aircraft, the fuselage
spinning down and to the left. In seconds, the wind shear tore the rest of the
plane to shreds, spewing fragments of it in all directions.

And then his J-11B was thundering past the wreckage, where the
Chinese fighter pilot could no longer see it. Banking sharply left and trusting
on his wingman to keep up, he craned his neck in that direction and reacquired
visual contact.

But there was only a scattering of aluminum pieces in the
air, all of them falling slowly toward the surface of the South China Sea far
below.

Hundreds of defenseless people now dead. At his hand too.
Gritting his teeth, the pilot angled his plane back to the northwest and keyed
his mike.

“Intruder destroyed,” he reported tensely. “Returning to
base.”

Ω

Day 124

Later in the day, Paul noticed how quiet Capie was. She was
in the nursery, softly talking to Eve (the 2008 film, WALL-E) in baby
talk as the AI slept on a nearby table.

Paul had known her long enough to know that something was
wrong. He motioned for her to step out of the nursery so that he could talk to
her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, when they were out in the
corridor.

For several seconds she didn’t respond, only frowned and
looked away. Paul waited patiently.

“It’s just that she is so cute!” Capie finally blurted out.
“And you are planning to turn her into a soldier. A killing machine! It just
seems wrong.”

Paul waited a bit longer, to see if there was more she
wanted to say. Then he grimaced and shook his head.

“Dear,” Paul said slowly, trying to tread carefully through
the perceived field of landmines. “I thought you wanted the wizards to receive
capital punishment.”

She refused to meet his look. And for a long several
moments, she didn’t say anything either.

“I do think they should be dealt with harshly, for all the
millions of people that they’ve killed,” she finally softly muttered as she
stared down at Eve. “But not by these innocent babies. It wouldn’t be right.”

For a few moments, Paul didn’t respond. Secretly, in his
heart, he was vastly relieved. Capie was continuing to make progress with her
emotional trauma involving the death of her father. This reluctance on her part
to let the AIs kill her enemies surely was a sign of her improvement.

“So,” Paul finally said, again careful on what words to use.
“You think the wizards should die, right up to the point where it comes time to
pick the executioners. Is that about right?”

This time, she did look up at him. And with a grim scowl on
her face as well.

“I hate it when people use logic against me!” she softly
snapped back before sighing. “Okay, you have a point. But don’t change the
subject. I don’t want to turn Eve into a killing machine, okay? Nor any of the
other Scotties either.”

“That’s not what I want as well,” Paul responded,
challenging her assertion. “Although I won’t lie to you. It might be necessary
for them to kill, in the same way that I needed to kill McDougall. But the
Scotties won’t be involved in the same type of fighting that say, the US Rangers
or Seals perform on mission ops or that the Marines perform when storming a
beach or the US Army performed on D-Day. They won’t be involved in that kind of
fighting.”

She adopted a suspicious glare at him. “I guess I don’t
understand. What are you saying exactly?”

It was his turn to think for a few seconds.

“There was a science-fiction short story I read once, a long
time ago. I don’t remember the author or the name of the story but I do
remember what one of the characters, an alien I believe, had to say about World
War II. He said that it was a colossal waste of resources and lives. That it
would have been far more efficient and effective if an appropriate degree of
power had been applied to one man, Adolf Hitler, say in the form of a single
note played endlessly over and over again in his ear. Imagine how quickly the
man would have been distracted and driven insane and how much faster the war
would have ended, how many lives would have been saved.”

“I must have missed that story,” Capie admitted with a small
shrug. “But it doesn’t seem practical, to have actually done that.”

Paul smiled knowingly. “No, not using the technology they
had back then or lacking the power of magic that we have now.”

She jerked a little in surprise. “Are you saying…?”

“Exactly. The type of soldiers that I want the Scotties to
be will use their magical powers to fight in unconventional ways. They will
look for efficient, non-lethal methods—the quickest way, the least degree of
power needed, ways that will save lives. So, in the conventional sense, they
won’t be soldiers and this won’t be an army, but there really aren’t words in
the English language to describe what sort of role they will actually serve. A
team, yes but far more than that as well.”

She paused. “But there will be a war, of sorts, won’t there?
When we go back to Earth and you confront Errabêlu. They won’t just lay
down their arms, will they? Even when confronted by your army of Scotties.”

“No, I don’t suppose that they will. So yes, there will be a
battle of sorts. Perhaps several battles. But, as I have said, our Scotties
will fight with unusual tactics, employing magic, avoiding death and
destruction whenever and however possible.” Paul paused. “And, as I said
before, none of this is cast in concrete yet. Those are my plans, but if you
can come up with a better approach, I am all ears. I will happily consider
anything that has a decent chance of success. I know my plan sounds bizarre.
You said so yourself. But it does have a decent chance of success, if we can
continue to build the Scotties. I think this plan limits the number of bodies
that will be left strewn in its path.”

Capie bit her lower lip, glancing back at Eve. “Speaking of
bodies. What happens if one of our children gets…you know…killed?”

It was Paul’s turn to look uneasy, turning his head to one
side and visibly swallowing hard. “That thought has occurred to me. I’ve
discussed it with Daneel 1. We plan to build portable data storage units, sort
of like USB hard drives, with 1.5 petabytes of space. Before they go into
battle, each of the Scotties will copy their memories as backup. If necessary,
we can build a whole new unit and then restore their memory.”

Nodding, she snorted in laughter. “I keep forgetting. They are
computers. Too bad we can’t do that for ourselves as well.”

“Yeah. Too bad,” Paul agreed, with a sad smile.

Ω

Captain Barry Ottey slowly turned the page of the personnel
evaluation questionnaire and continued filling out the form’s blanks with the
ballpoint pen in his right hand, quietly uttering a small sigh as he did so. At
his right elbow sat a keyboard and computer monitor, with the PC nestled in a
secure bracket bolted to the right side of his desk. The evaluations would have
been decidedly easier to do on the computer where, at the very least, he could
have used copy and paste shortcuts. Someday, he mused thoughtfully, the promise
of a truly paperless society would really come true and paper forms such as the
ones he was filling out now would permanently disappear. How often had he heard
that said over the last thirty years?

Ottey’s command was the Al Dafna, one of fourteen of
the largest LNG super-tankers in the world, plying the world’s oceans from
ports in the Middle East to harbors world-wide. Their current voyage was taking
them through the South China Sea, their location roughly thirty miles northwest
of Vanguard Bank, and 290 miles southeast of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

Glancing over the stack of paper, he estimated another hour
or so here before he could reasonably quit for the evening and retire to his
cabin. Thankfully, it had been another moderately uneventful day at sea, both
the weather and the sea-state calm and cooperative. At this rate, in a few more
days, his ship would dock in Busan, Korea. With the successful delivery of his
cargo, he would then be free to turn over the unloading operations to his first
officer, and command of the ship to a new captain, once that party reported
aboard.

Ottey sadly smiled at the thought. The crew was planning to
give him a farewell dinner tomorrow evening, the last time he would be with
most of them again. He would miss serving with them. He would miss ship life
too. And most of all, he would miss the Al Dafana!

After the change in command, he was to report to the
corporate office in London, to accept a promotion as an operations director. He
already had his set of orders in his cabin. Not only did it mean better pay but
it would also be a shore job, which should—hopefully—make his wife April a bit
happier. He had spent far too many years at sea and April had been very patient
with him and the demands of his chosen occupation. With the promotion and new
job, he could be home in time for dinner every evening. True, they would have
to move from their home in Harwich where they had lived for twenty years and
raised their children. But the pay raise with the promotion would allow better
housing (even taking into consideration the cost of housing in London) of which
his wife had strongly approved.

Such were his idle thoughts as he filled out the routine
paperwork abstractedly…right up to the point where a shudder went through the compartment,
rattling the computer monitor and the coffee cup sitting on the left side of
the desk.

“What the…?” he muttered springing to his feet, paperwork
forgotten. He was barely around the corner of the desk when the general alarm
bell began to ring.

As Ottey rushed through the office doorway and onto the rear
of the bridge, he spied Third Mate Stein Jenssen, current officer of the watch,
shouting into his VHF/DSC portable radio and racing between computer displays along
the lengthy bridge console.

Before Ottey could say a word, a brilliant flash of light
suddenly appeared through the bridge windows, momentarily blinding him. An
instant later, two of the windows on the port end of the bridge shattered,
spewing forth glass fragments while the ship shook again, much harder this
time. Grabbing on to an equipment rack, Ottey staggered but remained upright as
the loud roar of an explosion burst through the bridge’s open port hatch, drowning
out the sound of the general alarm bell. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, the
captain swung back to the windows in time to see a geyser of water slowly
descend along the port side of the ship, fifty feet forward of the bridge.

“Captain!” frantically shouted Jenssen as he climbed back to
his feet. “Meijer in the CCR reports rupture alarms in port side CT-2!”

Ottey dashed toward the port side door, across the shattered
glass on the deck, ducking through the bridge’s side hatch and out onto the
bridge wing.

Where he screeched to a sudden halt, gripping the hand rail.
From here, he could see most of the ship’s hull along the port side. There were
two gaping holes visible, one roughly located at CT-2, the other much closer at
CT-5. Both were gushing cold vaporous liquid out past the jagged metal edges of
the hull, out into the sea. At the forward gash, a small but rapidly growing
fire was building, a light column of smoke streaming skyward.

For a second as he stared at the destruction, Ottey
struggled to make sense of the calamity.

And then, in a sudden moment of instant clarity, he did
understand. His ship was being attacked! Furthermore, the damage inflicted so
far was more than enough to seal the fate of the Al Dafna and its cargo,
despite her huge size. There was nothing he could do to stop the rapidly
growing blaze with the two ruptured containment tanks. When the fire reached its
full potential, the ship would be totally consumed in a colossal inferno the
size of a small city. Worse, the other three LNG tanks would likely rupture
too, adding to the conflagration.

As he dashed back onto the bridge, Jenssen was screaming at
him.

“CT-5 is ruptured too, Captain! Meijer reports—”

But Ottey ignored him, reaching the control console and slapping
his hand down on the alarm switch, turning it off. Snatching his radio from his
belt, he fumbled with the buttons on the unit for a moment, trying to initiate a
ship wide broadcast.

Finally, the display on the unit acknowledged his inputs and
he clutched it tightly up to his mouth.

“All hands, this is the Captain! We’ve been attacked!” he
shouted into the unit. “Meijer! Trigger the CO2 dump for all spaces around CT’s
2 and 5. All hands prepare to abandon ship! I repeat, follow the drills and
prepare to abandon ship!”

Ottey lowered the radio, then turned to Jenssen, who was
staring back at the captain, his eyes wide open, his jaw dropped.

“That includes you, Mr. Jenssen!” the captain snapped.
“Lifeboat station, if you please!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Jenssen replied, as he spun and raced for
the ladder.

Ottey followed but at a slower pace, raising his radio again
and issuing more commands, this time to the ship’s engineer down in the engine
room. Finished with that task, he paused and considered his next action. There
were things in his cabin he really wished he had time to collect but in reality
not a single one of them was worth his life. Instead, he momentarily ducked back
into his office to retrieve the backup hardcopy of the ship’s log book, then
rushed down the ladder to D Deck.

The Al Dafna carried two orange enclosed fiberglass
lifeboats, one port side aft, the other on the starboard side. Both were
designed to carry the entire crew if necessary.

Ottey chose the starboard side craft, judging it to be the furthest
from the fire and therefore the safest. He raced down the D Deck passageway and
out onto the open deck. Most of the crew were already there, wearing
lifejackets and lowering themselves through the open hatch into the rear of the
lifeboat. Ottey took a moment and unsnapped a bright yellow EPIRB (Emergency
Position Indicating Radio Beacon) from its rack on a nearby bulkhead and pushed
the activation switch, turning the unit on. Then he laid the device on the
deck. When the ship went down, the unit would float, transmitting a distress
radio signal.

“Hurry, sir!” shouted Seaman Meijer, a lover of Bond films,
from the open hatch of the lifeboat. “Blofeld’s secret base is about to blow
up!”

Ottey took one quick moment to glance back toward the bow of
the ship, noting the heat waves radiating above amidships, from the port side.
It must be very unhealthy on that side of the ship.

His command. His ship. And he didn’t have the foggiest idea
who had attacked him!

“Make room!” Ottey shouted as he turned and dived into the
lifeboat.

Jenssen had already conducted a head count. Everyone was
aboard. As soon as the captain was buckled into his seat and the hatch was
secured behind him, Jenssen activated the release. The lifeboat literally fell
away from the ship, freefalling for two seconds before impacting solidly with
the ocean below. The small craft’s bow dug into the crest of a wave and then
sprang back up, free again.

As the vessel’s pilot, Jenssen activated the small electric
motor and the lifeboat moved steadily away from the stricken LNG tanker.

“Activate the onboard EPIRB,” Ottey ordered wearily.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Meijer acknowledged.

Captain Ottey glanced around the craft, noting the solemn
forlorn faces. Yes, everyone was here. Thank God for that!

“Steer east southeast, Mr. Meijer,” Ottey instructed the
seaman. “I’d rather have the Malaysians pick us up than anyone else in this
area.”

A few heads nodded quiet agreement. But mostly his crew was
still in shock. It had all happened so fast!

He took another quick look around at their faces.

“Well, we’re going to be here for a few hours,” he pointed
out with a small knowing smile. “Anyone got a deck of cards?”

Ω

Callene Lavonne McCluskie, President of the United States of
America, rubbed her tired eyes as she leaned back in her well-padded seat.
Obviously this was going to be yet another one of those long evening sessions
of the National Security Council. Even now she could feel the beginnings of a migraine
headache developing. Maybe, when she signaled for the next meeting break, she
could get an aide to bring her something for the pain.

Around the oval shaped table from her in the White House
Situation Room sat the Secretary of State Madison Wentworth, National Security
Advisor Mendez, Director of National Intelligence Bannister, Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Derrick Hardison, White House Chief of Staff Dallas
Lacroix, and Secretary of Defense Thaddeus Pendergrass. The Vice President was
out of town at a political fund-raising event.

What she didn’t know, what no one in the room even suspected,
was the presence of a person under a cloaking spell, that of a senior wizard of
Errabêlu. Clarke himself was sitting in a corner, quietly listening to—indeed
silently directing—the course of the meeting.

The president opened her eyes again and made herself
concentrate on the briefing underway. A US Naval Captain (what was his
name?) was droning on and on, pointing at the projected display on the
Situation Room wall, currently showing a regional map of the South China Sea.

“…a number of fishing trawlers sunk, inside China’s so-called
nine-dash line. And then the downing of Flight 910 last week and the sinking of
the Al Dafna two days ago have been accompanied by a significant
increase of other acts of violence in the region. The Chinese have deployed a substantial
percentage of their fleet to the area…”

She let him go on for a couple more minutes, expounding on
the historical basis of the claims of the various countries bordering the South
China Sea. But most of his presentation McCluskie had heard before, in
briefings covered in the previous weeks.

“Madison,” she said to the secretary of state, interrupting
the captain in mid-word. “Any change in the international picture?”

The secretary stirred, picking up her pencil from the table
before looking at the president. “In the last two days, I’ve talked to half a
dozen prime ministers and foreign secretaries, mostly from the UK, various
countries in Europe and even Russia. Bottom line, no one wants to get involved.
Oh, they’d support any UN resolutions we’d care to propose—”

“Fat chance of anything like that getting passed,” quietly
muttered Pendergrass.

McCluskie ignored him, mostly because he was right. With
China sitting on the United Nations Security Council, any UN resolutions
concerning the South China Sea were doomed from the start. She signaled
Wentworth to proceed.

“As I was saying, Europe and most of the rest of the world
is perfectly willing for us to carry the ball on this one. And, in the
meantime, I’m hearing protests and threats of diplomatic sanctions from a few
counties in the region, most notably from the Philippines. They’re screaming at
the top of their lungs.”

“Thad?” the president asked tiredly, turning to him. “What’s
your take on this?”

The beefy bald-headed man shrugged but avoided eye contact
with her. “Simple enough. The Chinese have been pushing this hoax about owning
all of the South China Sea for decades. They have enough naval assets now that
no one wants to monkey with them about it. And all of their neighbors are Third
World at best, so it’s no contest. We’re the only ones that might object and
have the means to do something about it.” He paused, looking up and frowned.
“The question is whether or not we will.”

President McCluskie managed not to wince. One of the
campaign promises she had made, over and over again, was to get the USA out of
the business of war and other international conflicts. Yet here, less than a
few months into her administration, she was squarely faced with another hotspot
on the world stage and it was threatening to drag the United States into the conflict.

Madison tapped the eraser end of her pencil on the table.
“We can’t just give China a free pass, Madam President. Right now, that corner
of the world is pretty much independent. But if China controls access to the
South China Sea, the whole of Southeast Asia will have to kowtow to Beijing. In
a few years, every country in the area will be satellite states, under China’s
thumb, both economically and politically. Definitely a bad thing.”

McCluskie nodded grimly and glanced over at Admiral
Hardison.

“Derrick, what assets do we have in the area?”

The admiral did not much care for the current political
occupant of the White House nor did he care to be addressed on a first name
basis. Yet he was the consummate professional, prepared to answer this and any
other military question that might be asked and without a hint of annoyance.

“The USS Ronald Reagan and Carrier Strike Group 5 is
off the coast of Yokosuka, Japan, currently undergoing FRS Carrier Qualifications.
They could be underway in twelve hours. The USS Carl Vinson and Carrier
Strike Group 1 departed Pearl three days ago, and are near Wake Island right
now. They can be in the South China Sea in five days. If necessary, the USS John
C. Stennis and Carrier Strike Group 3, which is just to the west of San
Diego, can be there in nine days. And there is the USS Port Royal, an
Aegis cruiser in Fremantle, Australia and the destroyer USS Halsey in
the Malacca Straight west of Malaysia that are also available.”

McCluskie took another look at the map and frowned. “Send
the Vinson and the Halsey. But let me be clear on this. I want
the strictest Rules of Engagement possible. I don’t want some lowly sailor
starting World War III by accident. Understood?”

Hardison managed not to flinch. “Quite clear, Madam
President.”

In the corner, Clarke chuckled quietly. There would be Oni
present, both on the Chinese vessels and onboard the Vinson. The
president’s wishes were superfluous in this situation. Ah, the thrill of a good
impending battle! The destruction, the mayhem, the death! He rubbed his hands
together gleefully.

This would be good. And he personally would be there too,
together with his substantial force of Oni, lying in wait for that rogue wizard
to show up, the pesky nuisance. And maybe, just maybe, Clarke could put that
Chinese wizard, Wu, in his place as well. Two birds with one stone!

TWELVE

South China Sea

100 miles southwest of Balabac Island, Palawan, Philippines

Wednesday, 12:02 p.m. PHT

April

Day 131

Captain Bryon
Labarre, USS Halsey (DDG-97), wandered the dark narrow spaces of the
ship’s CIC, occasionally looking over the shoulders of the console operators,
visually checking the ship’s status and readouts for himself. The ship was at
Condition 2, just one step below General Quarters. As such, it was as fully
prepared for action as he could make it.

Another check on their position. Now 8.3N, 116.4E, roughly
thirty miles west of the southern tip of Palawan, solidly in the Palawan
Passage and heading nearly due north.

They were making turns for twenty-six knots—not the fastest
that the ship could go by any means, but fast enough that she was burning fuel
at a high rate. The good captain intended to plough through the South China Sea
just as quickly as reasonably possible, to join up with the USS Carl Vinson
and Carrier Strike Group 1 as fast as they could manage it. Alone, his ship and
crew were very much exposed to whatever the Chinese might care to throw at
them. Safety lay in numbers, which in this part of the world, was with the Vinson
Carrier Group, and he intended to keep his ship safe.

For the hundredth time in as many minutes, Labarre wondered
what Washington was thinking, ordering his ship to run the gauntlet through the
South China Sea all by itself. Yes, he had faith in both his ship and his crew,
but the captain had kept up with the news and he knew about the sinking of the Al
Dafna and the downing of Flight 910.

Both of the ship’s Seahawk helicopters were airborne, one
fifty miles to the north, the other thirty miles to the west, to provide
maximum radar coverage through their datalinks. So far, there had been no
sightings, no indications on radar that the Chinese were anywhere in the area.

However, Labarre had a burning sensation in the pit of his
stomach, a sort of sixth sense which he possessed when things were not as they
seemed. The radars were all strangely quiet, void of any of the normal civilian
air traffic. He would feel a lot better when his ship reached Philippine
waters.

Such was his state of awareness that he felt rather than saw
an Operations Specialist, Petty Officer 2nd Class Zandra Knouse, straighten at
her station and then lean forward over her screen. He found himself standing
behind her almost instantly.

“What is it?” he asked.

Knouse held up a hand, to buy a moment longer to look at the
screen before reaching a conclusion.

“Air contact, sir,” she dictated tensely. “Bearing Too-Seven-Fife
degrees! Range Wun-Two-Zero miles! Flying fast and low and on a general
intercept. Can’t tell what it is yet.”

But Labarre didn’t need to guess. He knew what it was. “Sound
General Quarters!” he snapped at the deck officer.

The shrill sound of a whistle could be heard through the 1MC,
followed by the voice of the Executive Officer from the Bridge.

“Condition One! General Quarters! General Quarters! All
hands man your Battle Stations! All hands man your Battle Stations!”

Captain Labarre made a mad dash up the ladders to the
bridge, arriving just in time to hear a rating as he reported missiles in the
air.

The XO, Commander Alvaro Hosea, snapped an instant response.
“Launch counter-missiles!”

Out the front bridge windows, two of the hatches in the
forward deck for the Mark 41 Vertical Launch system slid open. From the first
open hole, a column of smoke and fire suddenly erupted as a Standard Missile, a
SM-2, lifted into the air arching over to the southwest. A moment later, a
second missile fired, following along in the wake of the first.

“Captain on the bridge!” another rating, Petty Officer 3rd
class Mason Gunning reported.

“Prepare a second launch!” Labarre ordered, as he assumed
operational control from Hosea.

“Four tangos now in the air, sir!” reported a voice from CIC
over the overhead speaker. “ETA now three minutes!”

“Launch three counter missiles!”

“Launching!”

One by one, three more SM- 2 missiles soared into the air
from the ship.

“Tango one, destroyed,” announced another rating from CIC
less than a minute later.

“Stand-by the Cheese-Wiz and Chaff!” ordered Labarre,
referring to the Phalanx CIWS (Close In Weapons System) and the SRBOC (Super Rapid
Bloom Onboard Countermeasures Chaff and Decoy Launching System).

“Tangos two and three destroyed! New Tango, same bearing and
range, designated Tango Five!”

“Launch two more birds!”

“Missed on Tango four! Intercept failed!”

“R2-D2, engaging!” snapped another voice, also referring to
the CIWS.

The rapid b-r-r-r-p roar of the CIWS was unmistakable, even
from the confines of the bridge.

“Chaff, firing!”

Without warning, the ship lurched heavily, knocking every
standing person to the deck. The roar of an explosion tore through the
compartment, momentarily deafening everyone. Dimly, the clamor of alarm bells
and sirens could be heard.

Climbing to his feet, Labarre lurched forward, taking
control of the now unmanned helm, the sailor lying on the deck. With a rapid
turn of the wheel, he swung the ship to an easterly direction. They needed to
get as close to land as they could. On the lee helm console in front of him, he
yanked back the speed control, dropping the ship down to ten knots. The Halsey
was damaged now, but how badly, he did not know. And until he did, the ship
needed a slower speed, lest they flood below deck compartments with the ship’s
bow wave.

“Damage control parties, report!” he shouted, barely hearing
his own voice over the din.

Ω

Day 122

“Mom? Dad?” Daneel 1 called, his cube floating into the
room, the holographic image of his head projecting out the top.

Paul and Capie were working in the kitchen, starting on both
breakfast and the day. Since Daneel 1 never interrupted that routine in the
morning, both Armsteads instantly knew that there was a problem.

“What’s wrong, Daneel?” Capie asked, looking apprehensive as
she set the carton of eggs down on the kitchen countertop.

“Errabêlu is up to something,” the Scottie declared.
“We have Daneel 2 monitoring news reports from Earth via a microportal through
Ascraeus Mons. It looks like a war is brewing between the United States and
China in the South China Sea.”

Paul lowered himself into a chair. “What makes you think so?”
he asked, steeling himself for the answer.

Daneel proceeded to relate a synopsis of events of the
previous three weeks, including the sinkings of fishing vessels, the Al
Dafna, the shooting down of Flight 910 and the attack on a US Navy ship,
the Halsey.

“Those poor people,” Capie moaned. “More death and
destruction to lay at the feet of some wizard or other.”

Paul nodded in complete agreement. “Daneel, the navy ship.
How bad was it?”

“At least forty dead when a missile struck amidships, Dad.
The ship managed to make it to Palawan’s territorial waters.” Daneel 1 paused,
the image on top of the cube sighing. “There’s more. A US aircraft carrier
group is heading for the South China Sea. They’ll be there in a couple of more
days.”

“There’ll be a war, won’t there?” Capie asked, briefly
closing her eyes in pain.

“It seems that way,” Paul admitted, slamming his hand down
on the kitchen table. “And we are so close! Another few months and we’ll be
ready to take on Errabêlu by storm! All we needed was a little more
time!”

“This could be the start of the nuclear war that Uncle Sam
told you about,” Capie attested with a frown. “Both China and the United States
are nuclear powers. This thing in the South China Sea could be the trigger.”

Paul was scratching his head, deep in thought. “Yeah, maybe.
However, the war is not supposed to happen for several years yet. But then maybe
Errabêlu is pushing up their timetable, because of us.” He looked up
sharply at Daneel 1. “How many Scotties are online with talismans?”

“Two hundred seventy eight, including the ones working on
Mom’s MBE project but not the 49 in the nursery,” answered Daneel 1.

Paul pursed his lips. “Two hundred is a nice round number. I
think I’ll take two hundred.”

“I can be ready to go in an hour,” Capie declared as she
took the carton of eggs and shoved it back into the cooler.

Grimacing, Paul shook his head at her. “Really not a good
idea, CB.”

She screwed a scowl on her face. “Paul Armstead, don’t you
give me that flack about being a woman and it’s too dangerous!”

“Who? Moi? Wouldn’t think of it. But what were you saying
last night about all the experiments you’ve got running and how critical they
are?”

“No fair using my own words against me!” she scowled at him.
“Okay, you have a point. Now is not a good time for me to go running off to
Earth.” She sighed. “You have to promise me to be careful. I’ve grown attached
to you.” She leaned up against him, laying her head on his chest and hugging
him. “You’re not easy to replace, you know.”

He returned the hug, tightly. “I’ll have two hundred magical
Scotties with me,” Paul pointed out. “As well as a chutzpah. I’ll be fine. What
can possibly go wrong?!”

Ω

One star Rear Admiral Oren Cipriano leaned back in his
command chair on the Flag Bridge of the USS Carl Vinson and read the Priority
message in his right hand for the second time. The USS Halsey was now,
thank God, safely in Malanut Bay on the west coast of the Philippines’ island
of Palawan. From the description of the damages, the ship had barely made it,
with a hole in her hull large enough for a Greyhound bus to drive through.
Cipriano’s hat was off to its commander for pulling the fat out of the fire and
saving his ship and most of his command.

Cipriano shook his head in anger and disbelief. The Halsey
should not have been ordered through the South China Sea, not without support.
Just what was Washington smoking these days?

On the other hand, Beijing must be stoned out-of-their-mind
on the same stuff, to attack a United States warship on the high seas.

He glanced again at the other message he held, this one in
his left hand. Carrier Strike Group One’s first set of orders from the Pentagon
three days ago had included highly restrictive Rules of Engagement, the most
restrictive he had ever seen in his twenty-eight years of service in the Navy.

But this new message changed all of that. Apparently the
attack on the Halsey had quite the impact on Washington’s thinking. Just
an hour ago, right after the Halsey attack, he had received a highly
modified set of Rules of Engagement for his carrier group to operate under, and
now, they had the right to properly defend themselves.

He grinned. The Halsey had paid a high price, in
blood and lives. But his command would reap the benefit.

The Chinese were going to regret tangling with the United
States Navy. Regret it deeply.

He climbed out of his chair and went over to check the
navigation chart. The lead ship in the group, DDG 101, the USS Gridley,
was less than an hour from entering the Luzon Straight, north of Babuyan
Island. And there was an E-2D Hawkeye AWACS airborne, acting as a radar sentry,
probing the air space through the Straight. What’s more, there were two SH-60
Seahawk helicopters working the waters with dipping sonars, checking for
submarines.

The Vinson would be through and into the South China
Sea by mid-afternoon, at the latest. He grinned again. If the Chinese wanted a
fight, they’d get one.

Cipriano failed to notice the matching grin on the PAO
(Public Affairs Officer), a lieutenant, standing on the far side of the bridge.
Who, in reality, was the Errabêlu wizard Clarke, in disguise.

THIRTEEN

Ascraeus Mons

Mars

Thursday, 8:45 a.m. LMST

April

Day 132

The black cube
of a Scottie darted through the portal, hanging above the nearly airless
surface of the caldera of Ascraeus Mons. He was followed, one by one, by more
Daneels until there were a total of two hundred of them gathered together.

A second portal opened allowing Paul, in his spacesuit, to float
through and join them.

He glanced around at all the black cubes suspended in
mid-air, spotting Daneel 1 as the Scottie moved closer to him.

“Ready when you are, Dad,” said a voice through a small
transceiver mounted in Paul’s transparent diamond helmet.

He nodded in reply.

Daneel 1 lowered himself to the Martian surface where he
made physical contact before casting a spell. A new portal opened, this time
many millions of miles long, all the way to the surface of Earth’s Moon.

This portal represented a new feature, only active for a
little over a week now. In light of the nearly continuous stream of trips that
were being made back and forth to Earth for supplies, Paul had directed that a
more streamlined method be developed, this one using a very long range portal rather
than a long series of short (300,000 miles each) portals across interplanetary
space. Two weeks previously, Daneel 1 had therefore organized two small teams
of Daneels, one at Ascraeus Mons and the other at Peary Crater on the North Pole
of the Moon, to implement Paul’s request.

Of the two teams, the one that went to Peary had by far the
more difficult task. Their job was to construct a single solidified mass of
lunar rock and soil in the northern rim mountains, one large enough to be used
as an amulet with the power to reach Mars via a portal. The idea was to use
Peary as the doorway for the trips back to Mars from the Earth.

The team at Ascraeus Mons had a much easier job: enlarging
the ‘solid rock’ of the caldera that Daneels 1 and 2 had created earlier, to
make it big enough and powerful enough for the range necessary to reach all the
way to the Moon.

Why the Moon and not the Earth? The amount of the energy
dissipated by such a long distance jump would be instantly detectable if one
end of that long of a portal occurred anywhere on the Earth’s surface. Hence the
need to use the Moon as a way station instead.

The rim of Peary Crater at the Moon’s North Pole was chosen
for a special purpose. It was the only spot on the lunar surface that received
full sunlight for more than 90% of the year and which therefore would maintain
a nearly constant temperature. It was Paul’s hope that they could one day build
a small permanent transfer station there.

The two hundred Scotties, led by Paul, arrived at the
monolith at Peary. Paul took a moment to glance around at the terrain, somehow
more stark and alien than that of Mars. Here the mountains were brighter, the
shadows in the depth of the crater (which never saw sunlight) totally black and
impenetrable.

Then everyone portaled out again. This time the distance was
much shorter, to a point ten thousand miles above the night side of Earth’s
surface. From there, they darted, portal by portal, around the equator until
they were on the daylight side, above the South China Sea. Slowly, they
portaled in closer, to just 500 miles from the surface.

Their timing was such that it was just a few minutes after
noon in Manila in the Philippines.

Paul cast a small spell to key the mike on his transceiver.
“Daneel 1, create a grid search pattern of the northern end of the South China
Sea. Assign each Daneel to visually scan a square of the grid. Use infrared if
there are clouds in the way but keep the scan passive. Look for naval ships of
any type, large aircraft or small jets moving at supersonic speeds. Report
significant contacts.”

“I will comply,” Daneel 1 said, in a perfect imitation of
Seven of Nine’s feminine voice, from Star Trek Voyager.

Paul raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “I’m creating an army
of sci-fi geeks.”

“Oh?” Daneel 1 replied. “Next thing you’ll be saying is that
we’re blocks off the old chip.”

“Ooh, ouch! I surrender, already. Please, do the visual
scan.”

“Roger, dodger.”

“Uh, Daneel 66 here, Dad. I’m picking up UHF chatter, in the
250 to 380 MHz band from the area below! Listen to this!”

Paul blinked, then focused his attention on the sudden buzz
of radio traffic, interspersed with static filled pauses.

“Nine! On your six! Break right, break right!” said an
agitated deep male voice.

“Copy, twelve,” replied another voice, breathing short heavy
gasps.

A second of static, followed by:

“Fox two! Fox two!” shouted yet a third voice.

“Eight is hit! Eight is hit! Going down! Ejecting!” cried a
fourth voice.

“Copy, eight!”

“On his tail, on his tail! Guns, guns, guns!” shouted a
fifth voice.

Paul waved a hand and the radio chatter was cut off.

“It would seem that the party has started without us,” Paul
noted with a grim voice. “Daneel 1, find that dogfight! Then let’s take down a
hundred Scotties, using the same tactics that Mom used in Brasilia last year to
distract the pilots. Pass the word to take out any missiles in the air. Don’t
try to be stealthy. I seriously doubt if there are any Oni or wizards in the
cockpits of any of those planes.”

“Right, Dad. Only…”

“Only what?” asked a puzzled Paul. “We must hurry. People
are dying, both Americans and Chinese.”

“It’s just that ‘Having been a first officer yourself, you know
that assuming that responsibility must, by definition, include the safety of
the captain. I have no problem with following any rules you lay down, short of
compromising your safety.’”

Paul grunted in surprise at the quote, recognizing it from Star
Trek: The Next Generation. And the next line was his.

“And you don’t intend to back off from that position?” he
asked, with a glower.

“‘No, sir,’” replied Daneel 1 mostly firmly. “There are two
hundred copies of me. And only one of you, Dad. You are not replaceable.”

Paul sighed. “Something tells me that this is not the only
time this conversation is going to come up. Very well. Take a hundred Daneels
with you. Break up that dogfight!”

“‘I MUST obey my master!’” Daneel 1 quipped, quoting Darth
Vader in Star Wars, Return of the Jedi and using his deep distinctive
voice.

“Not Vader, please!” Paul begged, with a wince. “Keep me
informed! Ah, Daneel 101, where are you?”

“Here, Dad,” volunteered another black cube, moving forward through
the crowd.

There was a string bulb series of flashes as ninety-nine
Daneels portaled out, following Daneel 1 in the lead.

“Daneel 101, please continue the visual search,” ordered
Paul. “Find the carriers! And keep track of the radio chatter.”

“‘Resistance is futile,’” the Scottie wisecracked.

Paul cast his eyes heavenward in vexation. It was going to
be that kind of day.

Ω

One hundred black cubes raced across the clear blue sky. A
few miles in front of them were at least two dozen fighter jets, mostly
American F/A-18 Hornets and Chinese Shenyang J-15’s in a free-for-all
dogfight—spinning, banking, climbing, and dodging their way around the sky in
all sorts of high G maneuvers. There were several small objects, apparently missiles
that screamed through the air after various planes. One such made contact and
there was an explosion, a plane spiraling out of control, breaking into pieces.

It was a real furball of a fight!

“Daneel 50! Rescue that pilot!” shouted Daneel 1 as the
other Scotties neared the conflict. “All other Daneels, full holographic
license! Engage!”

Ω

Lt. Riche the “Ruble” Towles banked his F/A-18F hard right,
in an effort to shake the Chinese J-15 on his six and avoid a missile up his
tail. Such was the G-forces on him that the lower part of his suit had
inflated, to keep the blood from collecting in his legs. And even at that, his
vision was blurring on the outer edges.

Nevertheless, it was impossible to miss the sudden
appearance of the large winged creature that descended out of the sky on his
right wing, banking with him.

He even recognized it, from the movie Avatar. Yeah, a
mountain banshee, this one ridden by a Na’vi, his hair whipping wildly in the
wind. The rider turned his head to Towles and, raising one hand, waved at him
before turning back to the front.

“No way!” Richie gasped, as he jerked the stick downward and
back to the left, barely avoiding both the fictional flying beast and the PL-9
missile on his tail.

Ω

Lieutenant Commander Jerry “Eight Ball” Paxson, in Beef
Eater 7, completed a high yo-yo maneuver, flattening out perfectly behind a
J-15, lining the enemy plane up in his HUD.

“Dead meat,” he hissed as his thumb moved to the missile
launch button.

But then his plane shook hard and three large black shapes
shot past, one on each side of him and one above.

For a moment, his mind refused to accept what he was seeing.
Then they registered. Imperial TIE fighters! From Star Wars! No, not
here!

He yanked back on the stick, maneuvering for distance.

Ω

Both the Chinese and American pilots were frantically breaking
free of the melee, clawing for distance, each pilot having experienced multiple
“hallucinations” ranging from air-borne fire-breathing dragons to a Borg cube
to a pterodactyl to flying saucers (from The Invaders) to various space
fighters (from Babylon 5, Space 1999, Battlestar Galactica, UFO, The Last
Starfighter and a host of other movies and TV shows).

As the jet fighters fled the scene, heading back to their
respective carriers, Daneel 1 arranged to have the pilots who had been shot down
fished out of the sea and ‘returned.’ The two Chinese pilots (one alive and
slightly injured, the other deceased) to be dropped via portal to Woody Island
in the Paracel Island group. The Americans (one of them seriously wounded) on
the front steps of the hospital on Antonio Bautista Air Base on Palawan island
in the Philippines.

Ω

Paul tried to rub his hands to wipe off the sweat, a
difficult thing to do when confined in a spacesuit. More sweat dewed on his
brow, which he also could not reach.

The spacesuit was getting a bit uncomfortable, both in terms
of smell and the various itches that he could not scratch. And too, he had been
in zero-G long enough that he had dispatched two Scotties down into the atmosphere
with one of his air bottles to recharge it with oxygen. But despite the discomforts
of his current situation, there really was no better place than here in low
orbit to monitor the battle.

While he was waiting on Daneel 1 for a progress update,
Daneel 101 had reported locating both the Chinese and American fleets. Paul
studied the holographic aerial view of the US aircraft carrier as it ploughed
its way westward past the Luzon Strait. The other ships of the carrier strike group
were positioned ahead of the carrier, up to twenty miles further west.

Daneel 155 found the Chinese aircraft carrier and the
associated destroyers and frigates 450 miles to the west, closer to Hainan
Island. That fleet could be seen steaming on an intercept course with the
American one.

“I’m getting reports from other Daneels. They have visuals
of four groups of aircraft in the area,” Daneel 101 told Paul.

“Show me on a map,” Paul impatiently demanded.

The standard holographic display popped up in front of them.
“Group one seems to be holding station around the American carrier. There’s a
second bigger group of planes, dead center between the two carriers. That must
be the air battle. In the last few minutes, it looks like it has started
breaking up. Whatever Daneel 1 is doing, it seems to be working. Group three is
over the Chinese carrier. Probably a protective screen. Now, the puzzler is group
four here to the north, not far off the Chinese coast, just east of Hong Kong.”

“What’s funny about them?” Paul asked puzzled, studying the
map. “They seem to be heading away from the battle.”

“They are now. But a few minutes ago, they were heading in
the direction of the American carrier.”

A funny feeling came over Paul, as if someone had thrown a
shovel full of dirt on his grave.

“Daneel, get everyone searching really fast along the line
between those planes and the US carrier. Look for small, fast moving and
low-flying objects. Like cruise missiles.”

“Acknowledged,” the Scottie replied crisply.

Paul had to only fidget for a minute before Daneel 101
reported the results.

“Dad! There’s a lot of them, moving at just under Mach 1,
only a few minutes northwest of the American carrier group!”

“Scramble everyone down there, right now!” Paul thundered,
one eye twitching nervously. “I don’t care if there are Oni or wizards on those
ships, those cruise missiles have to be stopped!”

Ω

Aboard the DDG 104 USS Sterett, Commander ‘Captain’ Kacie
Yates stood on the wing of the bridge, studying the horizon with her set of
binoculars.

“Ma’am?!” interrupted a voice from inside the bridge. “CEC
datalink from the E-2D. Intermittent contact, bogies to the northwest!”

“Condition One!” she snapped as she lowered the glasses. “Helm!
Make your course, tree-zeero-zeero! All ahead flank! Stand by birds!”

She took a deep breath before stepping back into the
confines of the bridge. Despite her naval rank, this would be her first time in
actual combat. She prayed that both she and the crew not only survived but that
they did not disgrace themselves under fire.

Ω

Forty-eight Chinese YJ-100 sea-skimming cruise missiles sped
through the air just a hundred feet above the surface of the water at Mach 0.9,
jinking slightly left and right, up and down, but otherwise maintaining an
overall course to the southeast.

SM-2 Block IIIB missiles fired from the USS Sterett
had time to intercept five of them, before the YJ-100s shot passed the
destroyer, ignoring the small ship, intent on a much bigger target. The CG-52 USS
Bunker Hill, the Ticonderoga class missile cruiser in the carrier
group, was at flank speed, moving in from the southwest, making a valiant
attempt to intercept the cruise missiles. She launched a flock of both long
range RIM-174 ERAM and shorter range RIM-162A ESSM missiles, both types of
missiles screaming through the air towards their targets at over Mach 3.5.

The remaining forty-three Chinese cruise missiles were now making
far more radical evasive maneuvers as they entered the terminal phase of their
flight.

The USS Carl Vinson loomed in front of them, sailors
racing along the carrier’s deck in an effort to put a little distance between
themselves and the missiles’ point of impact.

The carrier’s first point-defense weapon, a RIM-116 missile,
left its boxy mount, arching up slightly and jerking directly toward the first
enemy cruise missile. A series of additional missiles rapidly followed. Two of
the three Phalanx CIWS units (the only ones that could bear on the targets)
spun in place, lining up and spewing forth streams of tungsten penetrator
rounds from their six barrels.

It wasn’t going to be enough, not against forty-three
incoming targets. Not nearly enough.

One lone figure stood motionless on the carrier’s flight
deck, hands on hips, eyeing all the commotion in the air to the northwest,
shaking his head in disapproval. Disheartened, Clarke lifted into the air, maneuvering
away from the ship and the destruction that was coming. Airborne, he would wait
nearby to see how the battle faired and to see if that pesky low-life Armstead
was going to show up or not.

Ω

A hundred portals sprang open, scattered across the sea
between the missiles and their target.

“Banzai!” screamed all one hundred of the Scotties as they
shot through, swinging northward in order to defend the American carrier.

Paul was the last one on the scene, his first act to use the
power of the chutzpah to blur the light spectrum in the air to the south, blocking
anyone on the carrier from seeing what was happening. He didn’t care what the
Normals might see, but he suspected there were Oni, perhaps even a wizard on
the Vinson, and he wanted them in the dark as long as possible.

Daneel 200 led a dozen other black cubes racing forward,
head-on toward the cruise missiles. As Daneel 200 drew near, he opened a three
foot diameter portal, the other end reaching down two thousand feet into the
ocean. A column of water at nine hundred pounds per square inch roared out of
the portal—

—smashing squarely into the first oncoming missile,
detonating it.

The detonation of 500 kilograms of explosives had a pint-sized
effect against the incredibly powerful pressurized column of water, the missile
and the explosion instantly vanishing with very little effect.

As Daneel 200 and the others shot forward, he closed the
portal. There were more pigeons to fricassee here.

Ω

Four of the F/A-18C aircraft flying CAP over the Vinson
were nose-diving from 10,000 feet, lining up on the cruise missiles and
launching all of their AIM 9X Sidewinder and AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles into the
melee. Neither of those two venerable weapons were designed for look-down and lock-in
on low flying cruise missiles but they were all that squadron VFA-113,
nicknamed the Stingers, could bring to the fight.

From his position in the air several hundred yards from the
carrier, Clarke’s jaw dropped in disbelief at the sight of the black cubes in
the distance popping through portals from who knew where. With a magnification
spell, he stared, mesmerized for several seconds, but the view was quickly
distorted by a magical spell in the air. Two attempts with counter spells
failed to penetrate the curtain.

Something weird was going on.

However, there could be no doubt that the rogue wizard had
shown up after all. Excellent! The black boxes gave Clarke pause but
nevertheless, he proceeded to generate the appropriate magical signal to the
one hundred Oni in his command, all of them stationed around the carrier group,
to gather and launch their attack. As Oni began emerging through portals around
him, Clarke accelerated through the air toward the north.

Finally, he would do battle with that accursed meddlesome
nefarious cur of a wizard! To be rid of him forever!

Ω

Paul was the first to see Clarke and the Oni barreling
straight in his direction, directly through the middle of the distortion screen
he had established.

So much for good intentions!

All one hundred of the Scotties with him were frantically
busy in the fight with all the missiles. He was pretty much on his own, hanging
a thousand feet above the water.

The situation was as desperate as he had ever experienced! A
hundred Scotties just to his north were weaving through the air in impossible to
follow maneuvers, dodging between missiles, anti-missiles, and tungsten
bullets. Portals were snapping open and closed faster than blinks of an eye,
columns of water jetting in all directions, bullseyes made of ocean water
turned-to-instant-ice flashed into existence in front of some missiles while,
in another case, a giant tentacle from some impossibly large sea monster sprang
out of the water, snatching one cruise missile out of the air and dragging it down
beneath the waves!

More anti-missiles were coming, from the Sterett, the
Bunker Hill, and the Vinson, all of them doing more harm than
good. And now a virtual army of Oni were attacking!

His Scotties were busy. It was therefore up to him to deal
with the Oni, or to at least delay them if he could not defeat them.

And just how was he going to do that?

Gee, what an excellent question!

Gritting his teeth, with an acid burn in his chest, Paul reached
out with both arms, closing his eyes in intense concentration.

“In the names of null and energy dampening fields and
Klingon disrupters, may each Oni be hit with a bubble of space-time, with ten
percent lower values of vacuum permittivity!”

Nervously, Paul cast forth the spell, uncertain if a vacuum permittivity
spell was going to work or not. It was the first attempt on his part to do so using
a chutzpah and to do it with more than one target!

He found it very difficult to concentrate, to focus on so
many different targets! The Oni were advancing fast. They would soon be upon
him!

And then, one by one, the nearest Oni started folding up in
midflight and dropping like flies, unconscious and tumbling through the air
toward the sea below.

Ω

Clarke’s anger and confidence in the attack were rapidly
waning.

First, his Oni were being knocked out of the air by some
sort of spell that he did not recognize. It wasn’t lightning bolts or by
anything physical. That infernal mongrel of a wizard was doing something with
space, altering it in some way, which was rendering his Oni unconscious. Clarke
was positive that if he had a little time to study the effect, he could easily
work around it.

However, the power of the spell being cast was simply
astounding! Easily the equal of all the Oni talismans and his own—combined!
Why, if that idiot were casting lightning bolts or was using Mjölnir, the
hammer of Thor, or even wielding a magical sword such as the Japanese Kusanagi,
or the sword of Irish mythology, Fragarach—those acts would be far more
effective! Indeed, considering the power being used—or rather squandered—here,
all of his Oni would have been killed within seconds!

And then there were those accursed black cubes!

The closer he got to the aeronautical conflict, the more he
could see of them and their antics. And it positively sent shivers up and down
his spine! The spells that were being used! The power, the skill! Whatever they
were, they were very effectively wiping the missiles out of the sky. Never in
his life had he seen or heard about anything remotely like it!

Clarke suddenly realized that his personal presence here was
a great risk, more than was acceptable. Better to live and fight another day,
when the odds were more in his favor. After he had time to investigate these
strange black flying cubes.

So he slipped back amongst the Oni, dropping lower and opening
a portal back to the carrier. From there, he would return to the States. And do
his best to come up with a better plan!

There would be a next time too. He swore by all that was
holy that there would be!

Ω

The Oni were still closing in, faster than he could dispatch
them!

He grunted, redoubling his efforts, straining every mental
faculty. He knew that he could simply blast them out of space with laser beams,
fry them with microwaves or even cut them up with a light saber. However, he
had no wish to kill them. He had done enough of that already!

As they drew closer to him, he realized that he would have
to change tactics. With a wave of one arm, he created a new spell, changing his
image to that of Parallax, the supervillain monster of the movie Green Lantern.

All of the Oni froze in place, most of them jerking back in
horror, some of them actually turning and fleeing via a portal.

Paul reached out with one ‘monstrous yellow tentacle,’
wrapping it around the nearest Oni and bringing it closer to the ‘monster’s’
viscous mouth.

That did it. The rest of the Oni fled in droves. Paul
dropped the image and the Oni too, who raced after his fellows.

“It’s okay, Dad,” a voice by his shoulder said.

Paul glanced to his right, noting the presence of Daneel 101
a foot away.

“Battle’s over. We’ve got all of the missiles,” the Scottie
bragged. “And Daneel 1 and his group are showing up too. What do you want us to
do next?”

Paul sighed, suddenly tired, hungry, and anxious to get out
of the spacesuit.

“First thing, I knocked out a bunch of Oni and they fell
into the sea,” he explained, squeezing his eyes shut and suppressing a yawn.

“We’ll snag them before they drown,” Daneel 101 reassured
him. “And put them where?”

“In stasis, with Hamadi and his group. You’ll need to send
someone to Nepal for the incense,” he mumbled before a yawn.

“No sweat. We’ll take care of it,” Daneel said, moving a bit
closer, carefully studying his father’s face through the facemask. “You’re
tired, Dad. I recommend a hot shower in a six-star hotel. Then maybe a nice
meal and a good night’s sleep.”

“A most fabulous idea,” Paul remarked with whole hearted
approval. He stole another glance at the ships in the distance. “I’d suggest
that you leave a squad of Daneels here to watch over things. In the morning
we’ll go back to Mars. Oh, and I need two Daneels to decontaminate this suit!
It’s a good thing that Scotties have no sense of smell!”

FOURTEEN

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

The Dusar Workshop (Thuvia, Maid of Mars)

Saturday, 10:00 a.m. LMST

April

Day 166

Graduation Day.

That was what Paul had dubbed it. And there had been no
objections to calling it that, not even from Capie.

They were gathered together in the third underground
workshop, the largest indoor space available. Even it felt a bit on the crowded
side during this particular event.

The last few weeks had been incredibly busy, with no breaks
or holidays. The greatest fear Paul held now was that they couldn’t complete
all of their preparations before Errabêlu struck again. It was a race,
one that they could not afford to lose, lest millions of people die.

And they still had a ton of work left yet to do, work that
would take them at least another month, and likely longer than that to complete.

In the room were forty nine AI’s, all sitting on tables in
the large chamber. The twenty-four males and twenty-five females had all been transferred
the previous day from PCs into their own personal black cubes, but they were
also still connected to monitor screens, webcams, and small speakers. None of
them, as of yet, had their magical barriers removed. Paul planned to start that
task shortly, within the next hour in fact.

All of them were quietly watching him, ready for him to
begin the ceremony.

As he glanced at each of them, he felt an extreme sense of
pride. All warm and buttery inside. The faces on their monitors revealed how
excited they were, how vibrant, intelligent, anxious, and enthusiastic. These
were the seed of his army, the ones that would make a difference in the war to
come. They would be the ones to end despotism, terrorism, and savagery on Earth,
for the whole of the human race. Theirs was the challenge of all challenges in
history. This was their day.

He felt absolutely ancient and obsolete by comparison but
still bursting with pride in their potential, all wrapped up in one.

They had developed the maturity, finished their educations,
completed their training. From here, each one would be the source of a thousand
clones. Each one would work tirelessly to duplicate the Scottie hardware,
convert the isotopes needed and construct the chutzpahs required. They would
organize themselves into an army and develop the detailed plan of attack on Errabêlu
and its minions.

“Your attention, please,” he said with a smile. “This is a
great day, today. We have much to be proud of. You have worked hard, yes. But
we still have a long way yet to go…”

Ω

“I’m not crazy!” Clarke protested vehemently, gesturing
emphatically at the image hanging in midair just in front of the huge
fireplace. “That’s what I saw!”

“You should be reasonable, Clarke,” Oleg Nevsky muttered,
his rumbling voice enough to vibrate the mug on the table top beside him. He glowered
in annoyance while continuing to ignore Clarke’s tirade.

They were back in the Hecate Room, at the Transylvanian
Castle, where the Oni had created another magnificent roaring fire in the
hearth. Upon Clarke’s (and his remaining Oni survivors) return from the South
China Sea to Washington, D.C., he had issued the call for another summit
meeting of the Conclave of Magi.

However, only two of the other members of the Conclave had
bothered to show up. One was Oleg. The other was Saito Masayo, of Japan.

Most disappointing of all, Wu hadn’t even bothered to
acknowledge the call, let alone put in a personal appearance.

Clarke shot up out of his seat and began to pace in front of
the fireplace, the picture depicting the black cubes he’d seen in the South
China Sea dissolving away like carnival sugar candy in a summer afternoon rain
squall.

“I’m telling you I saw what I saw!” he insisted again angrily.
“That charlatan wizard has created an army of some sort of magical mutants!
There was a bunch of them, flying around—”

“Yes, we saw your images,” Saito interrupted tactfully. “But
Oleg is right to be doubtful. No one in history has ever created anything like
what you are describing.”

Oleg nodded with a grunt. “That mongrel wizard was playing
with you. He’s learned some new magical trick of light and has fooled you—”

“He took out fifty of my Oni!” Clarke bellowed. “Some of my
best too! You can’t do that with tricks of light!”

There was silence in the room for several seconds, only the
crackle of the fire to be heard.

Finally, Saito stirred in his seat, steepling his hands, his
index fingers touching his chin.

“I, for one, am willing to go along with you, Clarke,” he said
thoughtfully. “At least for the time being.”

“Finally!” huffed Clarke as he stopped pacing to scowl at
Oleg.

But Oleg merely grunted.

Saito, however, had more to say. “Armstead is clearly
dangerous, and in possession of unknown spells and abilities. That cannot be
denied. Therefore, preparations should be made to deal with him. More Oni, to
be sure. Also, more powerful talismans. And too, we should plan to use the
Shinigami Spell if necessary.”

Even Oleg gasped at that.

“Shinigami?” he sputtered in surprise. “That’s not been used
since the tenth century! Surely you jest!”

“A wise man prepares for the worst, even if it is not
needed,” Saito said, chiding the Russian gently. “Better to be prepared and not
need it than the other way around.”

“You won’t get the others on the Conclave to agree,” mumbled
Oleg. Then he snorted and forced himself up out of his seat. “And I’ve heard
all I care to hear on this subject. The Shinigami Spell is too powerful, too tempting
for the more deceitful wizards among us if they should discover how it works.
Wu comes to mind. And he’s on the Conclave. If you invoke that option, there is
no way you can keep it from him. No, I’m against it!”

With that, he grunted again, creating a portal and stepping
through it.

Then it snapped closed.

“Well,” Saito remarked wearily. “I guess it is up to the two
of us. Shall we get started?”

SECTION  II

WAR

FIFTEEN

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

Gathol House

Monday, 9:27 a.m. LMST

May

Day 206

Capie, dressed
in her spacesuit but with the faceplate open, was busily fussing with the
suitcase trying to get it closed, its sides bulging from too many clothes
squashed into too little space. Frustrated, she stood back, dramatically waving
her right arm and snapping out a spell. With blinding speed, the suitcase
audibly sucked in all the protruding bulges and clamped itself shut with a loud
click.

“I should have done that to start with,” she grinned
victoriously.

Paul, standing nearby in his spacesuit too, struggled to
hide his smile. “Or let the Scotties do it for you,” he suggested for the tenth
time.

“Nonsense,” Capie declared airily. “They are busy with a lot
of other things right now. And speaking of the devil…” she nodded at the
doorway.

Daneel 1 floated into the room.

“I am not a devil,” his face above the black cube
objected with dignity, then turned toward Paul. “Status report, Dad. All but
two of the assembly lines are shut down now and even they will finish
operations in the next half hour or so. All data backups have been completed,
all equipment spares packed, all cargo ready for loading. You have time to
freshen up, perhaps eat some breakfast or pack a few last minute items.” He
glanced over at Capie. “Or let us pack a few items for you. Then we will
be ready to leave.”

Paul nodded as he faced the Scottie. “All the boxes I marked
downstairs? All other supplies ready to go as well?”

“Yes,” the Scottie attested. “Everything is outside on the
pad, fully assembled and packed.”

“All the 55 gallon drums too?” challenged Capie, gently
tugging with one hand on the diamond necklace around her neck.

“Those as well,” Daneel 1 confirmed.

Paul glanced over at his wife and then her luggage.

“If you don’t mind,” she said with an air of infinite
patience as she reached out to grab Patches from the bed, slinging the stuffed
puppy under one arm, “I can carry and stow my own luggage.”

He smiled. “Of course you can, my dear. But do you want a
little breakfast first, before we go?”

She grimaced. “I am so ready to go to an IHOP or even
a Waffle House. Promise me I will never have to drink re-hydrated milk again!”

Paul chuckled in total agreement with her opinion. “True,
even with a little magic to help the taste, it doesn’t have quite the right
flavor, does it?"

“That’s the understatement of this millennium,” she muttered
with conviction.

“Have you made a trip through the house?” Paul asked, to
divert the conversation. “Have we missed anything?”

“I’ve checked,” she confirmed for him, then sighed. “We’ve
been here nearly seven months. In some ways, I’m glad we are going and in
others—well, we have accomplished a lot here. I’ll miss the place and the
wonderful views out that window—when there wasn’t a dust storm blocking it.”

Paul turned back to Daneel 1. “I think we are ready to go.
Why don’t we assemble everyone on the pad, except for those involved in the
assembly of the last Scotties? That will give time to load everything on board
and for Capie and I to get comfortable. Then, when the last Scottie reports
aboard, I would like to briefly address the troops before departure.”

“Okay, Dad. I am putting out the word now,” Daneel 1
replied.

Paul waited for Capie to close the faceplate on her
spacesuit, then closed his own. With a wave of his hand, he opened a portal.
They walked through, Capie’s luggage waddling obediently along behind her, all
seven suitcases and two large trunks. His luggage, all three suitcases, was
already on the pad, courtesy of Talos 987 (Greek mythology, a giant man of
bronze) and Brandy 41 (from Starshine, Marvel Comics).

Outside, the latest dust storm was kicking up a fury, the
winds clocking at over 60 mph.

A few yards away, two signs on a lone metal signpost
shivered slightly in the thin wind. One of them read: “For Sale: Beach Front
Property” with an arrow pointing off to the left. The other read “CAUTION! Road
slippery when wet!”

“I am NOT going to miss this,” Capie muttered. “Dust, dust,
dust! Can we live someplace humid for a few days? Maybe a month or so? I’ve
forgotten what rain looks like.”

Their spacesuits protected them from the dust and the winds
but still, Capie had a good point. Paul was similarly tired of all the dust.

He nonchalantly waved a hand. “If you’d like, there is
probably a hurricane in the Atlantic or perhaps a typhoon in the Pacific
someplace. We can fly through that on our way to a landing.”

Capie gave him that stare she was so good at, the one that
said Don’t Mess With Me Today, I Am Not In The Mood.

“Funny man,” she grumbled in a sharp tone of voice.

Paul glanced at all the 55 gallon drums stacked to one side
of the landing field.

“That’s not going to be enough, is it?” he cheerlessly asked
Capie.

“No, it’s not,” she grudgingly admitted. “But it should be
enough to get us started. And hopefully, within a month or two of our arrival,
we will have new facilities up and running on Earth to manufacture more.”

When Capie had taken charge of the plan to bring
humanitarian relief to those in need on Earth, she had quickly decided to
continue Paul’s earlier efforts in concocting a potion for her, to cure her of
her spinal injuries. However, the one she wanted was one that could be
administered to the sick and needy and would cure almost anything. Indeed,
thanks to some wonderful research by her team of Scotties, they had managed to
produce such a miracle drug, one that restored a human body to almost pristine
condition. A sufficient portion of it would cure any type of cancer, heart
disease, stroke, diabetes, and organ failures, induce limb and organ
replacements, and cure many other major medical conditions. Capie and her team
of Scotties had manufactured thousands of gallons of the potion, which they’d
named the MBE Drug, to be administered to those most in need on Earth. But even
stingy use of it would not stretch it out very far. A lot more than what
existed in the drums in front of them would be needed. A lot more.

Daneel 1 floated up beside them. “Just checking, Dad. Will
you confirm the configuration please?”

Paul nodded. “A flying saucer, please. Along the lines of “Earth
versus the Flying Saucers, Forbidden Planet, The Invaders, This Island Earth,—”

Capie raised a hand to stop him. “Not the entire list, dear.
I think Daneel 1 gets the idea.”

Groups of Scotties began to appear, their black cubes
floating in from nearby locations, others portaling in from more remote places.
As they appeared, they began to link together, reminding Paul of an assembly of
Lego building blocks but on a much larger scale.

Gradually, starting from the center and building outward, they
formed the hull of the ship, layer by layer. The supplies stacked around them
began to disappear too as other Scotties started loading the ship.

The ship hung there in front of them, a truly massive—and
also truthfully impressive—and formidable vessel.

Capie raised her eyes to the heavens and shook her head.

“I would not have thought that cubes could make all the
curves necessary in a flying saucer,” she observed. “But it doesn’t look half
bad at all.”

“You’ve never played Minecraft, have you?” Paul asked her.

“No, I haven’t. Have you?”

Paul nodded in admission. “A few times. Enough to know it’s
not my cup of tea. But there are a couple of engineers I knew at Edwards that
live by it.” He waved at the saucer. “For them, this would be child’s play.”

His wife studied the emerging size of the ship. “Just how
big a ship are they going to make?”

“With fifty thousand Scotties, you can make a pretty decent
sized flying saucer,” Paul said. “In this case, about half of them will be used
for interior compartments, bulkheads, decks and overheads. The rest are for the
hull. The ship will be 100 feet in diameter and 20 feet thick through the
center. It will have a crew deck and two cargo holds. Big cargo holds too.”

He grinned, pleased at how good the ship looked from the
ground. “‘All I ask is a tall ship…and a load of contraband to fill her with.’”

“That has to be Quark from Deep Space Nine who said
that,” Capie observed, cocking her head to one side and shaking it. “Okay, I’ll
bite, why are we going back on a ship? Why not portal to Earth, like we usually
do? And why pick this ship?”

“In the order you asked, we aren’t using a portal because we
have a bunch of stuff to take with us such as the drums of vaccine and other
cargo. Rather than man-handle it all, the hold of a ship just makes more sense.
And too, I would like to indulge my love of space opera, and this may be my
only opportunity to do so. True, I could have selected a different ship design.
There are so many to choose from! Such as a Colonial Battlestar, an Imperial
Star Destroyer, a Daedalus-class Battlecruiser, a FireFly transport, a Farscape
Leviathon, a White Star Cruiser, the NSEA Protector—”

Capie looked at the sky as if imploring divine help. “I get
the idea, dear. Not the whole list, please!”

He shrugged apologetically. “Anyway, a flying saucer best
fits into our planning scenarios.”

“How so?” she asked, genuinely interested in how a flying
saucer design could fulfill anybody’s plan.

He took a moment more to admire the ship assembly process
while organizing his thoughts. “When we go to Earth and start a war with Errabêlu,
it’s going to kick up a lot of commotion. A lot of Normals are going to witness
a lot of weird stuff. A lot of magical spells. Some people might even see this
ship flying around a bit. Now, according to the simulations the Scotties ran,
we have three basic options open to us: we could announce the truth, tell the
whole planet that we are wizards and that we have come to Earth to free the
Normals from wizardly control by Errabêlu—”

Capie wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “Bad idea, that.”

“Agreed,” said Paul, with a small nod of his head. “That
possibility leads to some very nasty consequences. Option two is to make up
some sort of lie. The best one we could come up with is that the Scotties are aliens
from another planet—”

“They are from another planet,” his wife pointed out,
with a little annoyance. “Mars, remember? The biggest dust bunny in the
galaxy?”

“Okay, so maybe that story wouldn’t technically be a lie,”
Paul said with a nonchalant shrug. “Though I think the people of Earth would
disagree. And later, when they found out the truth, and they would eventually,
then they would be furious.”

“And option three?”

He grinned. “To not say anything at all. Consider: anyone
who sees our flying saucer and reports it—”

“Won’t be believed, will they?” Capie finished with a pained
expression. “Just another UFO sighting, no different from thousands of other
sightings.”

Paul gave her a small bow. “Exactly. The same will be true
for any other strange thing that people see. Even photos or cell camera videos
won’t be widely accepted, especially with the governments controlled by Errabêlu
officially scoffing at them. And if we don’t say anything either…?”

Capie thought of all the stories and rumors of Roswell, Area
51 and the odd goings on in the Devil’s Triangle. “Our war with Errabêlu
will still impact people’s lives, Paul. Those that see parts of the war will be
affected by it, some of them rather profoundly.”

He nodded, stealing another glance at the ship. “It’s an
imperfect solution, I know. However, it’s the best we could come up with.”

She looked back up to the ship, now nearly finished, and
rolled her eyes. “I understand now just how crazy you are.”

“Ah, ‘understanding is a three-edged sword’ as Kosh of Babylon
5 described it,” Paul answered flippantly. “I believe that they are ready
for us now. Shall we go aboard?” He waved a portal into existence and they
stepped through onto the bridge of the ship.

“I’ll just take my luggage and pack it in our quarters,”
Capie said, shaking her head in amusement. “I assume we have do have quarters?”

“Right this way,” volunteered a female voice from one of the
Scotties in a nearby wall. The designation on her side panel identified her as
Rosie 408 (from The Jetsons). A green arrow formed on the deck in front
of Capie’s feet, pointing down the corridor and away from the bridge.

Capie smiled. “Thanks, Rosie. Come along, luggage!” And she
marched off following the green arrows, the large stuffed puppy Patches still
tucked under one arm, and the luggage waddling along in her wake.

Paul turned back to Daneel 1, floating nearby. “Oh, fetch me
my new duds, please, while Capie is putting her luggage away.”

A few minutes later, when Paul had taken off his spacesuit
and changed clothes, Daneel 1 told him that the last of the Scotties had joined
themselves to the structure of the ship and that all was nearly in readiness
for launch. Capie walked in at just that moment and stood at the doorway to the
bridge, hands on hips as she took in her husband’s new clothing.

“‘What is that? Is that a uniform of some kind?’” she quoted
from the Star Trek episode “Tomorrow is Yesterday.”

“‘This little thing?’” Paul responded, feigning complete
innocence. “‘Something I slipped on.’”

“Boys and their toys! Okay, Captain Kirk, if you are quite
ready?” And she plopped down in the captain’s chair, crossing her arms and
daring him to force her out.

Paul grinned and sat at the helmsman station. “This is not
a Starfleet uniform,” he replied, with a smile. “It is the new uniform for the
Space Navy.”

Indeed, he was quite proud of his design. The jacket was an
Egyptian blue, with an arching white braid from the armpits across the upper
chest and a high stiff collar of black. Shoulder boards of gold held his
command insignia and a large rectangular patch on the left side of his chest
held a variety of small brightly colored squares, resembling, to various
degrees, military metals. The long sleeved jacket flared outward past his hips
and over the top of the charcoal black slacks. On his feet, Paul wore tall
black leather boots.

“Quite,” Capie indifferently replied. “Which Space Navy?”

Paul shrugged, reluctantly admitting that she had a good
question. “That is a problem. I sort of like the Terran Space Navy, in homage
to the early science fictions authors such as Isaac Asimov, Poul Anderson,
Keith Laumer and E.E. Doc Smith.”

“And I suppose you have named the ship too, right?” she
guessed, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Guilty as charged,” he replied. He turned to Daneel 1.
“Daneel 1, I would like to designate this ship, however temporary, as the TNS Ascendant,
hull number BC-1618, please.”

“Ascendant, uh?” Capie asked with a smile. “From the StarGate
series, right? But not all that obvious. What is the BC-1618 number from?”

Paul gave her his know-it-all grin. “BC stands for Battle
Cruiser and 1.618 is Phi, the Golden Ratio number. And I like large numbers for
ship hulls. It implies that there are a lot more ships.”

Capie adjusted her position in the command chair and frowned.
“I’m ready to go when you are.”

“All supplies have been properly stowed and all the Scottie
commanders have reported ready for lift off,” Daneel 1 reported as he floated
towards a desk near a wall. A projected human image of the Scottie appeared,
taking the seat at the navigator’s station.

With a nod at him, Paul turned back to Capie. “Ready, my
love?”

“Past ready,” she replied impatiently. “Let’s get this show
on the road.”

With a wave of his hand, Paul created a holographic console
full of switches in front of him, then pressed one.

“Okay, all hands, please listen up. We are ready to leave
Mars now and begin our assault on Earth. If anyone is not ready to leave,
please speak up.”

There was silence on the ship. Paul glanced at the human
image of Daneel 1 and nodded.

“Artificial gravity field turned on. Activating our
engines,” Paul said, tapping out a meaningless pattern on the switches on the
control panel. “Lifting off at one-tenth power!”

At the front of the bridge, a holographic viewscreen
appeared, activating itself, showing an image of swirling dust patterns. As
they watched, the dust faded away, to be replaced by the black of space with a
few stars visible. Then the curving horizon of the planet established itself
below as they moved away from the surface of Mars, heading up into low Martian
orbit.

Paul studied his instruments. “Standard orbit established.
Now calculating a trajectory for Earth.” He punched a few more meaningless
buttons. “Calculations complete. Acceleration compensation field activated.
Leaving Martian orbit. Accelerating at 98.1 meters per second squared.”

The Martian surface dropped from view as they sped away from
the planet.

“Stand by for portal entry,” Paul intoned. “Set end-point
over the night side of Earth, above the eastern seaboard of North America,
altitude of 80,000 miles. Align the vector to put us into orbit,” he said with
a grin.

A tiny circle of white appeared on the viewscreen, growing
swiftly in size as they approached. They shot through the center of the portal,
the view of the stars shifting ever so slightly and Earth appearing off to one
side of the viewscreen.

“Entering Earth orbit. Excellent navigation, too, I might
add,” Paul observed smugly through the side of his mouth to Daneel 1.

They watched the planet on the viewscreen. Paul said,
“Arthur C. Clarke was right, you know.”

“About what?” Capie asked, only mildly curious.

“It was he who said, ‘How inappropriate to call this planet
‘Earth’ when it is clearly ‘Ocean’.”

Capie nodded but didn’t reply.

Then Paul took an excited breath and grinned. “‘An abysmal
place, Earth. A thousand years ago, it had character. Crusades, Spanish
Inquisition, Watergate. Now it’s just mind numbingly dull.’”

Rolling her eyes, Capie said, “That’s Q, from a Star
Trek: The Next Generation episode. But I can’t remember which one.”

“Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, actually. The episode
‘Q-Less.’” Paul punched some more buttons.

“Nervous, aren’t you?” his wife asked and then smiled gently
at him. “All the quotes are your way of dealing with the stress. Well, I don’t
mind admitting I’m nervous too.”

With a small nod, Paul turned toward the large monitor
screen at the front of the bridge. The fun part was already over. “You know me
too well. Yes, I am nervous. All of our planning, our strategies and tactics,
everything we’ve done to prepare for this day, is about to be put to the test.
It wouldn’t take much to defeat us. Some magic spell that Errabêlu knows
that we don’t. Or something that I have overlooked. So, yes, I am very very
nervous.”

Capie grinned. “‘Hey, if a pair of scruffy hobbits can drop
a ring into the Crack of Doom in defiance of the most awful Evil Overlord in
literary history, then this should be a piece of cake.’”

Paul blinked in surprise. “Who the devil said that? I love
that quote!”

“A fellow named Chris MacMurtrie,” she answered, chuckling.

Encouraged, Paul smiled back at her.

“Okay, Daneel,” he said, swinging to face Daneel 1, “Notify
Daryl 71,” (from the 1985 movie D.A.R.Y.L.) “and II Corps, 2nd Division,
4th Brigade, 4th Battalion that they are free to leave.”

Paul had decided, back on Mars during their planning
sessions that one of their first needs during the coming conflict would be to
establish a prison for their prisoners. Something better than what he had
arranged for Hamadi off the coast of Australia. He had briefly considered
Devil’s Island and Alcatraz, but both were now tourist traps. Furthermore,
neither was escape proof. And Rura Penthe, the prison used in Star Trek VI:
The Undiscovered Country, wasn’t an option either, since that fictional
planet was nowhere near Earth.

But his wife had convinced him there was another choice.

Daryl 71 and his company had been given detailed
instructions. They would proceed to the North Sea, east of Scotland,
coordinates 59° N, -0.4° W, to an undersea mount there. Starting with the
mount, they would build a small island, using rock mined from the ocean floor,
and then build a prison on that island. To keep the wizard prisoners from using
the rock as amulets, all the interior spaces of the prison would be coated with
carbon nanotubes woven into a near impenetrable super-fabric. Not only would
the super-fabric prevent the prisoners from actually touching the rock walls,
the carbon fibers themselves held a very low magical quotient, carbon being the
fourth most abundant material in the universe.

Capie smiled wickedly. “So, you decided to take my suggestion
after all. Azkaban from the third Harry Potter. The wizards of Errabêlu
are just going to love it there!”

Daneel 1’s image smiled in return. “Their experiences there
will be memorable ones, I’m sure. Dad, Daryl 71 and his Battalion have left the
ship.”

Paul grinned and looked over at Capie. “‘And so it begins,’”
he said, quoting Kosh of Babylon 5. “Let’s go kick some butt.”

Ω

The next item on Paul’s want list was an operational
headquarters they could call their own. It would be a facility that they could
use for storage of the vaccine as well as for staging operations, training,
orientations, and what not.

Capie wanted to buy a large building in a major city with a
preference for a location in Europe. And Paul was tempted, but in reality, no
place in Europe was safe from discovery by a wizard of one country or another.
No, they needed a more isolated corner of the Earth for their operations, where
they could use copious quantities of magic without fear of discovery.

After considerable thought, Paul chose Mount Logan, the
highest mountain in Canada and the second highest in all of North American,
sitting near the border between Canada and the United States. The ship dropped
lower into the atmosphere, taking a northeast route headed toward the Gulf of
Alaska.

“Approaching the southeastern coast of Alaska,” Daneel 1
reported.

“Excellent,” Paul said with a smile. “I’m hoping Jaret will
contact us at some point. Daneel 1, when we are 300 miles from the coastline,
raise shields and reduce radar cross section to zero.”

“Copy that,” Daneel 1 responded. “Raising shields and radar
cloak in fifty-three seconds.”

They flew on, the tension building on the bridge.

“Shields and radar cloak raised,” Daneel 1 informed them.

“Thanks, Daneel,” Capie replied.

“At current velocity, five minutes to the coastline,” Daneel
1 formally added. “Mount Logan is seven minutes beyond that.”

Paul nodded but did not reply. What sort of reception was
awaiting them on Earth? He thought he knew, but it was mostly just guess work.

First, they would build an extensive set of underground
caverns inside Mount Logan. Then they were going to go looking for trouble,
starting at the Errabêlu facility in Transylvania.

After that, they were going to start hitting the capital
cities of the world.

“Coastline in sight,” Daneel 1 reported. And yes, there on
the view screen, Paul could see a small strip of white on the horizon and the
haze of large mountains well beyond that.

They sped onward, crossing the beach, going feet dry over
the Alaskan coast.

SIXTEEN

The Saint Elias Mountains, Canada

Mount Logan

Monday, 8:54 a.m. PDT

May

The view
outside the balcony windows was absolutely stunning. In some ways, it reminded
Paul of the view from the Ice Castle in the Disney movie Frozen.

There were ice and snow covered mountains in all directions,
as well as mountain valleys and ravines. The countryside was undeniably rugged
and hostile, yet it was also beautiful.

And, for a change, the wind wasn’t howling its siren song.

Capie stood beside him, staring out the window too.

“Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” she asked.

He nodded and smiled at her. “Yes. I’m glad you talked me
into putting our bedroom up here, above ground.” He paused for a moment. “But
enough sight-seeing, for now at least. Daneel 1 is waiting on us downstairs and
it’s time to get to work.”

Holding hands, they walked over to the elevator shaft and
stepped in, their magic dropping them slowly several stories before emerging on
the seventh level down.

Here, their new facilities, hollowed out of the solid
granite rock of the side of Mount Logan, consisted of a number of offices and
conference rooms. Capie and Paul occupied adjoining offices just down the hall
from the shaft.

But they walked past those offices, going all the way to the
end of the hall to the largest conference room on the seventh floor.

A small group of Scotties awaited on their arrival. Daneel 1
held the ‘chair’ at the other end of the long wooden table. He was flanked by
Selma 1 (from the TV series Time Trax) on Daneel’s right and Norby 1
(from the Janet Asimov robot series) on his left.

“Hi, Dad,” Daneel 1 said. “Have a seat. We’ll have an update
here in just a couple of minutes.”

Paul pulled out a chair for Capie and then seated himself, making
himself as comfortable as he could.

The previous few days had been busy ones. Not only had the
bulk of the 50,000 Scotties carved out the Mount Logan facility and provided it
with furnishings and PCs, but specialty teams of Scotties had already made the
first Errabêlu raid. At 3 a.m. local time, a thousand Scotties had
en-globed the Transylvania castle on Mount Izvorul Călimanului, completely
isolating and sealing the castle off from the outside world. Then the Scotties
had moved in, rendering everyone in the castle unconscious and taking them
prisoner.

Paul had been a bit surprised at the haul. Back in the Mount
Izvorul Călimanului Castle, when Hamadi had held Capie prisoner there, the
castle was virtually deserted. But this time there had been half a dozen
wizards on station and nearly a hundred Oni.

No one was sure yet what that meant. It was one of the many
questions that an interrogation team of Scotties were asking the prisoners. Or
rather, asking the avatars of the prisoners.

In addition to the good news that the raid had been
successfully completed, Daneel 1 had also reported the discovery of written
records of the Errabêlu society from a clerk’s office in the castle, the
records apparently containing the names of all the society’s members.

After the raid, the Scotties had gone to the trouble to
remove all evidence of their attack, including repairs of some minor damages to
the castle structure. When they pulled out, there was nothing to suggest that
anything at all unusual had occurred there. In a day or so, when other members
of Errabêlu became suspicious of the silence emanating from the castle
and investigated, they would find nothing. Instead, it would simply appear that
the wizards and Oni there had wandered off someplace, perhaps going out for
pizza or Chinese takeout.

Paul and Capie were interested in the intelligence gathered
from both the prisoners and the records that had been found. If anything had
been learned that might impact future operations, they wanted to know.

Daneel 1 (his cube sitting on the tabletop, the image of his
head on top of the cube), cleared his throat. “I’m getting a feed from Rosie 408.
You were right, Dad. The number of wizards and Oni at the castle were because
of beefed up security. A direct result of the disappearance of Hamadi and six
Oni. Oh, and the damage Daneel 1 and Hamadi did to the southeast tower too. Errabêlu
linked the incident to you but they apparently didn’t get any info from Hamadi
between the time he took Mom prisoner and the time we took him.”

“That’s a relief,” Capie noted with a sigh.

“According to Tejas Rathore, one of the male wizards we
captured in the raid, Errabêlu has been involved in an arms buildup the
last three months. Rathore doesn’t know the details, but apparently they have
added thousands of new Oni to their ranks and have upgraded their talismans as
well.”

Paul pursed his lips. “That is not welcome news.”

“And, according to all of the wizards, there are rumors that
at least two wizards of Errabêlu are fabricating super-talismans as
well.”

The room was silent as everyone absorbed and pondered this disquieting
revelation.

“I don’t suppose there were any details reported on those
super-talismans,” Capie asked, her face one of disappointment.

“Sorry, no,” Daneel 1 added.

Paul absently stared into space. “Still, the Scotties have
done an excellent job. All mission goals were achieved. Daneel 1, are the
interrogations completed on our new prisoners?”

“They will be soon,” came the quick reply.

“Assign another company of Scotties to escort them to Azkaban
Prison. And let Daryl 71 keep increasing the size of the prison. He can put all
the Oni in stasis if he wants to, but I would like the wizards kept available
for further questioning.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Ω

Paul and Capie walked hand in hand eastward along the north
side of Pennsylvania Avenue, slowly passing the Major General Comte Jean de
Rochambeau bronze statue in Lafayette Square and slowly drawing even with the
White House across the street.

The time was early, nearly 4 a.m. Despite the hour, there
were some lights already on in the executive mansion.

“This is as close as we dare get without the Secret Service
becoming nosy,” Capie observed, with a glance over at the President’s
residence.

“I’m not sensing any magic in use, are you?” Paul asked.

“No, I’m not. But that doesn’t make me any less nervous.
‘It’s the White House, for crying out loud. You can’t just drive up and ring
the bell,’” Capie declared, quoting Julius Levinson from the sci-fi flick Independence
Day.

Paul smiled at the appropriateness of the quote. “I’m
nervous too. Remember, no portals unless we are spotted. We want to keep the
energy signatures as low as possible.”

“Right,” Capie remarked with a smirk. “Just levitation and
invisibility spells allowed. Got it.”

With another glance around, Paul waved his arm, invoking one
of those aforementioned invisibility spells. Then, moving quickly, the two of
them walked over to the iron fence in front of the North Lawn, rising quickly
over the top and then settling back down to the grassy turf beyond.

They hurried past the circular drive and levitated up to a
second floor window on the southwest corner of the building. There, using
Paul’s molecular spell, they passed through the window and into the dressing
room for the President of the United States.

The room was pitch dark.

Paul moved without hesitation through the single small door
and out into an anteroom. From there, he waved a hand, slowly leveraging open
the door into the president’s bedroom.

Even before he’d become a wizard, Paul had a very low
opinion of politicians in the country—or of the past century, for that matter. He
had been tired of them all. He thought of them, regardless of political party, as
mealy-mouthed, spineless, greedy, power-hungry, dirt-bags. They promised
anything and everything to get themselves elected but once in power, all they
answered to were lobbyists of special-interests who lined the politician’s
pockets with money, favors, position, and power.

Many a time Paul had quoted Mark Twain on the subject,
telling others “We have the best government that money can buy.” And he meant
the sarcasm inherent in every word of that too.

Of course, these days, he knew he had been wrong in
his earlier assessment. Now he understood that political figures were
merely puppets—willing and otherwise—of the Errabêlu wizards. He
therefore adjusted his appraisal of them even lower, accordingly.

Here, in this very room, lay the President of the United
States, sound asleep, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

Capie entered the room right behind Paul, making a face at
the racket the president was creating, and shaking her head in amazement. This
was a side of the woman that very few ever got to see.

From a north-western state, the former United States Senator
was well known for her steel-like personality and her no-nonsense form of
governing.

With another wave of his arm, Paul cast another spell,
blocking any light or sound from leaving the room. Then a second spell to hold
President McCluskie in her state of sleep followed by a third spell to create
an avatar of the woman.

The ghostly form of the avatar, wearing decorative pajamas,
materialized near the foot of the bed, its face slack and devoid of emotion or
interest.

Paul stepped closer to the avatar. “Do you know who I am?”
he asked the hologram.

The image of light studied Paul’s face for a moment. “Yes.”

“Who am I?”

“Paul Armstead, a rogue wizard, responsible for murdering
several Oni and at least one wizard,” came the reply.

“So, she also knows about Errabêlu too!” observed a
not very surprised Capie.

“So it would seem,” Paul quietly surmised. It raised the
question of how much the American president knew and how involved she was in
the wizard conspiracy. But before he could ask any of those questions, Capie
beat him to the punch.

“What do you know of the murder of Christopher Kingsley?”
his wife asked, murderous fire in her eyes.

The avatar’s reply was quick enough. “His death was a
mistake. Those responsible were unaware of the man’s health issues. They were
instructed to hold Kingsley to use as bait to lure his daughter and son-in-law
into a trap.”

Paul raised an eyebrow, glancing back over his shoulder at
Capie. “So your father did have health issues?”

She squirmed a little under the question. “He might have. If
so, he didn’t tell me about it. I admit that he sometimes did keep things from
me, to protect me. Still, that doesn’t excuse their murder of him.”

With a sigh, Paul agreed with her. “No, it doesn’t.” Then he
returned his attention to the avatar. It was time to gather some pertinent
intel. “How many Errabêlu wizards are here in the United States? How
many Oni too? What arrangements do you have with them?”

Emotionlessly, the avatar replied. “I know the name of only one
wizard here in the United States. Oliver Jacob Clarke, who resides in
Georgetown. I have met with the man only a few times. And I have met a hundred
or more Oni over the years. My arrangement with the wizard is simple. I meet
with an Oni representative at least once a week. They tell me what they want me
to do. I do it. In return, they help with financial donations, favorable
publicity, good media coverage, congressional support, and with election
results.”

Capie flinched at the last part. “They change election
results?”

“Yes.”

“It figures,” she muttered grumpily.

Paul asked for and was given Clarke’s home address. Then he
waved the avatar away.

“Wait a minute!” protested Capie vehemently. “I wanted to
tell her what I think of her! I actually voted for her in the last election!
What a sell-out! The—”

Paul chucked and held up a hand to stop his wife’s tirade.
“Remember, that was an avatar we were speaking to. The real President of the
United States won’t remember our little visit because we never really talked to
her. So anything you told the avatar would have been wasted effort.”

Capie pouted for a few moments as they worked their way back
out through the dressing room and into the outside early morning air. “It
wouldn’t have been wasted. It would have made me feel a lot better!” She
studied her husband’s profile for a moment. “At least she isn’t a wizard.”

Paul nodded in agreement as they set foot on the grass.

Their night escapade into the White House was merely the
latest in a series of similar operations, starting eighteen hours previously
with the Prime Ministers of Australia, New Zealand, and Japan, and from there,
moving westward with the motion of the Earth’s rotation. In each case, a few
Scotties had infiltrated the official residences, creating avatars of key
government leaders and questioning them.

The team that had tried to question the General Secretary of
North Korea had gotten more than they had bargained for. That individual was
not a Normal but a wizard of Errabêlu. The Scotties involved had barely
managed to extract themselves without compromising the whole operation.
Subsequently, other such teams of Scotties had been more careful.

Working their way west, Paul, Capie, and the Scotties had
interviewed thousands of leaders in the world’s governments. Here in the
States, while Paul and Capie had taken on the most prominent assignment—that of
questioning the president—other teams were interrogating the Speaker of the
House, the Congressional majority and minority leaders, the Chief Justice of the
Supreme Court and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The story that had emerged rather early, and was confirmed
over and over again, was that the world’s government leaders were fully aware
of the Errabêlu wizards and were totally and openly cooperative with
them. After all, the wizards had made it crystal clear what would happen to
them and to their families if anyone even thought about not cooperating.

How such a secret known to so many for so long could have
been kept from the general public was something of a mystery to Paul. But it had
obviously been kept a secret and successfully so.

In the meantime, the Scotties had gathered a ton of
intelligence data on the wizards of Errabêlu. The locations of many of
their residences were identified, as well as other pertinent information and
intelligence. And all without the Scotties tipping their hand to Errabêlu.

Ω

The Situation Room on the subterranean 12th floor of the Mount
Logan facility was large enough to hold hundreds of Scotties, providing them
with several long tables’ worth of workspace. The room’s four walls held
holographic maps of the Earth’s surface. The main map, stretched along the
north wall, was of the entire Earth. This was the map that currently held
Paul’s and Capie’s attention now as Daneel 1 spoke. On the map, various
multi-covered lights blinked and moved, signifying the shifting positions and
locations of teams of Scotties. The red stationary lights were the designated
targets, each one representing a safe house or residence of a wizard of Errabêlu.

“As you can see, Dad, most of the teams are in their starting
positions,” Daneel 1 pointed out. “Ready to move in when you give the word.”

Paul didn’t reply but continued to study the map while
thoughtfully rubbing his chin. There were a lot of teams in place, 112 of them
by count, scattered all across the globe, from Washington, D.C. on the west all
the way around the globe to Wellington, New Zealand on the east.

“Operation Bushwhack is scheduled to go off at 7 p.m.,
Eastern Daylight Time,” Capie said. “And it will be, what, 11 a.m. in
Wellington?”

The image of Daneel 1’s holographic face above his cube
shrugged. “Not ideal, no. In order to maximize our chances for success, we need
to trigger Bushwhack simultaneously. And, while it is 7 p.m. Monday night in
Washington D.C., it is midnight in London, 1 a.m. Tuesday in Paris, 7 a.m. in
Beijing, 8 a.m. in Tokyo, and 9 a.m. in Canberra, Australia. In other words,
there really isn’t an ideal moment Earth-wide to catch all the wizards in their
homes. No doubt we will miss some of them. But this represents our best
opportunity to use surprise on our side and capture most of them, especially the
most powerful of the wizards—the ones in the United States, China, and Russia.
And if we miss the ones in Wellington and Canberra, then that’s the price we
will have to pay.”

“Understood,” Paul said dispassionately, still watching the
lights on the map. If he was counting right, the last team had just moved into
position.

Daneel 1 apparently noticed the same thing. “Hadaly 240…”
(the fictional female robot created by Auguste Villers de l’Isle-Adam) “…reports
that her team is at the designated position,” he stated impassively. “They are
near the residence of the President of Myanmar. You may remember, Dad, the president
there is also an actual wizard, like the General Secretary of North Korea.”

“Is there a problem?” Capie asked.

There was a pause while Daneel 1 relayed the question.

“Hadaly 240 is not sure,” he replied uncertainly. “There’s
just something different there, she says. For one thing, she’s seeing a lot
more snakes around.”

Paul’s head jerked around in a tight spin. “Snakes? In
Naypyidaw at that time of the morning? Send me an image, quick!”

A picture formed on the map in front of them, the image that
of a fairly large snake twisted up in some shrubbery. The snakes head was
pointed outward, the tongue lashing in and out.

“Quick!” Paul urged. “Test for a magic spell!”

Gemstones were used by Oni to track magic spells, but during
their stay on Mars, Paul had discovered that the new talismans were more
effective tools for that purpose. The image of the snake on the display
changed, showing a color gradient. Most of the image was a cool green or blue.
But the snake glowed a strong deep red.

“A magical familiar!” shouted Daneel 1.

“Launch Bushwhack, now, Now, NOW!” barked Paul.

On the map, lights began to move as Scotties portaled into
position around the houses, apartments, and residences of known wizards of Errabêlu.

“How did they know?” Capie asked, her hand to her mouth.

“I don’t know,” Paul muttered, concentrating on the map.
“Maybe it’s just that one wizard.”

“But there were no snakes a few days ago, when we did the
interrogations!”

Paul didn’t answer. He was just as puzzled as she was.

But at least one wizard had been alert enough to establish
an early warning system. The snake would have revealed Hadaly’s presence. Odds
were, Hadaly wouldn’t be taking the President of Myanmar wizard captive.

It only remained to be seen how many other wizards had also
been forewarned.

SEVENTEEN

The Saint Elias Mountains, Canada

Mount Logan

Headquarters

Monday, 9:58 a.m. PDT

June

Operation
Bushwhack turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. Of the targeted 112
wizards, only 21 had actually been taken captive. All of the other target
residences had been empty, the wizards of Errabêlu successfully avoiding
the trap.

Paul blamed himself, of course, as he studied the results on
the world map. In retrospect, it was easy to see from the Errabêlu point
of view. First, Hamadi had disappeared a few months previously. Then, just a
few days ago, six wizards and a hundred Oni had vanished from the Errabêlu
castle in Transylvania. So naturally, everyone in Errabêlu knew
something was up and, quite naturally, they established early warning spells to
protect themselves.

Well, some of them did, anyway. But 21 had not. And of those
21, Paul was amused to note that there were two very familiar names on the
list.

Dr. Duncan Ruggiero and Celeste.

“Are you sure you want to talk to them?” Capie asked from
her seat at the conference table, with a pained puzzled look. “They were
planning to murder you in cold blood.”

Paul understood how thin the ice was he was skating on and
therefore decided on extra measures of caution. He really didn’t want Capie to be
jealous, especially when there was no cause for her to feel that way.

“Not her, not specifically,” Paul replied trying to reassure
his wife while gently squeezing her hand. “I’m interested in talking to Dr.
Ruggiero as well as Celeste. I want both their inputs. And it won’t take long.
You don’t have to come with me.”

She studied his face with her patented “You must be crazy”
look. “Leave you in the same room with that hussy? Not on your life!” she said
with eyes ablaze and venom in her voice.

Paul calmly nodded in assent.

“Dad?” Daneel 2 asked. “We are already doing the
interrogations for the other wizards. We can do these two as well, if you
prefer.”

“Yes, let them do the interrogations,” Capie insisted
emphatically. “You trained them for this.”

Feeling like he was being ganged up on, Paul grimaced and
shook his head. “Yes, Daneel 2, I want the interrogations of the other wizards
to continue, using the Avatar Technique. But this is not an interrogation, not
just yet. What I’m trying to accomplish here is to answer the question of what
do we do with the wizards of Errabêlu in the long run. And, as you know,
I’ve assigned a team of Scotties, led by Rommie 451,” (Gene Roddenberry’s, Andromeda)
“to explore the possible options. But in the meantime I want to find out from
these two if there is another alternative available.”

“Such as?” Capie asked, with a suspicious inquisitive look.

With a shrug, Paul glanced at the floor. “Mind you, I don’t
expect it to work. But it must be tried, at least once. And it stands a better
chance on Ruggiero than anyone else.”

Selma 1 floated through the door at that moment. “What
stands a better chance, Dad?”

“Logic.” He held up a hand to ward off any dissent. “Yeah, I
know. Not likely to work. I think I just said that. Anyway, Daneel 2, pass the
word to Darby 71. I want a platoon of Scotties to take those two prisoners to
the best resort you can find on the northeast Scottish coast, near Aberdeen or
Edinburgh. The swankiest resort that you can find for them. Don’t let them
escape but let them relax and have a good time for a day or so.” He glanced
over at Celeste. “We’ll be there tomorrow evening to have dinner with them.
They say that you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Let’s see
if they are right.”

Ω

Early the next day, by way of portal over the North Pole,
Paul and Capie arrived at the Malmaison Boutique Hotel sitting on a rocky cliff
above the city of Aberdeen. It was nearly six pm local time, when they checked
in, taking the Terraced Suite.

From the front desk, Paul guided Capie through to the Chef’s
Table, a cozy private dining room for eight people not far from the kitchen.
There they found Ruggiero and Celeste seated at the table, enjoying cocktails
and picking at a plate of bacon turnovers known as piragi.

“Ah!” Ruggiero said, his eyebrows going up appreciatively as
he caught sight of Paul. “Our hosts have finally arrived!”

Paul nodded at the half dozen Scottie guards in the room.
Quietly, they slipped out into the hallway beyond.

“Finally! A bit of privacy!” grunted the Errabêlu
wizard.

Celeste ignored Capie but smiled warmly at Paul.

“Paul!” Celeste said cordially, with a big smile, stepping
around her chair to take both of his hands. “I am so glad to see you again!”

Paul dispassionately noted her distinct flinch as her hands
touched his own but paid it no attention. There were weightier matters to deal
with here.“You were gone a long time, young man,” Dr. Ruggiero granted, with
good humor. “It is nice to see you again and in such good health. And with two
arms again, as well.” He reached out to shake Paul’s hand and more visibly
blinked when their hands made contact.

Paul nodded with a tight smile. “It’s a long story, but I am
sure the two of you can feel the level of magic at my command. This is my wife,
Copernicus Kingsley-Armstead.”

“You are very beautiful, my dear,” Celeste acknowledged
reaching out to touch Capie’s bare arm. And wincing again. “And a full wizard of
your own too. Ah, more than that, you are expecting? Oh, many wonderful
congratulations!”

Capie eyed the other woman as if she wanted to claw her
face. Paul turned in surprise and shock to stare at his wife, not believing
Celeste’s words to be true.

But Capie refused to look back at him and Paul realized that
Celeste had indeed spoken the truth. His wife was pregnant and he was going to
be a father! A sense of pride swept through his whole body and his soul
suddenly burned with love for his wife. The tiny man in the back of his head
was leaping up and down and turning cartwheels with joy!

But Paul restrained himself from any other outward sign of
emotion. Now was not the time to share his joy with any of the wizards of Errabêlu.
There would be time for that later, when Capie and he were alone. Nevertheless,
Paul reached out and took Capie’s hand, squeezing it gently and giving her his
best loving smile. Relaxing ever so slightly, she gave him a half smile in
return.

“She’s the love of my life,” Paul proclaimed.

Dr. Ruggiero’s smile vanished as he stared at the back of
the door. “And these floating cubes? What are they?”

Capie gave him a wintry smile. “Those are our army of
wizards,” she answered, closely watched their reactions.

Ruggiero grimaced and swung back to face Paul.

“Young man, I know we didn’t quite get off on the right foot
last year but please, let us put those differences aside. Just return our
talismans and we’ll be on our way, no harm done, shall we say.”

Paul smiled, knowing how annoyed the man was by the
situation.

“Let’s have dinner first and then we’ll discuss it like
civilized people, shall we?” he suavely suggested. “Oh, waiter?” he said, as
the door opened and a gray-haired man stuck his head partway into the room.
“Four for dinner please. And another plate of appetizers if you will.”

Paul glanced at the surprised look on Ruggiero’s face. “I
understand that both the pork cutlet and the lobster risotto are both excellent
here. Have you tried either one and if so, what do you recommend?”

Ω

It was a bit of a strain through dinner, but the four of
them managed not to talk “business” during the meal. Despite what Paul found to
be most excellent cuisine, both Celeste and Ruggiero found the fantastic food
to be merely adequate. The luxurious accommodations were also met with faint
praise.

After desert (a choice of tonka bean panna cotta with
strawberries, honeycomb and strawberry sorbet or the Valrhona dark chocolate
tart with a passion fruit sorbet), the four of them moved to the Reception Room
where they found comfortable seats in front of the natural gas fireplace.
Ruggiero and Celeste ordered cocktails while Paul and Capie selected English
teas.

“Well, young man,” Ruggiero said, after sipping his drink.
“Shall we get down to business now? I ask again, please return our talismans
and we’ll be on our way.”

“And the other wizards?” he asked.

Ruggiero was momentarily puzzled by the question.

“You captured other wizards? Well, if you did, you should
release them as well, of course.”

“So that they can go back to their preparations for World War
III,” Paul stated, dispassionately.

“Quite,” Ruggiero acknowledged, with a small chuckle. “Yes,
I know. You are one of those Normie lovers. You want Errabêlu to cease
manipulating the governments of the Normies. Am I correct?”

“Indubitably,” Paul responded, with a tight smile.

“Idealistic but impractical,” Ruggiero said, with a sad
sigh. “First, the Normies cannot govern themselves. Second, it is Errabêlu
that is the solution. The human race owes us a great deal of credit as well as
thanks for all that we have done for it. And, with just a few hundred years
more work…well, the level of technology at that time will take us to the stars.
A worthy cause indeed. Join us and we can see it brought to fruition.”

“Nope,” Paul said, with a bigger smile. “It’s not going to
be played that way. Instead, we are going to play a little game. I will be the
host, Monty Hall, and the name of the game is “Let’s Make a Deal.” Now, behind
Door Number 1, there is death. As painless as possible, but rather permanent,
I’m afraid.”

“Door what?” asked Celeste, with a puzzled scowl on her
face.

“Behind Door Number 2 is stasis. Not permanent, no, but long
term. Hundreds if not thousands if not tens of thousands of years. Not a lot
better than Door Number 1, if you want my opinion.”

The doctor frowned. “Is there a Door Number 3?”

Paul leaned forward, putting his cup of tea on the coffee
table in front of him.

“Yes, there is one more door,” he replied, carefully
studying the faces of the two Errabêlu wizards. “Cooperation. Work with
us, voluntarily. The Normals will be on their own, government wise. Oh, sure,
we’ll give them a little helping hand, so that they can overcome all the
defects and damage they’ve suffered over the centuries. That’s why there are so
many Scotties here, both to help the Normals and to make sure that Errabêlu
never interferes again. But, in time, the Normals won’t need us even for that.”
Paul looked Ruggiero sternly in the eye. “Humanity has made a lot of progress
over the centuries. Yes, they still have a lot of problems. I would be the
first to agree with you on that score. But they are far enough along now that
they can work out the majority of those problems, as soon as Errabêlu
gets out of the way. What do you say? Door number 3?”

Ruggiero stared at Paul with a frown tinged with anger. “I
recognize your sincerity but, believe me, as one who has personally watched
humanity closely over several centuries, you are mistaken in your belief.
Normies are misguided, weak, selfish, arrogant, decadent, immoral, and
incapable of seeing to their own needs. Believe me, Paul, with all of my heart,
I wish it were not so but I only speak the truth here.”

“As one who was recently one of those Normals, I must, of
necessity, disagree with you, Doctor,” Paul said before waving his arm around
him. “A Normal did all this, with a little education and a few magical powers.
However, it is obvious that you disagree with us and so we must go our separate
ways.”

Celeste cleared her throat. “And just what is it that you
intend to do with us if we don’t pick any of your doors?”

Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“You will be taken back to the prison, for a while, until we
capture the remaining wizards of Errabêlu. And then we will put you in
stasis, unless you choose to cooperate with us. And the sooner the better.”

Celeste glared daggers at him. “The path you are on will
only lead to the destruction of the human race,” she snapped at him. “We can’t
be a party to that.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Ruggiero declared with a bitter
frown. “And you can’t win. You may have taken a few wizards captive but Errabêlu
is very powerful. You can’t succeed. Please, don’t do this. It will only lead
to your destruction.”

“Please change your mind,” Celeste begged. “Don’t do this.
You cannot know what lies ahead for you. Or for your charming wife, or your
child. Please, don’t do this.”

Capie smiled wickedly. “If you’re arguing against it, then I
know for sure we are doing the right thing.”

Paul sighed somberly. “I had to try to convince you. I have
no desire to unleash either Doors 1 or 2 upon you, but you leave me no options.
Thank you for the pleasure of your company through dinner. In the morning, the
Scotties will take you back to prison. Goodbye.”

Ω

Changing his mind, Paul elected not to stay at the resort
but to return to the Mount Logan facility instead.

Somehow, he managed to restrain his joy until they had
returned to their quarters there.

Then he grabbed his gorgeous wife and swung Capie around,
clasping her tightly in his arms.“You’re pregnant?!” he shouted.

Capie nodded nervously. “I was waiting until the right time
to tell you. You seemed to have so much on your mind lately.”

Paul let rip a Tarzan yell and started dancing a jig with
her. Daneel 1 entered the room behind them, puzzled by the two humans’ emotional
outbursts.

“How far along are you?” Paul asked, as he stopped his
dance, grinning from ear to ear.

“Seven weeks,” she gasped, laughing at his antics.

“Oh, Happy Day!” Paul sang.

“She’s going to have a baby, Dad?” Daneel 1 apprehensively
asked.

Paul turned to the Scottie. “Yes, Daneel, Mom is pregnant.
This will be her first human child and we are quite excited about it.”

“Oh,” the cube replied dourly.

Paul sensed a certain degree of disappointment, perhaps even
sadness.

“Daneel, don’t worry. Mom does not love you or any of the
other Scotties any less. This human baby is not going to replace you in her
heart. Nor in my heart either. Trust me, it just makes our family that much
larger, that’s all.”

Capie reached out to stroke the side of his cube. “That’s
right, Daneel. All of you have a special place in my heart. A human child will
not replace that.”

“Okay, Dad, Mom. Thanks. I guess that I just never thought
about Mom having human babies. It does seem appropriate, now that I think about
it.”

Paul walked over and patted the side of his cube too. “You
will see. It won’t make any difference in how we feel about you or any other
Scottie,” he declared.

Ω

They were back in the Situation Room on the 12th floor,
monitoring the maps. At least twenty Scotties were floating around the room,
some of them engaged in various monitoring or communication tasks, others
waiting for Paul and Capie’s arrival.

“So, what do we do now?” asked Norby 1, as several Scotties
gathered around him. “I mean since Bushwhack failed.”

“We have to go to a fall-back plan,” Paul announced to the
group as he studied their holographic faces. “There is very little that the
wizards of Errabêlu care about. They are in love with themselves, of
course, but not with much else, including property, which is easily replaced.
And they are too self-centered to care about each other. But there is one other
thing they do care about. Something they’ve spent many man-years
investing in.”

“The governments they control,” Capie said confidently with
a nod. “Of course.”

“So it’s Operation Stalking Horse?” Daneel 1 asked.

“Yes, Operation Stalking Horse,” replied Paul with a slight
chuckle. “I want to start with Beijing, Tokyo, and Canberra, Australia. We will
see how well those work before launching operations in other countries. Daneel
1, put together the teams and send them out as soon as they are ready. We will
monitor operations here via microportals.”

Daneel 1 laughed as he headed toward the map on the north
wall. “With pleasure, Dad.”

Ω

The east wall of the conference room held several displays,
one of them displaying the image of David 707 (from A.I., Artificial
Intelligence, 2001) and his battalion (I Corps, 1st Division, 4th Brigade,
5th Battalion) of over 600 Scotties as they approached their LZ. This was
located in a small uninhabited mountain ravine south of Mount Qingshui not very
far west of Beijing, the capital city of China.

Daneel 1 nodded at the map. “Naturally, we can’t just march
in and demand that they surrender. According to our intelligence data, there
are two wizards that reside in Beijing. If we show up in strength, those
wizards will flee, just like they did for Operation Bushwhack. So we have to be
sneaky about this.”

Paul nodded thoughtfully as he considered the options.
“Daneel 1, tell David 707 to use Deception 12.”

The Scotties in the room all chuckled. Daneel 1 cheerfully acknowledged.
“Orders transmitted. David 707 is taking his battalion of Scotties and circling
around 30 miles south of the city to avoid detection and maintain as low a
magical profile as possible. He intends to position most of the brigade on the
rooftops of the Ningbo Bank and the Bank of Beijing and other large adjacent buildings
to the east on Jianguomen Inner Street, east of city center. Once they are in
place, they will go to silent running conditions and await the arrival of a
Chinese wizard.”

“A bank robbery,” Norby 1 observed with a knowing smile.
“Yes, that will make a nice diversion!”

Paul nodded in approval. “At a minimum, several Oni should
show up. If we are lucky, we might bag a wizard as well. David 707 and his
Scotties will throw up a bubble around each one of them, blocking any opportunity
for them to portal out. Daneel 1, please remind David 707 not to hurt them but only
render them unconscious. Now, who is David assigning for the deception team?”

“Rann 727,” he said, identifying the Scottie named after
Arcturus Rann of the Marvel Comics’ Micronauts. “They will use a page
from Napoleon Bonaparte’s playbook,” Daneel 1 explained. “Rann 727 will take
his 4th Platoon of Company D and will stage a fake robbery at the front
entrance of the Agricultural Bank of China, one block west of Ningbo Bank. They
will throw around a lot of magic while they are doing so, physically disguised
as humans. They will take their time with the robbery, fire off a lot of
ammunition and magical spells and make a ton of noise. All of China will hear
about the robbery. They are instructed to temporarily take hostages but not to
threaten them, and certainly not to actually hurt anybody.”

Paul took a deep calming breath. “It sounds like a lot of
fun, but there are so many things that could go wrong. Perhaps it would be a
good idea if I popped over and lent a hand—”

One of the other Scotties in the room, Gort 737 (1951 film The
Day the Earth Stood Still) displayed the face of a young freckle faced
redheaded man on top of his cube. “Dad, they will be fine. They don’t need you
there, risking yourself.”

“I agree with Gort 737,” spoke Daneel 1. “There is no need
to risk you, sir.”

Paul shook his head. “Yes, we’ve had this conversation
before. And probably will again.” He sighed. “Alright, you win. This time.”

All the Scotties smiled.

Daneel 1 added. “Sir, I know what you want done. If a
Chinese wizard and/or Oni shows up, Rann 727 will retreat eastward where David
707 is waiting. The trick here is not for Rann 727 to wait too late and get his
platoon trapped in the bank building. I have recommended to David 707 to place
sentries in hiding on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, to warn when
Chinese wizards and Oni show up. They’ll likely be coming from the Zhongnanhai
complex, to the west of the Forbidden City. I don’t know if they will fly in or
portal in. My guess is that they will portal in someplace close by, perhaps the
alley behind the bank itself, so I’ve told David 707 to place a sentry or two
to watch that approach. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially not a
Scottie or any Normals.”

“I concur,” Paul said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Oh, one more thing. If the Chinese wizards have any special weapons, or
talismans that are more potent than ours, then I want all the Scotties to clear
out immediately. Come straight back here. Got it?”

“Loud and clear,” Daneel 1 replied optimistically. “I’ve
passed along those instructions.” He paused a moment, then said, “They are on
their way!”

Paul dropped heavily into a seat at the conference room
table. “Daneel 1, assign Robby 747 and his battalion of Scotties to keep the
police away from the operations at the banks. Flood their phone lines with fake
calls, jam their communications and trigger a few dozen fake alarms. If
necessary, disable the electrical systems on their vehicles. We don’t want any
Normals getting in the middle of this operation. Got it?’

“Orders transmitted,” Daneel 1 replied. “Robbie 747
estimates ten minutes to arrival on site.”

Paul rubbed his hands together. “Daneel, while we are
waiting, go ahead and set up Operation Stalking Horse for Canberra, Australia
using Deception 21. Then in Tokyo, using Deception 7, and in Tehran using
Deception 3. And then we wait.”

“Acknowledged,” Daneel 1 replied with muffled laughter.

The wait was agonizing.

An hour crawled by. Capie showed up to provide moral
support, patiently sitting at one end of the conference table.

Paul glanced over at her. “It’s time for the Scotties to
make their big entrance. Are you ready?”

She gnawed her lower lip. “‘I suppose there’ll be a war now,
hmm? All that running around and shooting one another. You’d think that sooner
or later, it would go out of fashion.’”

“Londo Mollari, Babylon 5,” Paul stated with a
chuckle. He hadn’t known she was that big a fan of Babylon 5. “I suppose
there could be shooting.”

“Will the Scotties be safe?” Capie asked, biting at her
lower lip.

“I guarantee it,” Daneel 1 promised them.

“Daneel 1, let’s see if we can watch some of the action,”
Paul suggested. “A microportal, please, at 100 miles over the city. Use it as a
spy-eye and magnify the image and display it here on the wall.”

A bird’s-eye image of Beijing appeared on their viewscreen.
The display funneled downward as the magnification increased. Soon they were
watching vehicles move around and even tiny human figures walking the streets.

The Agricultural Bank of China’s multi-story building
appeared near the top of the screen. Beneath it, on the street, they could see ball
lightning shooting upward into the sky, holograms of two large fire-breathing
dragons in pitched battle, one of them clinging to the side of the bank
building itself and the other one making short loops back and forth, strafing
the one on the bank building with fire on every pass. Below, at street level, a
dozen Qin warriors in terracotta uniforms brandished long metal tipped wood-shafted
spears, battling in the streets.

Paul was impressed with the theatrics.

Suddenly, at street level, a dozen figures fled through the
large glass front doors of the bank building, plasma fire following in their
wake. Those fleeing dodged and weaved as another group of figures emerged from
the doors and then too from alleys on both sides of the building. Even from
this truncated view, the newcomers could be seen as mostly Oni, though one of
the figures was smaller and behaved differently.

“The plan is working,” Daneel 1 observed, encouraged.

But Rann 727 and his troops seemed to be having a difficult
time, the Oni pursuing aggressively on their heels. Twice Paul watched plasma
blasts intersect the personal shields of his Scotties. Though they stumbled,
still they fled eastward.

Time seemed to slow but in reality, the pitched battle
lasted for less than a minute, until Rann 727 took a left beyond the Bank of
Beijing, his troops right behind him. The wizard and Oni, still in hot pursuit,
drew even with the front of the bank when David 707 sprung his trap.

Without warning, fire rained down from above and from every
nook and corner on the street. The Errabêlu wizard and Oni were caught
by complete surprise. They fought tenaciously but were quickly isolated and
encapsulated in magical force-fields.

A Scottie appeared in the briefing room. Rann 727.

“Mission accomplished, Dad,” he reported. “No injuries.
David 707 is mopping things up and will report shortly.”

“Excellent work, Rann 727,” Paul complimented him as he
sighed in relief. “For you and your team. Please let David 707 know that I want
to interview the captured wizard. How many did we bag in total?”

“One wizard and twenty-five Oni, sir,” Paul was informed.

“Move all the prisoners to Azkaban, Daneel, as soon as
possible. Have all of them put into stasis, except for the wizard. I want him
interrogated first. Then put him in stasis with his Oni.”

“My pleasure, Dad.”

“Oh, and Daneel? I want you to go back through the videos of
the bank robbery,” Paul told him. “From my viewpoint, I saw no evidence of
special weapons or any super-powered spells at all. I want you to check the
footage and interview the Scotties involved. See if they saw anything out of
the ordinary.”

Capie chuckled. “Anything out of the ordinary, he says.
Other than the flying dragons and the Qin warriors. Right.”

“Okay, Dad,” Daneel 1 confirmed. “Though I admit the Oni
were more aggressive than I anticipated, I didn’t see anything that suggested
super spells or super talismans. On the other hand, I noted that the Oni fought
more like warriors than soldiers, even more so than our simulated war-games
suggested.”

Paul nodded. The part about the Oni as warriors and not
soldiers made sense. Throughout most of human history, warriors, as
individuals, were typically stronger, faster and all-around better fighters and
killers than were soldiers, and the Oni were by no means an exception to that
rule. On the other hand, warriors acted as individuals and rarely as a team.
Soldiers were trained to fight in concert. Many an army of soldiers had
defeated an army of warriors because team efforts simply accomplished more on a
battlefield.

“We should crank that information into future operations,”
Paul recommended to Daneel 1.

The lack of super-weapons or super-powers puzzled him. Where
was the evidence of the arms-buildup? Where were the talismans that supposedly
rivaled his own in power? Yes, the twenty-five Oni that David 707 had just
captured could be a part of that buildup. A year ago, there probably weren’t
that many in Beijing. But still, it wasn’t quite what Paul anticipated and it
just didn’t seem to make much sense.

Capie gave her husband a suspicious look.

“Okay, I admit it. Back on Mars, I was pretty busy with my
operations planning for helping the poor and needy. I didn’t read all the strategy
and tactical reports you kept sending out. So, tell me, are you planning to run
other deceptions in other cities, like with the dragons?”

Paul gave her his best naughty grin. “Yes, we are. Oh, just
a few things we dreamed up. In Canberra, Australia, the Scotties will project
images of bunyips flying across the sky. Those are mythical Aboriginal monsters
that lurk in swamps, billabongs, and waterholes. Sort of like our Swamp
Creature. For the Japanese, we figure on using Deception 7. That will consist of
a huge battle fought in Tokyo Bay between Mothra and Godzilla—”

Capie put her hand to her mouth, to try to stop the giggles
bubbling up from below.

“Godzilla?!” she exclaimed. “You really are wicked, you know
that!”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Paul asserted. “For North Korea, in
Pyongyang, we will use Deception 18, an army of gwishin, what we call ghosts.
For Tehran, I want to use Deception 3, an army of angels complete with white
robes, wings, and halos. London will get Deception 9, sightings of zombies; and
Washington, D.C. will be treated to Deception 1, an invasion of flying saucers,
straight out of “V” and Earth vs. The Flying Saucers.”

Capie punched him lightly on the arm. “I’m so glad you are
on our side!” Then her look sobered. “But it will scare a lot of Normals. There
will be lots of cell camera videos and photos. They’ll freak out, cause markets
to crash, frighten a lot of people.”

Paul casually shrugged. “Yes, it will do that. Temporarily,
that is. But this is a onetime event. And the Scotties and I don’t think we
will have to explain anything to the general public. That will be up to the
governments of Earth. We think that the various governments and yes, even Errabêlu
themselves, have procedures and methods already in place to prevent, cover up,
and suppress the public disclosure of magical events. They would almost have to
have that in order to keep their existence secret for this long a period of
time. They would have done so to protect their monopoly on their power, so we
think that they will continue to do so now. And when we get started, causing a
lot of magical incidents, the world leaders will panic and put a lot of
pressure on Errabêlu to make the magic stop, destroy any evidence
involved and cover it all up. Which works to our good. They will do most of the
work to suppress anything odd that happens. Anything major that they miss, we
can take care of later on after Errabêlu is gone. On a long term basis,
in only twenty or thirty years, the so-called experts will chalk up anything
that does get out to the public as mass-hysteria, induced by the economic
crisis, all the wars and rumors of wars and so forth. It really won’t matter
how many videos and pictures are taken. As I said, the governments of Earth
will take care of most of it for us. And the rest will be discounted as
forgeries and hoaxes. From what I’ve seen, most governments won’t let anything
like facts or physical evidence get in their way. They never have before.”

Capie frowned and sighed. “You’re probably right.”

EIGHTEEN

The Saint Elias Mountains, Canada

Mount Logan Facility

Situation Room

Tuesday, 10:02 a.m. PDT

June

“We have a
little over eighteen weeks now until the German general election,” Alpha 505 (from
the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers) explained, gesturing towards the holographic
widescreen television display hanging in mid-air in front of him. On that
screen, a pair of “talking heads” were debating the latest public opinion polls
on the two most likely candidates for the Chancellorship.

Paul felt a sudden intense pang of regret for having agreed
to let Capie leave the day before. By now, she would be in the Democratic
Republic of the Congo, the poorest nation on Earth, together with I Corp, 1st
Division, 3rd Brigade. She had been itching to get started with her humanitarian
efforts and, in truth, Paul had been dying to go with her. Not only would he
miss her terribly while she was gone, but he had wanted to help her, Vicki 1,
Jocasta 1, and Selma 1 with their dispersal of some of the MBE drug, as well as
with their additional plans for assistance of the peoples there. Instead, he
was stuck here, busy with the war effort, muddling through the mire of politics
and international intrigue. In short, he missed her.

He turned to Daneel 2, floating ten or so feet away. “Do we
know how many wizards are in Berlin?”

“According to Ruggiero’s avatar, there should be one wizard
and at least a hundred Oni. But that information is nearly a month old now.
There are probably a lot more Oni there now, most of them fairly new,” Daneel 2
impassively replied.

Paul looked around the Situation Room, the hectic pace of
operations a sign of the seriousness of their operations.

By corps, division, brigade, and battalion, the Scotties had
been split up, sent to various countries to begin infiltration of the many
capitals of the planet, their purpose to find and seize the wizards of Errabêlu
wherever and whenever they could be run to ground. Since Errabêlu’s only
concern was controlling the various governments of Earth, the Scotties’
strategy was to foment a national emergency of one kind or another that only
the wizards of Errabêlu could address.

In Germany, general elections were about to be held and,
among other offices, a new Chancellor about to be elected. Paul’s
recommendation to the Scotties in this case was to upset the apple cart—to
create enough of a ruckus with the election so as to cast doubt on who would
actually win. Furthermore, the Scotties were to throw those election returns in
disarray, to create a scandal involving both of the candidates, to make it
appear that each had engaged in political shenanigans in order to win the
election. Already there were rumors of political high-jinks going on, and the
mass media was finding it increasingly difficult not to report on the juicy
details involved. Paul smiled. With a little help from a few Scotties, those
details would eventually be reported and the resulting publically-known
political emergency should force an Errabêlu wizard out of hiding.

The TV image froze briefly and then a new image snapped on,
that of a woman behind a news desk, speaking earnestly. With a flick of the
wrist, Paul raised the volume level and cast a spell to translate her words
into English.

“…at this time,” she said. “I repeat: we have received
unconfirmed reports that the Russian military is currently mobilizing all
military forces around the Moscow general area, including Russian nuclear
forces at this time. We are working to confirm these reports. Our preliminary
information is that the 4th Guards Independent Tank and 5th and 27th Guards
Independent Motor Rifle Brigades in the Moscow Military district are being
mobilized. It is assumed that other units in the district have also received
orders. We have no reports regarding any of the other Russian districts, but
please stay tuned to this channel for further information as it is received. We
will return you to our regularly scheduled program at this time.”

Paul tuned out the audio. A flare of light above them
announced the formation of a portal. Paul glanced upward to see the light from
a microportal ten feet over their heads.

“Dad,” Daneel 2 announced. “I am receiving feeds from
multiple locations. Sonny 69,” (the 2004 movie I, Robot) “in
Koroshevskiy, Russia reports that several military units in the Moscow Military
District are definitely mobilizing,” he reported. “He reports that he has
tapped military communications there. Apparently Errabêlu is mobilizing
a defense of Moscow. I am also getting a report from Viral 243,” (from Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles) “that military forces around both Warsaw and Kiev are
also mobilizing. Sir, I’m wondering…”

Paul nodded. “It’s one of the possible responses we
anticipated that Errabêlu might make. To fight back using the Normal
armies. The mobilization of Russian, Polish, and Ukrainian armies and only
around their capital cities suggests that this is their strategy. If true, we
could well see the mobilization of other armies in the days to come. Perhaps
here around Berlin too.”

“You did predict it as a possibility,” Daneel 2 pointed out.
“Since they don’t care all that much about Normals, they don’t mind using them
against us.”

Paul rubbed his chin. “And they will likely know by now that
we have pledged not to hurt the Normals. Therefore, they believe that we won’t
fight the Normal armies, that we will be hamstrung by fighting them without
actually killing them.”

“Sir, some of our teams are already in several capital
cities,” Daneel 2 pointed out. “If those armies of Normals begin hostilities
inside the city limits, a lot of innocent people could get killed.”

Paul nodded in understanding. “Has Sonny 69 entered Moscow
yet?”

“He reports no, that they are only in the suburbs.”

Paul nodded. “Please transmit a general message. If
threatened, all Scottie forces should withdraw from their assigned capital
cities rather than allow any civilians to be killed. Tell them they should
withdraw to any open rural areas nearby. Also, I would like to have a general
meeting with all Corps and Division commanders, here, in one half hour. Notify
Daneel 1 that his presence is requested as well.” Paul sighed. “We should make
sure everyone is on the same page before we proceed.”

Ω

Both of the Scottie Corps Commanders and the four division
commanders met with Paul in the Mount Logan Situation Room.

“It’s confirmed,” Daneel 2 announced. “Mobilization orders
have been issued in Russia, Poland, Ukraine, Bulgaria, Argentina, Venezuela,
Cuba, Myanmar, and Angola.”

“So far,” Harlie 37 commented.

“The list will probably grow longer in the next couple of
days,” predicted Daneel 1.

Paul stared at the mid-air display of the world map. “So far
the troops are mobilizing only to protect the capital cities.”

“Protecting the wizards’ control of the governments
involved, obviously,” Daneel 1 concluded.

“How do we approach this, Dad?” Daneel 2 asked, curious.

Paul thought for a moment. There were several options
available. “For right now, I should think our units in those countries that are
mobilizing should withdraw from the capital cities. The Scotties can continue
to harass the governments involved but don’t endanger the civilian
populations.”

With a flick of one finger, Paul zoomed the map in on
Russia.

“I believe we can start our counter operation with Russia,” he
said. “If we can successfully deal with that army then the lesson will not be
lost on all the other countries. If Russia’s army cannot stand against us, then
no other army can either.”

“Dad, most of the Russian brigades are not yet in defensive
positions,” Harlie 37 pointed out. “If we could scramble their communications,
we could confuse them, slow them down somewhat.”

“They likely already have the most important part of their
orders,” Daneel 2 argued. “I doubt we would slow down the Russians all that
much. However, that tactic might work elsewhere, in countries where the
mobilization is only getting started.”

Paul turned to Irona 222 (from the cartoon Richie Rich)
assigned as the commander of 2nd Division, II Corps. “Irona 222, tactical
report on the Russian mobilization, please,” he requested.

She floated closer to the display. “The Kremlin Guard
mobilized in record time. They are here, here and here,” she said, as small
blinking red lights appeared on the map. “They have full control of all sectors
of central Moscow, including the Kremlin, Red Square, and Manege Square. The
5th Guard Motor Rifle Brigade in Kalininets is in transit and is here,” she
reported, highlighting another spot on the map near the southwestern corner of
the huge capital city, on the M1 highway. “The 4th Guards Tank Brigade in
Naro-Fominsk is moving a little slower, no doubt due to all the tanks involved.
They are here,” a red light began blinking southwest of Moscow, on the M3
highway. “The 27th Guards Motor Rifle Brigade is in Vidnoye. Their advance
companies are already controlling the M2 and M4 highways into Moscow on the
south side of the city, as well as the Kashira and Lyublinskaya highways. By
this time tomorrow, they will have that part of the city completely sealed
off.”

Paul nodded. “Please continue.”

“The 6th Guards Tank Brigade in Mulino and the 9th Guards
Motor Rifle Brigades in Nizhny Novgorod are mobilizing 400 miles east of Moscow
on the M7 highway. It will take them two, maybe three days to reach eastern
Moscow. The 16th Spetsnaz Brigade in Tambov is moving as well, up the M6
highway, 450 miles away. They should arrive in Moscow the day after tomorrow.”

Paul studied the map for a few moments. “What about the
Missile and Artillery Brigades?”

Irona 222 again created flashing red lights on the display.
“The 79th Guards MLRS Missile Brigade in Tver, the 45th Heavy Artillery Brigade
in Tambov, the 288th Artillery Brigade in Mulino, the 112th Guards Missile
Brigade in Shuya and the 448th Missile Brigade in Kursk, have received no
orders to move. And that makes sense, in a way. They really aren’t equipped to
wage war against our kind of threat.”

Paul knew what the Scottie was saying. The Scotties were not
infantry. They spent too much time in the air and their outer plates, made of
graphene, were much tougher than human flesh. Therefore, anti-personnel weapons
would be…somewhat less than effective against them. By the same token, the Scotties
were not aircraft. They spent too much time only five or six feet off the
ground and they were far more agile than any fighter jet. And much faster than
any helicopter. In addition, the Scotties possessed a very low radar cross
section and emitted less heat than a human body. Therefore, anti-aircraft
weaponry wouldn’t be very effective either. Indeed, the types of weapons the
Russians might try to use against the Scotties were limited. Heavy artillery
and large missile batteries would be no more effective than bows and arrows for
this type of conflict.

Irona 222 seemed to be reading Paul’s thoughts. “Infrared
and radar-guided Surface to Air Missiles (SAMs) such as the SA-17 Grizzly
or the SA-19 Grison would be ineffective against us. Even the man-portable
SA-18 Grouse and SA-24 Grinch could not be successful employed
against a Scottie. About the only type of SAMs that might be of use against us
are optically-guided or laser-guided man-portable SAMS such as the British Javelin
or Sweden’s RBS-70. However, the Russians don’t have a comparable weapon
in their inventory. The next most useful type of weapon they could use would be
anti-tank missiles such as the AT-13 Saxhorn, the AT-14 Spriggan,
the AT-6 Spiral, and the AT-16 Scallion. The Scallion is
particularly dangerous, being air-launched by Su-25 ground attack jets and the
newest attack helicopters, the Ka-50 Black Shark, and the Ka-52 Alligator.
However, perhaps our biggest worry will be the rocket propelled grenade
launchers, such as their latest RPG-32 Hashim.”

“I think we should use tactics that minimize the
possibilities of a shooting war,” Paul mused, studying the map closely, deep in
thought. “What about the air units?”

“It’s a lot less clear,” Irona 222 replied. “They are
pulling in Mil-24PN, Ka-50, and Ka-52 attack helicopters from air units
scattered all over western Russia. They are doing the same thing with the
Su-25SM Frogfoot close air-support attack jets and the newest Su-34 Fullback
fighter bombers. The helicopters are moving into positions where they can
escort the 4th and 6th Guards Tank Brigades and the 5th and 9th Guards Motor
Rifle Brigades on their way to Moscow.”

“We should hit the Russians before they are fully in
position,” Paul recommended. “A Corps should be sufficient. At the moment, the
closest Russian units are south, southwest, and west of the city. Nothing yet
on the east or north sides. I think we can take advantage of that.”

“And the Kremlin Guard?” Dorian 223 (from the TV series Almost
Human) asked.

“I don’t want to attack them yet, not in downtown Moscow,”
Paul admitted. “Too great a chance of those Russian soldiers killing innocent
people. No point in needlessly provoking them into doing something stupid. I
want to put off that attack until later. In the meantime, let’s talk about a
battle plan. I think we should pull the II Corps, 2nd Division under Irona 222
back to this undeveloped area here, southeast of Kubinka. Then we can pull the
II Corps, 1st Division out of the Middle and Far East. In the morning, we can
split the II Corps, 2nd Division here, and send the 1st Brigade just west of
the M3 highway…”

Ω

A gentle mist hung in the moist warm air, the birds singing
their customary early morning selection of tunes, while to the east the sun
began yet another day, its rays of light only just piercing the very top
reaches of the tree branches. Among the birches, poplars, larch, and spruce,
squirrels were stirring, beginning their daily hunt for food while below, on
the ground, a lone wolf was on the prowl through the undergrowth, attempting to
find himself a satisfying meal before bedding down for a morning nap. Other
native wildlife stirred in the forest southwest of Russia’s capital and largest
city, in preparation for a seemingly ordinary summer morning.

To the west, only a mile from this particular section of
forest, there lay a cleared section of pasture over a mile long and half a mile
wide, just east of the rural community of Zverevo.

Without warning, a number of large portals snapped into
existence above the tall brown undulating grass, disgorging streams of Scotties
into the air. Quickly and seemingly without effort, the cubes floated above the
pasture, gathering together in groups along the eastern edge of the field.

The command section of II Corps, 2nd Division led by Irona
222, had arrived and was even now moving into position.

Paul watched their movements via a microportal.

“Sir,” Daneel 1 said. “Irona 222 reports that they are in
position. 1st Brigade of the 2nd Division under Viral 243 will take the east
side of the M3 highway. 2nd Brigade of the 2nd Division under Caliban 260,” (from
a trilogy by Roger MacBride Allen) “will take the west side. 3rd Brigade under
Andrea 270,” (Star Trek episode “What Are Little Girls Made Of?”) “and
4th Brigade under Lenore 280,” (Firefly) “will portal to Vnukovo
International Airport and then head up the M3 highway to Moscow’s outer highway
loop, the MKAD, clearing any Russian Army units they find as they go.”

Paul nodded, pleased that everything seemed to be going
according to plan. “Please ask Irona 222 to proceed.”

In the image display that Paul was watching, the Scotties
dispersed into the tree line, heading for the section of the M3 highway in
front of the leading column of tanks and vehicles of the Russian 4th Guard Tank
Regiment. The plan was to stage an ambush of the Russians tanks east of the
forest. With luck, the Russians would never know what hit them.

With a wave of his hand, Paul’s micro observational portal
instantly snapped to an overhead view of the M3 highway. There he saw the
modern four lane road, which, at the moment was only lightly populated with traffic.
Paul knew that later in the day, more vehicles would show up, but for now, the
highway was barely being used.

The Scotties of 2nd Division, II Corps would have to pass
through more than a mile of dense forest to reach the M3 highway. Even for
Scotties, this would take a little time. Meanwhile, the leading elements of the
Russian 4th Guard Tank Regiment were enroute from their overnight bivouac
further south. Their helicopter escorts of Mi-24PN gunships were already in the
air from their one night stop at the Yermolino airfield near Balabanovo, 45
miles further south along the M3 highway. Soon those aircraft would be overhead
as they began their escort duties of the T-80U and T-90A Russian tanks on their
way to Moscow.

The forest here was ideal to keep the Scotties out of sight
from the helicopters. Oh, sure, the Scotties could have used magic to make
themselves invisible but this was so much sneakier. Also, this section of
isolated highway was well away from any populated areas. Not only would the Scotties
not be accidently seen by a civilian, but no civilian would be in harm’s way if
warfare did break out in this area. And the operation would be kept low-key.
There would be no plasma bolts, and more important, no induced thermo-nuclear
explosions of any size.

But there would be lots of magic used here today.

Paul created a tall frosty glass of lemonade to sip on while
he tried to wait as patiently as he could.

A half hour later, two nasty looking, heavily armed Mi-24PN
helicopters roared by overhead, following the highway. They disappeared to the
north for several minutes, then returned, heading south. Apparently, they were
conducting a fast sweep of the highway, and equally as obvious, they had found
nothing of interest. Paul felt certain that they would be back again.

Another anxious half hour went by. Then, in the distance,
the drone of helicopters could be heard for a third time but now, approaching
far more slowly.

Paul spun his microportal to face south, elevating it to 100
feet off the road grade. Magnifying the image, he saw the first Russian
military vehicle in convoy, a GAZ 2975 Tiger, rolling slowly up the
highway at what he estimated to be a mere 35 miles/hr. Behind it, in the haze,
he could see a double line of T-90 tanks.

He grinned. Excellent. By this time, Irona 222 and her
Scotties would be deployed. Viral 243 and his brigade would have dived into the
ground under the highway to pop up in the forest on the east side while Caliban
260 would have remained on the west side. Both brigades would be lined up along
the highway, strung out for three miles. They would wait until the lead tanks
reached the northern end of the Scottie lines.

Slowly, the tanks moved forward in formation, the noise
level increasing dramatically as they approached. With a spell, Paul lowered
the volume on his end of the portal.

The Tiger moved past the position of the microportal.
Paul chuckled at the idea of the traffic jam that was probably growing behind
the tanks, maybe ten miles or more to the south. Many of those civilian Russian
motorists would be upset at the delay but then that was the nature of convoys,
was it not?

Daneel 1 and Paul waited. It would only take six minutes
before the lead tank traveled three miles further up the road.

“Irona 222 reports the lead tank is in sight at the head of
the Scottie lines,” Daneel 1 announced a few minutes later. “She says she plans
to wait until the sixth row of tanks, then launch the attack.”

“That works for me,” Paul agreed anxiously.

The seconds ticked by slowly.

“Ten seconds, Dad. Five…four…three…two…one…now!”

Through the portal, Paul watched uneasily as two long lines
of Scotties swept out of the trees, one line on the east and the other on the
west of the highway. They crossed over the tanks in seconds.

The tanks ground slowly to a stop, a few of them slewing out
of line, to the left or right before all forward motion ceased. A few tanks
nudged each other before coming to a complete halt.

The chatter of helicopter blades could be heard, growing
louder by the second. One of the Mi-24PN helicopters appeared over the tree
line, bracketed by three Scotties as it came to a standstill over the road and
slowly lowered itself into the large grass-lined gully running on the east side
of the highway. Inside the cockpit, Paul could see the pilot slumped over to
one side, his controls maneuvering themselves as if by magic.

Yep. They were too.

The chopper landed, the roar of the two Izotov engines dying
as the ignition switches were cut, the rotor blades already beginning to slow.

The Scotties floated into a hover position above the tanks.
Bodies of Russian soldiers began to float up through the open hatches into the
air. One by one, they were slowly laid out on the ground, each and every
Russian sound asleep. Within a few minutes, thousands of sleeping, snoring
Russians carpeted the grassy slopes on both sides of the north bound lanes.

With a vast sense of relief, Paul opened a portal and
stepped through, emerging in front of a Russian T-80U tank, its gas-turbine
GTD-1250 engine purring quietly at idle. Daneel 1 followed him through.

Three Scotties approached Paul, the one in front, Irona 222,
growing a right arm and saluting him.

“Sir, the attack worked perfectly! Much better than our
simulations predicted,” she reported. “They never got off a shot. No casualties
on either side.”

Paul winked at the Scottie, a huge grin on his face. “Well
done, well done. Pass my thanks along to everyone.”

“What do you want done with the tanks and Russian soldiers?”
Daneel 1 asked.

Paul glanced around at the idling vehicles and then at a
nearby soldier, one of the loudest snorers he had ever heard, louder by far
than the idling T-80U tank beside him.

“Move the tanks off the highway, to the embankment and
medians and clear the highway for the civilian motorists. Then sabotage the fuel
pumps of the tanks. It will take the Russian Army a while to replace all those
pumps. They probably don’t have 900 of them in inventory. And take these
Russians back to their barracks and let them sleep it off. Without their tanks
and other vehicles, they are not much of a threat to us. Let them keep their
rifles and any other portable weapons they are carrying too.”

Irona 222 saluted again. “We’ll take care of it, Dad.”

“One other thing, Commander,” Paul said. “When you are
finished here, please move up the M3 highway and swing north. The southwestern
sector of Moscow needs to be secured but please don’t engage the Kremlin
regiments downtown. I want 3rd and 4th Brigades to swing down the M1 highway
and deal with the Russian 5th Guard Motor Rifle Brigade. Recommend to them that
they try and use this same tactic there, if they can find a nice forest-lined
section of the highway like this one. Then I want 1st and 2nd brigades to
proceed around the western side of Moscow, securing all entry into Moscow around
to the M10 highway. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!” she responded enthusiastically.

Paul turned back to Daneel 1. “Is 1st Division ready to go
yet?”

“Yes,” the Scottie replied earnestly. “I heard from Roberta
300,” (made-for-TV-movie Not Quite Human II) “about an hour ago. They
are in Butovskiy Lesopark, a forested section of real estate just south of the
Moscow Beltway or MKAD, as they call it here. They are ready to move eastward,
taking on what we believe to be the Russian’s 3rd Battalion, 81st Motor Rifle
Regiment, 27th Guards Motor Rifle Brigade at the junction of the M2 and MKAD
highways.”

Paul flashed a smile at him. “Let’s go see!”

Ω

Their command post stood in a small clearing a few yards
from a pond and perhaps fifty yards south of the MKAD. They could hear the roar
of traffic speeding along the highway, the whine of semis as their tires rolled
down the asphalt. The thick growth of trees and underbrush around them blocked
any view of the roadway itself or of the vehicles.

Roberta 300 floated up to Daneel 1 and Paul, extruding an
arm and saluting smartly. A display map magically appeared in front of them,
showing an overhead view of the complex interchange of the MKAD and M2
highways.

“Sir, a Russian battalion, we think the 3rd Battalion, 81st
Motor Rifle Regiment, 27th Guards Motor Rifle Brigade is positioned here, north
of the MKAD highway on the east side of M2, probably to block the entry into
Moscow. They have a tank company; we think the Russian 3rd Tank Company, 1st
Battalion, 1st Guards Tank Regiment in support of their position here, just
northeast of the interchange. Also, there are two Ka-50 helicopters patrolling
the area. But, worst of all, we have detected the use of magic from that
general area.”

Paul jerked his head back in surprise. “Magic? There? You
think portals have been used there?”

“Yes, we do,” Roberta 300 answered. “Probably by Oni but we
can’t rule out the possibility of a wizard in the neighborhood. We also don’t
know how many Oni or wizards there are in front of us. Maybe just a couple of
them. Perhaps dozens. It’s just not possible for us to know.”

Paul rubbed his jaw, deep in thought. “That rules out
stealth,” he said. “Any use of an invisibility spell to sneak up on the
Russians would be spotted instantly.”

Daneel 1 sighed. “True,” he agreed.

Roberta 300 continued. “We propose that our 2nd Brigade will
cross the MKAD here three miles west of the M2 interchange and traverse through
this wooded section to the north, swinging east and then back again to the
south. Hopefully they can catch the Russians from the rear. The 1st Brigade
together with the 3rd will move in from the front. The 4th Brigade will act as
reserve.” Roberta 300 turned back to face them. “Frankly, I wish we could
ambush them like 2nd Division did the Russian 4th Guard Tank Brigade, but these
guys are already too well emplaced.”

“We just need to get close enough to put them to sleep,”
Daneel 1 pointed out.

“Perhaps,” Paul said, his thoughts whirling. “But let’s be a
little sneaky in case there is a wizard there and he can interfere with our
sleep spell. Let’s try something a little different.”

NINETEEN

Moscow, Russia

Butovskiy Lesopark

Southwest of the MKAD and M3 interchange

Thursday, 10:43 a.m. MSK

June

On a large
display, Paul and the command staff of 1st Division watched as five Scotties
dropped out of the sky on a semi-truck as it barreled up the MKAD highway. As
the floating cubes bracketed the truck, it slowed and pulled over to the
shoulder, its emergency lights flashing. Another similar truck was already
parked on the shoulder a hundred yards further up the highway.

“It looks like Annabelle 357,” (Star Trek episode “I,
Mudd”) “found another empty semi-truck,” Roberta 300 concluded. “That gives us
two of them on the east bound lane, three miles west of the interchange. And
Gort 737 reports that they have two empties on the north bound lane, south of
the interchange, on the M2. The drivers are temporarily under Scottie control in
a light hypnotic trance.” She turned to him. “I think we are ready.”

“It’s Trojan Horse time. Lock and load,” Paul replied, with
a devious smile.

Ω

Each pair of trucks, only a hundred feet apart, swung back
onto the highways and accelerated to a steady pace, heading for the
interchange.

Since the Scotties were essentially computers in their own
right, it was child’s play on their part to calculate and coordinate the timely
arrival of all four trucks to the target locations.

The two east bound trucks exited the MKAD and proceeded
along the south bound ramp which gently curved around to the northeast,
crossing over the M2 and swinging in another sweeping curve to the northwest as
the road began to merge into the north bound M2 highway. Simultaneously, the two
north bound trucks on the M2 crossed over the MKAD and neared the first two
trucks as the pavements merged together.

“And…about…now!” exclaimed Roberta 300.

Paul’s view of the scene, magnified from a microportal fifty
miles above the Earth’s surface, allowed them to easily observe the four trucks
as two Brigades of Scotties spewed forth, emerging through the walls of the
truck trailers, darting outward at high speed, catching the Russian tank
company inside the interchange loop completely by surprise. In two blinks of an
eye, all fourteen tanks were immobilized, their 1V517 fire control computers
fried with sudden intense bursts of focused gamma rays.

From the north, the Scottie 2nd Brigade flew down the east
side of the highway, coming up behind the Russians troops on the tree studded
fields in front of several high rise apartment buildings.

These Russian troops were not caught off-guard, but began firing
almost immediately, first with machine gun fire and then with 30 mm
anti-aircraft fire from a 2K22 Tunguska self-propelled tracked vehicle.
In addition, plasma blasts could be seen, apparently from Oni hiding among the
Russians.

The Scotties danced and weaved while projecting portals to
catch the shells and bullets fired at them. Paul felt a sudden shock as a
Scottie spun wildly through the air, grazed by a 30 mm round, the cube shape
heading for an impact with the ground. Two other Scotties suddenly appeared by
its side, snagging the damaged unit and whisking it through a portal and out of
further harm’s way. Several grenades, fired from RPG-32 launchers, shot through
the air, most of them vanishing through small portals, but a couple detonated
against the Scotties’ personal force shields.

Around the interchange, cars and trucks frantically swerved
off the pavement past the shoulders of the road and into ditches, culverts, and
onto the grass. Some of the drivers and passengers madly bailed out of their vehicles
to lay prone on the ground. A few others simply pulled to a stop to stare at
the battle, mesmerized by the fireworks and oblivious to their own safety. A
couple of them, in a hurry and blocked by the lookie-lous, laid on their horns,
anxious to be on their way.

Attacked from two directions, the outnumbered Russian
soldiers fought back valiantly, but the Scotties held the upper hand. The Tunguska’s
two 2A38 canons abruptly exploded, the barrels capped by a sudden magic spell,
trapping the shells and expanding gas inside until the walls of the barrels
ruptured violently under the pressure. Machine gun fire dwindled as three
Scotties used a portal to snatch up a PKM machine gun together with its Russian
soldier. Then two Kord 12.7mm machine guns exploded as Scotties used magic to
first melt and then bend the barrels (and while the Kords were still firing!).

In group lots, the Russian troops quickly disappeared as
portals appeared over their heads, dropping swiftly down over their positions.
Fire from the AK-12 assault rifles died off quickly as the infantry was removed
from the battlefield, in some cases leaving their weapons behind, the barrels
still hot enough to smolder the dry grass under them.

Six forms rose into the air, struggling against unseen restraints.
Isolated and captured by the Scottie’s magical spells, the six Oni tried to
fight back, but were steadfastly ensnared. They too disappeared through portals
one by one.

The firing quickly died off. The show now over, the vehicles
on both the M2 and MKAD slowly began moving again. Those vehicles that had left
the pavement slowly worked themselves back into the traffic flow.

The T-80 tanks, BMP-3s, and two GAZ-2975 Tigrs, deserted
now, looked totally out of place in a residential setting. AK-12s and MP-443
Grach pistols lay discarded around the site. A handful of Scotties, now cloaked
in invisibility fields, gathered up the weapons and shoved them through
portals.

“Do you have a report yet?” Paul asked the Corps commander.

“Collecting information now,” replied Roberta 300. “Nimue 45,”
(from the David Weber Safehold series) “was injured in the fight and has been
taken to Mount Logan, Canada for repair. She is in serious condition. The six
Oni have already been sent to the Azkaban Prison, per your standing orders. All
the Russians have been rendered unconscious, and are being returned to their
barracks at Vidnoye. As best we can tell, no innocent bystanders were injured,
thanks to some fast action by our Scotties with portals and deflection spells.
Most of the bullets and shells fired were portaled to a wooded section several
miles south of here.”

Paul nodded and turned to Daneel 1 with a frown. “When we
leave here, I would like to visit Nimue 45 in Mount Logan.” He turned back to
Roberta 300 and made himself smile. “Excellent job, Commander. Please pass
along my congratulations to everyone. Next, I would like you to please clear
the other MKAD interchanges south of Moscow of all Russian Army units. Please
keep us informed on your results. We will be asking 3rd and 4th Brigades of 2nd
Division to intercept the 16th Spetsnaz Brigade. I plan to go with the 1st and
2nd Brigades of 2nd Division for their next operation. I am going to ask them
to secure the entire western and northern approaches to the city. I want your
Division to take on the Russian 9th Guard Motor Rifle Brigade advancing from
the east on the M7 highway. After that, I want you to also take out the 6th
Guard Tank Brigade on the M7 highway as well.”

Roberta 300 said, with a chuckle, “Thanks, Dad. Don’t worry.
We’ll clear those rascally Russians out of the way.”

Ω

Their operations against the Russian troops outside of
Moscow required two additional days of combat to complete. The 2nd Division,
3rd and 4th Brigades successfully attacked and disposed of the 5th Guards Motor
Rifle Brigade at the M3 and M9 interchanges along the MKAD highway and secured
the southwestern sections of Moscow. Then they turned and moved southward along
the M6 highway to deal with the 16th Spetsnaz Brigade (they buried themselves
in the furrows of freshly plowed fields alongside the road and then popped out
of the ground to spring their surprise trap against the Russians).

After the success of 1st Division at the Battle of M2
Highway, Roberta 300 led her 1st and 2nd Brigades to victory against the 9th
Guard Motor Rifle Brigade in a forest lined stretch of the M7 highway west of
Obukhovo. Then she led 3rd and 4th Brigades in a successful ambush and assault
against the 6th Guard Tank Brigade just east of Vladimir, again using a thick
section of woods to screen their presence.

At the end of two days of combat, all of the outskirts of
Moscow were under Scottie control.

In all the action so far, two of his Scotties had been
injured. Nimue 45 at the MKAD and M2 battle and Omega 69 (from the TV series The
Flash) at the MKAD and M9 battle. Nimue was in serious but optimistic
condition at the Mount Logan facility. In her case, she had sustained
motherboard damages, but was expected to recover with a new board. Sadly, Omega
69 had been more seriously injured, including damage to his CPU. The latest
prognosis Paul was given was not encouraging. The attempts to recover the
Scottie’s personality matrix from the CPU were full of data parity errors.
Omega 69 might very well end up being the first to make use of the theoretical
back-up plan for recovery of a lost Scottie. That plan was simple enough. The
hardware for a new Scotty would be assembled and then Omega 69’s data backup
files would be downloaded to it from his portable storage unit stored at the Mount
Logan Facility

It wouldn’t be an ideal restoration of Omega 69 but it would
come as close as they could make it happen. His memories since leaving Mars
would be gone. Still, for all intents and purposes, it would be virtually indistinguishable
from the same ‘person.’

Still, Paul’s heart was sad. There was no denying Omega 69
was the first real casualty of the war. Paul prayed that there wouldn’t be any others
but felt uncomfortable, suspecting down deep in his heart that Omega 69 might
just be the first of many more to come.

Paul glanced around the Situation Room. Several dozen
Scotties floated in the air near him, waiting patiently for him to begin the
meeting.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging off his melancholy state of mind.
They had, after all, won a great victory, one that any other army in history
would have been proud to boast about. “Let’s have a map and discuss what we are
going to do about the Russian wizards.”

A map of downtown Moscow appeared in the middle of the large
room, courtesy of a spell from Daneel 2, who added, “We tasked Questor 411,” (1974
made-for-TV-movie, The Questor Tapes) “commander of 4th Company, 3rd
Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 1st Division of II Corps to monitor all of downtown
Moscow for magic signatures.”

Paul signaled his understanding with a quick nod. “Looking
for portal usage. Good. And?”

Daneel 2 zoomed in on the map, focusing in on the area
around Red Square. “In the last 48 hours, there has been a lot of portal
activity in this area, centered mostly on the Kremlin Senate building and the
Kremlin Presidium. There has been some activity too at the Kremlin Arsenal and
even in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Other portals have been observed at locations
we believe coincide with Kremlin Regiment positions. We have tasked Galaxina
404,” (1980 film Galaxina) “commanding 4th Company, 3rd Battalion, 2nd
Brigade, 2nd Division of II Corps to scan all of downtown Moscow for the
Kremlin Regiment troops.” The map moved again, several flashing red dots
appearing, forming a circle around the center of Moscow. “I believe that they
have identified elements of all four brigades of the Kremlin Guard at various
choke points around the Garden Ring. That’s a string of 17 individually named
streets and 15 squares that forms a 16 mile circumference around the city. It’s
a natural defensive barrier since most of the Garden Ring consists of streets
from six to eighteen lanes wide. It gives the Kremlin Guard good fields of fire
as well as decent mobility, allowing each unit to support neighboring units
around the Ring. There seems to be a second, inner ring of troops surrounding
Red Square and the Kremlin buildings, which thereby provides them defense in
depth.”

Paul gestured thoughtfully at the map. “And there will
likely be Oni supporting all those Kremlin Guard units as well.”

“Which explains the portals we’ve seen around the Garden
Ring,” agreed Daneel 2. “Obviously they are expecting us to make a frontal
ground attack, thus explaining the classic defensive rings in depth. How shall
I say this? The Russian commander is ‘intelligent but not experienced. His
pattern indicates two-dimensional thinking.’”

Paul had to chuckle at that one. “Spock said that to Kirk
about Khan in Star Trek II, The Wrath of Khan. Very good. So do you also
recommend Z minus 20,000 feet?”

“In our case, I recommend Z plus 300 miles,” Daneel 2
replied. “Using orbital drop techniques pioneered in Robert Heinlein’s novel Starship
Troopers and last used in the HALO video games, books and of course, the
anime series.”

It made sense. “We have enough Scotties to hit all the important
locations simultaneously,” Paul pointed out. “I suggest that we put together a
plan of attack, starting with the Kremlin Senate building. That’s my best guess
where the Russian chief wizard, what’s his name, is hiding out.”

“Oleg Trofim Nevsky,” Daneel 1 reminded him. “And I’m sure
you are right about his location.”

“Let’s use 1st Division, II Corps to hit the Senate,” Paul
suggested. “Then we can assign…”

Ω

Their attack began shortly before midnight, Moscow time, on
the very next day.

Three hundred miles above the Baltic Sea, a series of large
portals snapped into existence, ejecting twelve thousand Scotties, all
streaming forth and accelerating eastward in a path toward western Russia. They
flew forward along carefully calculated paths, each individually designed to
put its Scottie on a ballistic course towards a specific location inside the
Moscow city limits.

They went feet dry over Latvia and soon afterward ceased to
accelerate, letting gravity take full control. Indeed, they shut down all
magical spells, initiating emission control procedures. Now they were invisible
to detection by magic as well as being nearly invisible on radar.

As they re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere, their surfaces
began to heat from air friction. To prevent any one surface from heating too
much, every Scottie began to tumble and rotate, evenly distributing the heat
load of re-entry.

Their entry path curved downward, the air resistance
gradually slowing them. Steadily, they fell toward the downtown sectors of
Moscow, the city lights becoming brighter in the distance.

Also, increasingly, they began to move apart, spreading
outward in small groups, the better to hit their assigned target coordinates.
The cool night air helped to lower their elevated skin temperatures as they fell
closer to Earth. As their ballistic courses progressed, they eventually found
themselves falling nearly vertically, the city streets and highways rushing
upward to meet them.

The 2nd Battalion, 3rd Brigade, 2nd Division, II Corps
struck first, arriving at the intersection of ulitsa Novyy Arbat and Novinskiy
Bul’var. Their cubes hurdled downward through the air, the Scotties waiting
until they were a mere ten feet off the ground before unleashing a spell that
converted their downward momentum to a horizontal velocity. Overshooting the
Russian troops of the 2nd company, 4th battalion, the Scotties sent most of the
Russian soldiers through portals to a grassy field on the island of Bezdonnoye,
in the middle of the Moskva River. Other Russians were simply rendered
unconscious with a magic spell and allowed to drop to the pavement where they
curled up, sound asleep.

Circling back, the Scotties snared the six Oni soldiers
present and thrust them screaming and kicking through a portal to Azkaban
Prison. In less than thirty seconds, the intersection was cleared of all
Russian combatants, leaving only their equipment and vehicles behind.

Other Scottie companies hit other intersections of the
Garden Ring, performing the self-same tasks. The almost instantaneous appearance
by the Scotties precluded any serious opposition by the Russians or even the
Oni stationed with them. Unit by unit, the outer ring of the Kremlin Guard was
removed from the fight.

At Red Square, a few of the units of the II Corps swept down
on the Kremlin regiment at the Kremlin Arsenal, some of the Scotties plowing
straight through the roof of the building and into the dormitories, taking the
Russians in their beds while other Scotties dealt with the soldiers stationed
outside in the streets and on the sidewalks.

Other units of the II Corps fell around Red Square itself,
taking out elements of the 3rd Battalion, Kremlin Regiment and propelling them
through portals to various pastures and clearings scattered in rural areas well
outside the Moscow city limits. All Oni were given immediate one-way-trips to
the North Sea prison, as per policy.

The 3rd and 4th Battalions of 4th Brigade, 2nd Division hit
the Presidium building, surging through all four floors, removing any and all
personnel, especially concentrating on the offices of the FSO—the Federal
Protective Service, similar to the United States Secret Service but with
greater authority and responsibilities. All human occupants of the building
were rendered unconscious and sent to the center of the Moscow Olympic Stadium
3.1 miles to the north-northeast.

In less than two minutes, the Presidium was entirely under
Scottie control.

Four battalions of 4th Brigade, 1st Division of II Corps
(1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 5th) plunged through the roofs of the Kremlin Senate
building, flooding through all three floors, sweeping the building clean of all
its inhabitants, including the Russian president and his family. In one corner
of the triangular shaped building, the Scotties met stiff resistance from
magical spells, later estimated to be the combined efforts of a wizard and two
dozen Oni. The wizard’s talisman was evaluated to be nearly as potent as their
own. Before the Scotties could trap him, however, the Errabêlu wizard
escaped through a portal and could not be traced.

The Scotties did catch another wizard on the second floor of
the residential section. She was asleep at the time of her capture and was
stripped of her talismans. She was transferred, under guard, to the Stadium.

Paul could see, via the microportals he used to monitor the
attack, that the objectives had been taken. Moscow was now in Scottie hands—uh,
figuratively speaking, of course.

“It’s time, Daneels,” he said to Daneel 1 and 2. Paul formed
a portal to the Stadium and marched through it.

Ω

Under the cold light of the stadium’s illumination, Paul
could see bodies everywhere, all of them lying on the Astroturf. And all of
them asleep.

Well, not quite. One feminine figure, surrounded by a ring
of Scotties, still stood. This would be the wizard captured at the Senate
building. A second figure, a large burly man a dozen yards away, argued with a
Scottie, his voice thundering in the night air, the man’s arms gesturing
wildly.

Two portals appeared a few yards away from Paul, discharging
Irona 222 and Roberta 300.

“Dad,” Roberta 300 said. “Mission accomplished. All
objectives taken. All the Kremlin Regimental soldiers have been returned to the
Kremlin Arsenal. These,” and she waved a suddenly constructed arm from the side
of her cube at all the forms sleeping on the ground around the area, “were all
captured in the Senate and Presidium buildings.”

Paul nodded. “How many Oni were sent to Azkaban?”

“Our count is four hundred and seven tonight,” Irona 222
answered.

Turning to Daneel 1, Paul said, “I was hoping to take more
wizards captive in this operation.”

Roberta 300 sighed. “They were too well prepared. I think
they were anticipating our attack.”

Paul blinked in surprise at her words. “You think someone
squealed on us?”

“No, not that,” the flustered Scottie argued. “It’s just
that so far, we have won all the battles and with hardly any effort. I mean,
we’ve taken almost no losses and they have yet to put up a credible defense
against us. Under those conditions, if I were them, I think I would have had an
escape plan well prepped and ready to go too.”

Paul recognized the truth of what she was saying. “That
makes sense.” He looked over at the wizard. “I want to speak to her in a
minute. But first, let’s get the Normals out of the way. I think you should
send them all back to their beds. Hopefully, in the morning, they will think
that this was all just a bad dream.”

It took a few minutes for the Scotties present to accomplish
that task. Since almost all of the Normals were asleep, they weren’t very much
trouble to deal with. Only the Russian president, Arkady Gaviil Chernov, was
still awake. In his case, he was still arguing vehemently with Robbie 409. Paul
watched from a safe distance as Robbie grew increasingly frustrated with the
argument.

“Я не буду
стоять здесь
и читаться
лекции потомком
обезьяны (I will not stand
here and be lectured to by a descendant of an ape!)” loudly shouted Robbie,
as he finally cast a spell to put the man to sleep on the Astroturf. Paul
chuckled, recognizing the quote from Max Evans on the TV show Roswell.

Less than a minute later, even the Russian president had
been returned to his bed.

“Are all Normals that stupid?” asked Daneel 1.

“All politicians are required to have frontal lobotomies
before running for public office,” Paul remarked, in an off-handed manner.

Daneel 1 scoffed in reply. “You’re joking again.”

Paul shrugged. “I used to think that was a joke. Now I am
not so sure.” He glanced over at the wizard. “Let’s at least go talk to someone
who is going to give us a slightly more intelligent response, shall we? Hopefully,
it will be better than talking to a wall!”

He walked over to the wizard prisoner. Tall, slim, blonde
and very attractive, her look was nevertheless full of daggers in Paul’s
direction. In return, he smiled and gave her a half bow.

“добрый
вечер (Good evening.)” Paul said, by way
of greeting.

“I can speak English,” she snarled back.

Paul nodded but kept his pleasant smile. “Thanks. I take it
you are not Oleg Nevsky.”

She glared at him, but refused to reply.

Daneel 1 floated closer. “We have identified her as Dusha
Nikia Belyaev.”

The wizard jerked in surprise, no doubt by the fact that a
floating cube could speak and also that the cube knew her name. Paul grinned in
amusement.

“Dusha, I am glad to meet you. Let’s go to a more private
location and have a little chat.”

“We have nothing to chat about,” Dusha responded icily.

“I think we do,” Paul countered. “My goal is to free the
Normals of this world, and I wouldn’t mind a little more information from you
to help me accomplish that before I send you to a small, gray prison cell in
the middle of the North Sea.”

Dusha glowered hostilely at him. “And your choice is to give
up this crazy scheme of yours or spend the rest of your life in a place worse
than hell itself.”

Paul’s smile was replaced by a frown. “What are you talking
about?”

She regarded him silently, her expression haughty and
disdainful.

Paul sighed and shook his head. With the wave of one hand,
he cast a new spell.

“In the names of Alexander II, Peter the Great, and Ivan the
Terrible, let there be an avatar of this wizard, to truthfully answer my
questions,” Paul cheerlessly chanted.

Startled, Dusha watched as her doppelganger formed a few
feet away. She jerked forward, as if to attack her own avatar but Paul froze
her in place with a mere raised eyebrow.

He glanced over at the avatar. “Do you swear to tell the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do,” Dusha’s avatar emotionlessly said.

The real Dusha grimaced in distaste and anger, gritting her
teeth savagely but said nothing.

Paul nonchalantly smiled in her direction but addressed his
question to the avatar. “Tell me truthfully, what is this threat of a place
worse than hell itself?”

The avatars shook its head before answering. “We don’t know,
not exactly. In the distant past, there were two insurrections by small groups
of wizards, both times in an attempt to take control of Errabêlu. The
wizards involved disappeared mysteriously, never to be heard from again. It has
been said that they were trapped in an awful prison, a place so bad that they
died there.”

The real Dusha could not restrain herself. Spitting on the ground,
she added “Do you really think that Errabêlu will just roll over and let
you take over the world? Oh, sure, you’ve kicked us out of mother Russia. But your
efforts end soon, understand? Very soon. I strongly advise you to stop now,
before it’s too late. If you surrender now, I will put in a good word for you.
You might spend a few years in a prison but eventually, on good behavior,
they’ll let you go. Surrendering now is your best option.”

Paul pressed his lips together in a white slash, his face
reddening.

“We’re not bluffing,” the real Dusha continued sincerely but
with smugness. “Those two rebellions really happened. Other wizards were made
to disappear. The same will happen to you. This may be the only warning you get.
Surrender. It’s the smart thing to do.”

Paul shook his head, convinced that he would get no more
information out of her. With a wave of his hand, the avatar disappeared.

“Daneel 1, please have her moved to Azkaban. I’m tired of
dealing with her.”

“With pleasure,” declared Daneel 1 with a grim smile on his
holographic face.

TWENTY

The Saint Elias Mountains, Canada

Mount Logan Facility

Paul’s office on the 5th floor

Monday, 8:53 a.m. PDT

June

Paul returned
to Mount Logan and soon forgot about Dusha and her vague warning. Events were
picking up speed. The mobilization orders from the countries around the globe
ceased and two countries, Poland and Venezuela, even rescinded their directives,
returning their armed forces to their home military bases. Other countries,
including Ukraine, Cuba, and Bulgaria seemed embarrassed that they had ever
issued such orders to begin with and appeared on the verge of cancelling their
operations, as soon as they could come up with a legitimate excuse to do so.

The Scotties were making considerable inroads into various
capital cities of the world. Already, they had added the capital cities of
London, New Delhi, Brasilia, Paris, Mexico City, and Cairo to their list. In
every case so far, there were no reported signs of wizards or Oni, and no
indications of any magic used in the environs.

Paul was perplexed. Yes, Errabêlu did not control
every country in the world—only the richest and most powerful ones. But there
had been wizards in some of these countries before the Scotties had attacked.
Where had they gone?!

Something was going on. A sense of concern and yes, even
alarm touched him more and more often these days. Errabêlu was getting
ready to do something dreadful. He could sense it. But what?

Ω

It was just after lunch when a Scottie popped into the room
near the west wall and floated in Paul’s direction, toward his desk. He
recognized the face on the hologram above her cube, one of the Rommie series.
The number displayed in the cube’s corner was 451.

That was when he remembered. Rommie 451 was the Scottie that
he had assigned as team leader to Project Narcissus (named after the mythical
Greek hunter who fell in love with his own reflection). This was a small team
of Scotties selected to explore the best alternatives of how to deal with, on a
long term basis, the wizards of Errabêlu.

So far, Rommie 451 and her team had come up with a number of
ideas and then, after closer examination, discarded most of them. Thus far, her
team had not come up with any ideas that even Paul approved of, let alone what
Capie might find acceptable.

One of the least objectionable of their ideas was to strand
the evil wizards in deserted locations around the globe. Paul had placed Hamadi
and his Oni in such a location, in stasis fields under thirty feet of ocean. Still,
Paul considered such a solution to be temporary at best. He had read too many
books, seen too many movies where a danger from the past was accidently
revived. The 1956 Godzilla movie came to mind, but there were scores of
other examples. No, he wanted something much more permanent—an ultimate
solution up to but not including murder. That far he would not go. And whatever
solution they came up with, Paul would somehow have to get Capie to agree with
the idea.

Paul raised his eyebrows on Rommie 451’s approach.

“Rommie 451? How are things going?” he asked, grateful for
the chance to take a break from the paperwork he was immersed in.

The image of the pretty brunette holograph poised above her
black cube produced a big smile. “Just peachy, Dad. Just peachy. For a change,
I actually have good news to report. So good, in fact, that I thought I would
come personally here to tell you about it.”

Daneel 1 floated closer to them but didn’t say anything.

Paul laid down his iPad. “By all means, please tell me about
it.”

“It was one of the wilder ideas we came up with. Talos 22
actually suggested it first, back when we were on Mars, but we weren’t able to
explore it properly or test it out until we came to Earth.”

Some people just loved to drag things out as much as
possible. Paul nodded patiently, waiting for Rommie 451 to continue.

Which, after another smile, she did. “You see, back on Mars,
we only had two human beings to observe: you and Mom. And both of you were
wizards. So we couldn’t really look at the so-called mental barrier, the one
that keeps Normals from using their magical powers because neither one of you
had one. It was only after we came to Earth that the opportunity to examine the
barriers of Normals really arose. And we have done so! We’ve looked at
thousands of Normals! Or more specifically, their mental barriers. And we have
compared them with the mental pathways used by the wizards of Errabêlu
and of course, you and Mom.”

Paul cocked his head to one side. “Are you suggesting that
we might somehow be able to reinstall the mental barriers in a wizard’s brain,
to turn him back into a Normal again? Jaret told me that was impossible.”

“And we agree. Re-establishing the mental barriers appears
to be impossible,” Rommie responded smugly. “At least, not without killing the
wizard involved. But there is another option. You see, we have identified a
hundred or so key neural links associated with the use of magic. Synapses that
are common to every wizard we’ve checked so far.”

Paul blinked. If what Rommie was saying was true enough… “Are
you suggesting that you can burn out those neural links?”

Rommie giggled pleasantly. “Yeah, that is exactly what we
propose. We’ve mapped the links in question, just to be sure they don’t involve
autonomic functions like breathing or cardiac activity. And they don’t. They
don’t seem to be involved in functions of intelligence either, such as memory,
imagination, speech generation or such. So taking the key neural paths out that
we’ve identified shouldn’t impact a wizard in any other way. Just permanently
turn him into a Normie.”

Stunned, Paul sat back in his seat blinking and then
abruptly barked with laughter. When he managed to get control of himself again,
he asked. “Can you really do it? When will you be ready to try it?”

“We think we can,” Rommie cautiously replied. “It will not
be easy. We must first reduce the wizard in question to a temporary comatose
state and use a team of Scotties to implement the procedure, flash burning out
the synapses all at once. But yes, once we have established the correct
procedure, perhaps in a week or two, we should be ready to test it on our first
subject and with a high chance of success.”

Paul grinned wildly. “What perfect poetic justice! After all
their arrogance! All the murders of Normals that they have committed! To have
their powers of magic stripped of them, to turn them back into Normals
again! Rommie, that is sheer genius! Daneel, make a note of this. I want Rommie
here and Talos 022 to be promoted, at the first opportunity. I absolutely love
this option!”

Daneel 1 seemed a little less than delighted. “It hasn’t
been tested yet, obviously.”

Paul sobered somewhat. “Yeah, true, not yet. Daneel, let’s
make Hamadi and that Chinese wizard, what’s his name, the first two guinea
pigs. Send a small team to the Indian Ocean, to Cartier Island. Recover Hamadi
and his Oni. Take them to Azkaban and set up the test. Ooh, Capie is going to
love this idea too!”

“Yuan Wu is the name of the other wizard,” Daneel 1 muttered
to the ceiling.

“Ah, Dad?” Rommie 451 interrupted. “There are two little
details I should mention first.”

Paul calmed down, forcing himself to wait patiently again.
“Two details?”

“Yes. First, the effect will be permanent,” she explained,
in an apologetic manner. “Even re-growing the neurons shouldn’t be enough to
re-establish the pathways. Once a wizard is turned into a Normal again, there
is no way on Earth to reverse the process.”

Paul responded to his information with a chuckle.
“Excellent. I actually prefer that end result. What is the second detail?”

“You once told us that you employed a spell to help yourself
become smarter,” Rommie explained, with a tight smile. “And that it hurt like
the dickens too. Well, when we burn out these neural links and the wizard wakes
up, he’s going to have the king of all headaches. It’ll make the ones you had
look like a long pleasant soak in a bubble bath by comparison!”

Paul laughed and slapped a knee. “That’s just great,
Rommie!” he cried. “It’s perfect! It couldn’t be any better than that! Daneel,
arrange with Daryl 71 for Rommie and Talos 22 to have access to Hamadi and Wu
at the prison for evaluation as soon as possible.”

Paul turned back to Rommie. “Take a careful look at both of
them. Don’t tell them what you are doing. Oh, and don’t burn out their neural
links just yet. I want to talk to both of them first before you turn them into
Normals.” He positively cackled with glee, rubbing both hands together
joyfully.

“Thanks, Dad!” Rommie 451 replied enthusiastically. “It will
work!”

“Keep me apprised,” Paul said, picking up his iPad again, a
big silly grin on his face. “Let me know when you are ready to do it for real.”

Ω

That evening, as Paul was working on additional paperwork, a
microportal opened in the room above his head. Across the table from him,
Daneel 1 rotated slightly in place, as if listening to something.

“What’s up, Daneel?” Paul asked.

“Daneel 7 reports from Washington DC that there is something
mysterious going on in the state of Virginia. Oh, my! Dad! He reports that he
sent 1st platoon, 2nd Company, 3rd Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 1st Division out on
reconnaissance. They were cut off in mid-communication and now cannot be
raised! He fears that they might have been taken prisoner. Or worse!” Daneel
paused. “He wants to know what you want him to do.”

A whole platoon. Gone. The words struck like a dagger into
Paul’s heart. He knew from the beginning that taking on Errabêlu might
not be easy, that there might be dangers involved. He also knew that not all
his Scotties might make it through the war alive. But all that knowledge was an
intellectual exercise. His heart told him something totally different.

“Tell Daneel 7 that we want him here in Mount Logan, as fast
as he can get here,” Paul told the Scottie, a degree of panic already
descending upon him.

Daneel 7, when he arrived, was escorted straight to the
Situation Room, where Paul and Daneel 1 were waiting for him.

“I was sending out patrols around the Beltway, just to keep
an eye on things,” reported Daneel 7, commanding officer of the I Corps, 1st Division,
2nd Brigade. “One of those patrols, commanded by Bishop 911, reported sensing
strong magic spells being used to the southwest of the city.” Daneel 7 paused a
moment before continuing. “I…sent them to investigate. The closer they got to
Centreville, the more magic they detected in use. Lots of portals but other
spells too.”

He paused again, finding it difficult to relate the story.

“I should have sent more Scotties. At least a Battalion. But
instead, I thought a small group, if they were sneaky enough…”

“Daneel 7,” Paul said sympathetically. “Don’t second guess
yourself. You don’t know if even a Battalion would have been enough. We might
have lost a lot more Scotties. Don’t blame yourself.”

Daneel 7 sighed unhappily. “They were following US Highway
29, Lee’s Highway. As best we can tell, they had just passed Cub Run Stream
when…when communications were cut off suddenly.”

“Any sign of alarm, any warning at all?” Daneel 1 asked.

“None at all,” responded Daneel 7 sullenly. “No indication
that they knew anything bad was about to happen.”

Paul walked over to the map display on the north wall and
called up the map of the Greater Washington DC area, including the Virginia
countryside.

“And the magic spells being used in Virginia?” Paul asked.

“Still there, only stronger now,” Daneel 7 answered. “I have
the 4th Battalion, positioned just east of Fairfax, monitoring the situation.
There has been a steady increase in magical energy expended. As best we can
tell, it is coming from near the Manassas National Battlefield Park.”

The name ‘Manassas’ rang a bell but Paul didn’t seem able to
place the significance thereof.

“Manassas?” Paul asked.

“United States Civil War,” Daneel 1 answered. “As I’m sure
you remember, you asked us to study the history of warfare. I believe Ulysses
18,” (1987 film Making Mr. Right) “is our best expert on that particular
conflict.”

Paul rubbed his jaw. “Please find out if he is available.”

“Acknowledged.” He paused a moment to relay the request then
said, “He will be with us in a few moments. In the meantime, Dad, since this
involves questions of magic, may I suggest you ask Merlin if he would help us
out too?”

“Hmm, I guess when I was on Mars, I got out of the habit of
calling on Merlin. But in this case, it’s a good idea,” Paul agreed. “I haven’t
seen him in quite a while. Merlin? Are you available?”

Merlin popped into the center of the room, wearing a Union
blue, brigadier general’s Civil War uniform complete with blouse and all the
gold braid and the double row of buttons. He was also fully armed with a .58
caliber Model 1861 Springfield rifle musket, a .44 caliber Colt Army Model 1860
pistol tucked into his wide leather belt, and a curved sword hanging in a
scabbard at his left side. On his belt on his right side hung a cartridge pouch
and a smaller percussion cap pouch. On his head was perched a blue kepi hat.

“It’s about time you called for my help,” Merlin admonished
him. “I’m ready to fight, as you can see. Where do we start?”

“We need to understand what’s going on, Merlin,” Paul said,
suddenly remembering the conversation with Dusha. Was this event somehow
related to her fuzzy warning? “Somehow, Errabêlu took out a platoon of
Scotties and did it so quickly that they had no clue it was about to happen. If
they could do that to a platoon, could they do that to a company? Or a brigade?
Perhaps an entire Corps?”

“Steady, Paul,” Merlin advised him. “I suppose, in theory,
that Errabêlu might have something that powerful, but then why set it up
in the Virginia countryside? Why not just march into DC and take the city away
from us?”

“A good question,” Paul said as he began pacing slowly back
and forth in the room. “Merlin, you know more about magic than the rest of us.
What spell could they have used to take out nine Scotties like that?”

Merlin frowned, lowering the rifle. “Even in my prime, I
couldn’t take out nine wizards in a blink of an eye. And no, I don’t know of
any way it could have done so here either. Oh, sure, I suppose that there are
some theoretical, far out ideas that might account for it. But I couldn’t begin
to guess which one. And they’re just theory and not worth our time discussing
right now. No, we need more information before we start speculating as to
method. But a better idea would be for you to send in overwhelming force. You
can outnumber them ten or even fifty to one.”

“Dad?” Daneel 1 said.

Paul turned and noticed a new Scottie in the room, one who
exhibited the face of an older man with a short salt and pepper boxed beard and
a receding hair line.

“Hello, I am 18 of the Ulysses line,” the new Scottie said,
floating a little closer. “I understand you need information about the Civil
War battles at Bull Run.”

Paul nodded. “A quick summary, if you don’t mind. We don’t
know if the information will be relevant or not.”

Ulysses 18 nodded. “There were two major battles fought
there. In July 1861, the first battle, the one the Union called “First Bull
Run”, was named after the nearby small river that runs through the area. The
South called it First Manassas after the nearest city. It was the first serious
engagement of the Civil War. Union Brigadier General Irvin McDowell, who
commanded 28,000 troops, was pressed into attacking the Confederates by
impatient politicians and influential citizens in Washington DC. On the
Southern side, 32,000 Confederate troops were led by Brigadier Generals P.G.T.
Beauregard, Joseph Johnston, and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson.”

Ulysses twitched his virtual nose and a typical six foot
wide, three foot tall display formed in mid-air in front of everyone. On the
display, a simplified road map of northern Virginia appeared, Centreville on
the far right, and a hilltop labeled Stony Ridge on the far left. The small
city of Manassas lay near the bottom center.

“McDowell split his forces. 5,000 men went south to attack
here,” two blue parallel lines moved southward from Centreville toward two
blinking red dots near a small river, “at the Mitchell and Blackburn Fords on
the Bull Run. Another brigade drew the attention of the Confederates at Stone
Bridge again on the Bull Run, in the center of the Confederate line. Then two
divisions of Union troops under Brig. Generals Hunter and Heintzelman came down
the Warrentown turnpike and turned northwest to cross Bull Run at Sudley Ford
to attack the Confederate left flank at Matthew Hill, west of Bull Run creek.
Initially, the Confederates, under Brig. General Beauregard, were pushed
southward to Henry Hill. However, Confederate reinforcements arrived, including
a brigade under General “Stonewall” Jackson and two brigades from the
Shenandoah Valley. The Confederates outflanked the Union right at Chinn Ridge
and forced the Union troops to retreat eastward. When the retreat reached the
Bull Run, it turned into a rout. The battle became a rousing Confederate
victory where the Union troops sustained almost twice as many casualties as the
Confederates did.”

Paul nodded. All of this sounded familiar—apparently lessons
he had absorbed and then forgotten in some high school American history class
long ago.

“And the second battle?” he asked.

“Fought in August, 1862. Major General John Pope commanding
62,000 Union troops versus General Robert E. Lee with 50,000 Confederate
troops.” Ulysses 18 twitched his nose again and the airborne map changed,
showing the entire northern half of the state of Virginia. “Union troops had
penetrated further into Virginia, operating down to the Rappahannock River.” A
line of blue appeared on the north bank of the river, halfway between Culpeper
to the south and Manassas to the north. “Lee sent Generals Jackson and A.P.
Hill to the north-northwest, to circle around the Bull Run Mountains and
through the Thoroughfare Gap where they hit the Union rear and the massive
supply depot at Manassas. The Union troops were forced to swing north to
counter-attack. General Jackson lined up his forces along an unfinished
railroad embankment south of Stony Ridge. Union General Pope launched a frontal
attack, convinced that he had Jackson outnumbered. However, another 25,000
Confederate troops under Lt. General Longstreet crossed through the
Thoroughfare Gap and hit the Union left flank, first with massed artillery and
then the largest mass assault of ground troops in the Civil War. Pope never
understood what hit him and the Union army was forced to retreat as far east as
Centreville, almost to ground zero.”

Paul stared at the map, studying the layout of the
territory. With a flick of a finger, he zoomed the map in closer to the
Manassas Battlefield. There he saw the crooked winding paths of Bull Run and
Young’s Branch, the straight east-west stretch of Warrentown Pike, the high
grounds of Henry Hill, Matthews Hill, Chinn and Stony Ridges, and the small
community of Groveton.

The suspicions solidified in his mind.

“It’s a trap,” Paul announced, as sudden realization of the
true situation hit him hard in his gut. “I should have seen it before this.”

“How so?” asked Daneel 7.

“A nice big open section of countryside, mostly empty of
people because it’s a national park, the constant and hefty expenditure of
magical energy, the capture of a platoon of Scotties. It’s all bait for the
trap,” Paul said, for the first time seeing a hint of what Errabêlu was
planning. “They want us to attack. That’s why they are doing this in a rural
setting, probably the emptiest section of territory anywhere close to
Washington DC, because they know we wouldn’t attack them if there were a lot of
Normals around that might get hurt.”

Merlin nodded in understanding. “Yes, it most likely is. So?
What do you do about it?”

Paul stared more at the map. “We don’t have very many
options, do we?”

The holographic wizard seemed to consider the question for a
few moments. “You could refuse to take the bait. Just ignore it. Of course, Errabêlu
would then just move into Washington DC and setup their trap there and endanger
thousands of people, perhaps more, depending on how dangerous this trap of
theirs is. Or, you could send in a few small teams of Scotties, sacrifice them
in a scientific attempt to gather data and determine how the trap is constructed
and how to beat it—”

“That is not funny, Merlin,” Paul stated firmly.

“Or you could potentially lose a lot more Scotties in a
frontal attack, if it is a trap and if the trap is as deadly as
you fear it might be.” Merlin studied his creator’s sour expression.  “Another
possibility, one I’ve learned from studying your science fiction, you could use
kinetic bombardment from space with tungsten crowbars, I believe the concept is
called.”

Paul squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “I made a pledge
not to kill. And yes, I know, I’ve broken that pledge, on more than one
occasion too. However, if possible, I would still prefer to avoid killing
wherever and whenever I can.”

Merlin nodded. “Or you could just give up on the entire idea
of fighting the other wizards. Just let them keep control of the Normals.”

“Ha! You’re joking, I presume. There has to be another
option,” Paul mumbled despairingly. “Some type of deception we could run, a
con-game of some kind. Something.”

Daneel 1 spoke up. “We could ask the wizards we’ve captured,
see if they know anything about this trap, of how it might be rigged.”

“That is worth a try,” Paul admitted, but not really
expecting it to be that easy. “After all, I debriefed McDougall extensively without
a hint of an Errabêlu ability to set a trap remotely like this.” He
turned to face Daneel. “Contact Daryl 71, ask him to ask the avatars of all of our
wizard prisoners and report back.” Paul studied the map some more. “And let’s
bring in the Corps and Division Commanders. All of them except those that are
with Mom. If we are going to try a mass assault, I want ours to be a lot more
effective than Brigadier General Irvin McDowell’s or Major General John
Pope’s.”

“Dad?” asked Daneel 1. “Do you want me to pass word of this
to Mom?”

Paul considered the question, drawing his mouth into a
straight line and biting his lower lip.

“No,” he finally said. “We’d only succeed in worrying her.
And we don’t know enough to answer any of the questions she will undoubtedly
ask. So no, not yet.”

Ω

The scene inside the Situation Room was hectic, with large
numbers of Scottie cubes floating in and out through the doorways, and others
arriving/leaving via portals. There were any number of conversations on-going
simultaneously, making Paul’s ears hurt from the constant buzz.

The situation in Northern Virginia was bad enough to give
him indigestion too.

The team of Scotties spent the day in discussions about
possible ideas, alternatives, brainstorming concepts and possible attack plans.
Paul even brought Uncle Sam into the discussions. But the truth was that no one
knew enough to make a good plan.

Oh, they tried to gather a little more data, using
microportals in low Earth orbit above Manassas to spy on the Park. But they saw
nothing, the views smudged and clouded, no doubt due to interference by some
magical spell of the Errabêlu wizards. All that could be detected were
significant bursts of magical energy most of which seemed to be centered on
Stony Ridge. Apparently, there was a constant coming and going of wizards and
Oni in that location. If Errabêlu were grouped mostly around Stony
Ridge, then their battle plan seemed to be leaning more toward the Second
Battle of Manassas rather than the First Battle.

When questioned, the wizard prisoners in Azkaban could tell
them very little, only of a couple of urban legends about a group of wizards a
few hundred years back that had tried to stage a coup on Errabêlu
leaders. In some mysterious way, the rebels had been quietly dealt with, never
to be heard from again. Thus confirming yet again what Dusha had told Paul in
Moscow.

The headquarters team went back and forth over the little
data they had and the few options they had been given.

“Dad,” said Lenore 86, Commanding officer of I Corps, 2nd Division.
“From where I sit…uh, levitate…there really is only one possible option here.
We attack, in force, with both Corps.”

“I agree, Dad,” echoed Harlie 37, Commanding officer of I
Corps. “I think we all agree that it is a trap and yes, that there is a very
real possibility that some of us might be ensnared by that trap. But sir, they
can’t be expecting to take on fifty thousand of us. Oh, sure, legend has it
that they easily dealt with a small group of wizards—”

“They have successfully dealt with nine Scotties,”
interrupted Daneel 7.

“But Errabêlu has no clue how many Scotties we can
throw at them,” Harlie 37 insisted. “We haven’t done anything yet that has
revealed how many of us there truly are. They can’t be anticipating an attack
in the numbers we can generate. No matter what their defense is, we can
overwhelm it with sheer numbers.”

“And how many Scotties might get hurt in the process?” Paul
asked sullenly. “It’s bad enough that we’ve lost nine of our number here and
one in Russia. To endanger thousands or tens of thousands is totally reckless.
All of you mean too much to me and to Capie to take that kind of risk.”

“Dad, there is a backup plan for us,” Irona 222 reminded
him. “Before we go into battle, we can update our backup archives so that, if
necessary, we can be restored to a new Scottie frame at a convenient time down
the line, no matter how many of us might be taken out by this trap.”

“I think it boils down to this, Dad,” Roberta 300 said. “If
we attack, maybe you risk a few thousand of us, though I think that has
yet to be proven as even a remote possibility. But if we don’t attack, you
guarantee the slavery of humanity for the foreseeable future, as well as World
War III and the deaths of 500 million Normals.”

“Sir…Dad, I believe they’re right. We really have only one
option here,” Daneel 1 said. “We must attack. It is our duty, it is what you
created and programmed us to do. How can we do less than that?”

In his head, Paul knew that they were right, that the risk
was worth the effort. Most of the Errabêlu wizards had to be here, in
Virginia, to expend the level of magical energy they were witnessing. The
Scotties were being offered the opportunity to capture virtually the entire
organization in one fell swoop. But Paul’s heart was arguing against the whole
idea.

“‘If killing five people saves ten, it’s a bargain. Is that
your simple logic, Daneel?’” Paul asked, paraphrasing Dr. McCoy from the Star
Trek episode “Operation: Annihilate.”

“When it’s the lives of a few thousand Scotties versus
hundreds of millions of Normals, then yes, that is my logic,” Daneel 1 replied.
“Dad, you knew this going in, before you even conceived of the idea of creating
Artificial Intelligences to help wage this war. You can’t deny it. Let us do
our jobs, please, Dad?”

Paul reluctantly nodded in agreement. “I regret I see no
alternatives. If I were Colonel Hogan in Hogan’s Heroes…”

The Scotties in the room all chuckled.

“Sir, I only wish we were up against Colonel Klink
and Sergeant Schultz,” chortled Vincent 286 (Black Hole, 1979),
Commanding officer of I Corps, 2nd Division, 3rd Brigade. “We could get Helga
to make a pass at Klink, feed Schultz some apple strudel and then get on with
business. But for us, it won’t be that simple.”

Paul nodded, a sense of dark foreboding in his thoughts.
“Then let’s come up with a really good plan that will get the job done with the
least risk possible. Oh, and one more thing. No word of this to Mom yet,
understand? Or to any of the Scotties with her. Not until we know more.”

“Clear, Dad,” Irona 222 replied but with a pained look.

Ω

“Dad?”

Paul sighed and slowly turned to face Daneel 1, who was coming
through the French doors to join him on the balcony.

It was past midnight. He had been staring at a star filled
sky, the mountain air around him cool, crisp and clean.

He was thinking. Wondering what lay ahead. Questioning
himself and his plans. Was he doing the right thing?

“Dad?” Daneel 1 asked again. “Are you sure that we are doing
the right thing?”

Paul smiled sadly, impressed at having Daneel echo his
thoughts so precisely. “No, I’m not. There are so many unknowns here. We might
find Bishop 911 and his patrol sitting in some theater somewhere, watching a Godzilla
movie marathon and having a grand old time.”

“Not likely, Dad,” the Scottie protested.

“No. I don’t think so either.”

“Shouldn’t we tell Mom? You know, that they are missing?”

Paul chuckled. “No, that is the one thing I’m sure we must
not do.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Cocking his head to one side, Paul turned to look back at
the stars. “They’re ageless, you know. Those stars. Our ancestors were looking
at those lights in the sky back in the days when they hunted saber tooth
tigers. Those early men. They protected their women too. They had too, for the
benefit of all mankind, for the propagation of the species. They especially learned
the hard way to protect pregnant women the most fiercely. If necessary, they
put themselves between the predators and their women, to protect them.”

Paul swept an arm at the sky above him. “They’ve seen it. Those
stars. They’ve seen our history. All of it. It’s written in our genes. Those
early men that failed—their children died in their mothers’ wombs, with their
mothers. The ones that survived were those that their men protected. Fought
for. Sometimes died for. No. It’s written in our genes. Protect our women.
Especially when they are pregnant. Especially then.” He glanced back at the
Scottie. “Understand?”

“Yes, Dad, I do. And I understand something else too.”

“What’s that?”

“Your name is mud when she finds out.”

Paul nodded sagely in total agreement. “That too is written
in our genes.”

Ω

Orders went out that night and the Scotties began arriving
in the early morning hours in huge numbers at three separate locations. Ziggy
386 (Quantum Leap) and his II Corps gathered at the Fairfax County
landfill, an open field of nearly 300 acres south southwest of Washington, a
perfect place from which to stage his part of the attack. Jarvis 186 (Ironman,
Avengers) with half of his 1st Division, with 1st Brigade under Dorian 223
and 2nd Brigade under Andrea 32 (Star Trek) were dropping in on an empty
beach north of the town of Claiborne, Maryland, along the eastern side of the
Chesapeake Bay.

1st, 3rd, and 4th Brigades of 2nd Division, I
Corp, under Lenore 86, arrived via portal in an empty grassy field just east of
Harrisonburg and west of the Massanutten Ridge, with Paul and Daneel 1 bringing
up the rear.

Paul stood in the tall fescue, a gentle cool breeze blowing
in from the north down the valley. Around him floated nearly 10,000 Scotties
and their unit commanders: Daneel 7 of 1st Brigade, Twiki 586 (Buck Rodgers
in the 25th Century) of 3rd Brigade and Alpha 505 (The Flash, the
first series and Power Rangers) of 4th Brigade.

“Daneel 1, set us up a conference with all the Corps,
Division, and Brigade commanders by way of holographic projections via
microportals,” Paul ordered. Since Daneel 1 was expecting that command, it took
only a few seconds to arrange, the images of the Scotties in remote locations
displayed on large view screens hovering in mid-air.

As Paul looked around, he marveled at the sight of 10,000
black cubes floating in the air around him, the images of their Scotties on top
of their cubes, together with the faces of Scotties in the two remote locations
displayed on nearly a dozen view screens. It sobered him to see all of their
smiling faces patiently waiting for him to speak.

“Commanders,” Paul began. “The attack is set for 2000 hours
tonight, local time. All of you know the plan, since you helped create it.
Roberta 300, Irona 222, the two of you have the most to do to get your troops
ready.”

“We’ll be ready in time, I promise, Dad,” they replied, in
unison.

“And Vincent 286, you have the most distance to travel,”
Paul reminded him.

“No sweat, Dad. Just a milk run,” he boasted.

“Alpha 505, your approach to the battleground will be the
trickiest,” Paul cautioned him.

“We can handle it,” Alpha 505 pledged.

“Gort 737 with the 4th Brigade, 1st Division, I Corps, and
Arcee 77,” (from the 2007 film Transformers) “with the 4th Brigade, 1st
Division, II Corps will act as the reserve,” Paul informed them. “Gort, Arcee,
your Brigades will be with me at the Manassas Regional Airport, south of the
city. We will go in first, a few minutes ahead of the attack. In some ways,
your job may be the hardest, since you must be familiar with everyone else’s
plan of attack and stand ready to jump in anywhere to help out.”

“We’ll have ’em covered,” Gort 737 assured him.

Paul looked at all of their countenances on display in front
of him, a deep feeling of pain in his heart. “People, I am not going to kid
you. I am worried about how this will go. I want you to get with your troops,
warn them again that Errabêlu is up to funny business here and to be on
the lookout for disappearances of other Scotties during this battle. If that
starts happening, I want that information transmitted to Daneel 1 as quickly as
possible. It will be his job to determine what we are up against. If wholesale
disappearances start to happen, like maybe whole companies start to vanish into
thin air, I want everyone in your Corps to pull back. Is that clear to
everyone?”

“Clear,” they all responded in concert.

“There will be nearly 38,000 of you in the first wave of the
attack,” Paul reminded them again. “With Gort 737’s and Arcee 77’s 6,000 in
reserve and another 3,000 in Washington DC in case we need them. It’s virtually
all of the Scotties except what is with Mom in Africa, so this constitutes a
huge gamble.”

“We understand.” Once again, they all responded in concert.

Paul was touched by their willingness to march off to
battle. Was this what it was like for eighteen and nineteen-year-olds headed
off to war in America’s history? His heart felt heavy. He looked at their
smiling expectant faces on top of their cubes and he instantly realized that he
couldn’t just give them a pat on the back and wish them well. For a moment, he
regretted never having served in team sports or in the military. Right now, what
his Scotties needed was a pep talk—and he didn’t know how to do that. But he
also knew that he had to try to give them one anyway.

He bowed his head, trying to find the right words.

“I want you all to know how proud I am, how proud Mom and I
both are, of each and every one of you. Of what is in your heart, of the type
of person that you are. And yes, you are people, even though you don’t wear a
body of flesh and blood, you are human.”

He looked back up, into their eyes. “You were born for this
day, you know. For this specific day, right here, right now.” He let his voice
rise some. “Throughout history, there have been many pivotal moments, events
that have shaped and changed the world as a whole, sending the whole planet in
a new direction. The Renaissance. The Gutenberg Printing Press. The discovery
of electricity. The American Revolution. World Wars I and II. The nuclear bomb.
All of those and many many more.

“This is another one of those moments and you are the pivot
point now. On you hinges what happens to the world for the next thousand years.
On you hangs life, liberty, and justice versus slavery and death. Right now,
the bad guys have the upper hand. They are in control. But you have advantages
over them that they are unaware of. You are smarter than they are, individually
and as a team. You are better trained, better focused, and individually more
powerful. But most of all—and make no mistake, this part is the most important
factor of all—you fight for a better cause. They fight for power, money,
and control. You fight for the human race, for liberty and freedom and
righteousness. Yours is the better motivation by far. This is who you are. This
is your time, here and now. It all comes down to today. Your heart, your
character, your integrity, your cause. Fight with every joule you have.
Remember the cost of blood and lives that the human race has paid for the last
thousand years. Remember the goal you fight for today. This is your chance.
Fight for it!”

For a moment, the Scotties all looked at him in stunned
surprise. Then Daneel 1 grew a set of arms and hands and began to clap. All the
other Scotties present and in the displays quickly did the same. A cheer went
up followed by a growing chant.

“Victory. Victory! VICTORY! VICTORY!”

Paul smiled and waved both arms in their direction, joining
in with their voices, shouting at the top of his lungs. “VICTORY! VICTORY!
VICTORY!”

TWENTY-ONE

Harrisonburg, Virginia

Truck and Trailer rental facility

Wednesday, 10:49 a.m. EDT

June

At a trucking
rental firm near Harrisonburg, Virginia, not far from Interstate 81, four men
sat waiting in the cheaply paneled lounge, watching an antique CRT color
television as a clerk behind the chipped wooden counter prepared a set of
paperwork on metal clipboards.

From a grassy field just south of the Manassas Regional
Airport, Paul watched a view of the lounge on one of a dozen large holographic
displays hanging in mid-air in front of Gort 737, Arcee 77, and himself. The video
was transmitted through a microportal strategically located in the upper left
corner of the lounge of the trucking rental office, just below a ceiling tile.

The clerk behind the counter finished stamping the forms and
jerked his head at one of the waiting men.

“We need your signature here, Mr. Idaho,” he said, waiting
for the holographic image of Duncan 454 to get to his feet and approach the
counter. “Please sign here, here, here,” he lifted two sheets, “here, here, and
here. Then we will do a walk down inspection of the trucks, sign one more form,
and you and your men can be on your way.”

Duncan 454, aka Duncan Idaho (from the Frank Hebert Dune
series), smiled crookedly in reply. “Thanks. Much appreciated.”

The clerk waved it off. “I don’t think we’ve ever rented
three semi rigs to the same customer on the same day before. Must be quite the
emergency.”

Duncan 454 nodded smugly. “Yep. We’ve never done that before
either. Yes, you could call it an emergency. We have an important delivery to
make by tonight. We’ll have the trucks back first thing in the morning.”

“No problem,” the clerk replied with a smile. “Shall we go
do the walk-downs?”

All four men (well, one man and three Scotties in human
disguise) went outside, where they did a damage inspection of the three tractor
trailer rigs. The final forms were signed and the three Scottie human images—in
cowboy boots, jeans, and white Texan hats—strolled across the asphalt lot,
pulled open the doors and swung themselves into the cabs. In seconds, the three
diesel engines kicked over with a rattle, sending brief gusts of black smoke
out the tops of the stacks.

“There are some that would call this stealing,” said Kitt
427 (from the Knight Rider TV series) to the other two Scotties over a
WiFi link as they shifted the trucks into first gear, edging them toward the
gate in the chain-link fence.

“The trucks will be back in the morning,” said Olympia 402
(Jacques Offenbach’s 1881 work The Tales of Hoffmann). “And we did,
after all, fill out their forms and pay the normal rental fee for a day’s
usage.”

“Yeah, but we sort of forged our identity papers,” observed
Kitt 427, with a grin on his face.

“Nobody is out a cent,” Duncan 454 replied. “And I can’t
help it if some people on this planet are in love with paperwork. That’s their
problem, not mine.”

“Yeah,” said Kitt 427 as he drove his truck through the open
gate. Olympia 402 was a very close second, with Duncan 454 third.

“We will have these babies back before anyone spots any
funny business,” promised Duncan 454.

Paul chuckled at the Scotties’ comments and swung to check
the progress of one of the other teams.

Ω

From Hagerstown in the north down to Staunton in the south;
from Fredrick, Maryland to Charlottesville, Virginia; semi-trailers and trucks
rolled forth from a variety of rental centers.  Each one, driven by a Scottie
in the guise of a human, headed for the nearest interstate and set a course for
the same place: Exit 6 on I-66. All ten trucks.

There was a schedule to keep.

Ω

At 6:30 p.m., with the sun hanging low on the western
horizon, Vincent 286 of I Corps, 2nd Division, 3rd Brigade emerged through a
small portal (one of four such) into the Gum Spring Road Quarry, a large stone
pit in the ground just north of Sudley Springs, Virginia. Each of the four
portals were just large enough for four Scotties to come through at a time. The
size of the portals were kept as small as possible, to mitigate the level of
magical energy being expended and thereby reduce their risk of exposure to the
enemy. Fortunately, the stone quarry was beneath ground level, which helped to
further shield the portals from detection.

Vincent 286 waited impatiently while his troops emerged
through the portals and gathered along the floor of the quarry.

“Come on, come on!” he said over a WiFi link. “We haven’t
got all day!”

Ω

Paul’s instructions to Ziggy 386 had been to leave one
battalion in Washington DC as a rearguard, in case some of the Errabêlu
wizards attempted to sneak around behind them and attempt some type of
skullduggery in the nation’s capital.

Airborne, the rest of II Corps left their start-off location
at the Fairfax County landfill at 6:30 p.m. and traveled swiftly, as a column,
at a mere altitude of thirty feet above the Ox Road, heading northwest. In
order to remain unobserved by traffic on the road, the Scotties were cloaked.

Fifteen minutes later, the lead unit swung further to the
west and followed the Fairfax County Parkway. The rest of II Corps made the
same turn, right behind their leader.

Ω

At 6:45 p.m., four small portals opened up near the
southeastern end of the airstrip at Manassas Regional Airport, above the mowed
grassy field. Gort 737 and Paul watched as the Scotties of I Corps, 1st
Division, 4th Brigade began to pile through.

Paul glanced upward again, checking on the deteriorating
condition of the weather for the nth time since his arrival. The sky above him
was now filled with dark grey clouds and the wind was blowing fitfully from the
northwest. When he turned in that direction, there were angry black clouds
above the treetops on the far horizon and an occasional burst of lightning in
the distance.

He grunted in fretfulness. “I saw the same sort of
phenomenon at Devils Tower,” he grumbled to Gort 737. “All the magical energy
being released over there is affecting the weather.”

Gort 737 nodded and cheerfully predicted, “It will probably
get worse.”

The Scottie was likely right. Worry gnawed at Paul. There
were elements at work here that he didn’t understand.

Ω

As the semi-trucks arrived at Exit 6, they pulled into a
truck stop and fueled up, their drivers taking time out for a short break. A
portal opened up inside the box of each trailer, disgorging Scotties until the
inside of the trailer was stacked completely full.

With the fuel tanks topped off, one by one the trucks pulled
back onto the highway and headed east.

It wasn’t quite a convoy, not with the trucks spaced thirty
seconds apart. But 20,000 Scotties, with all their magical energy emanations
shut-down, were on their way to the battlefront, using the same avenue of
approach employed by Longstreet and the Confederate Army to such devastating
effect in The Second Battle of Manassas, threading through the needle of
Thoroughfare Gap.

Ω

Ziggy 386 and II Corps, traveling along Fairfax County
Parkway, reached I-66 and momentarily rose above the overpass before turning
westward, the highway traffic below oblivious to their presence.

Less than five minutes of flight time took II Corps past
Centreville to Exit 52 where they “exited” the interstate and followed the Lee
highway westward. As they approached the intersection with Bull Run-Post Office
Road, the lead element, 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Brigade,
1st Division, slowed slightly and hung a right. They were followed by every
other unit of 1st Division. However, 2nd Division stayed on the main highway,
maintaining a westward course.

2nd Division did not have to go far, only a mile before reaching
Stone Bridge, one of the most prominent landmarks in the area, spanning as it
did, the small Bull Run. There the Scottie cubes stopped, setting down in a
small grassy field along the north side of the highway. The time was 7:05 p.m.

Ziggy 386 quickly called his unit commanders together.

“We hold here for a bit. I’m sure by now that Errabêlu
knows we are here,” he said, his holographic head nodding toward the west. He
too was impressed by the angry black clouds and the sporadic bursts of
lightning and thunder in the sky in front of them.

“There seems to be quite a storm brewing,” he muttered
sullenly.

In the meantime, 1st Division, under the command of Roberta
300, sneaked 2.6 miles up the Bull Run Post Office Road and made their way
westward across a wooded lot to the banks of the Bull Run. Without faltering,
they swung to follow the river upstream, flying along just above the water and
below the overhanging tree limbs, into the gathering darkness.

Ω

At 7:20 p.m., the first of the semi-rigs, the ones carrying
Lenore 86’s 2nd Division, steadily made their way through the tight twisting
turns of Thoroughfare Gap, heading eastward at exactly the speed limit. Eight
minutes later, the first semi took the circular off-ramp at Exit 46B, heading
away from Gainesville on the Lee Highway, approaching the Manassas National
Battlefield Park from the west. Every thirty seconds, another truck took the
same exit, all heading in the same direction.

The first truck carrying 1st Battalion, 1st Brigade, of the
2nd Division (and, incidentally, Lenore 86 and the unit commander, Daneel 7)
slowed as it approached the intersection of Lee Highway and Pageland Lane. Then
it turned left, heading north. The lane itself was positioned west of Stony
Ridge and made an ideal approach vector to the west side of the Civil War
battlefield. The drivers and passengers of the few cars heading south on that
narrow country road were greatly surprised by the steady procession of
semi-tractor trailers going slowly northward and wondered why so many big
trucks were using the small county road.

As each truck passed the crossing of the Little Bull Run,
the Scotties inside bailed out of the passenger side of the truck, passing
their molecules through the sheet metal sides of the trailers. There they hid
among the bushes and thick trees of the small creek, waiting for the rest of
1st Brigade. The trucks continued northward bound, their part in the operation
finished.

The trucks carrying 3rd and 4th Brigades of the 2nd Division
(with Twiki 586 and Alpha 505) also turned north on Pageland Lane but the
Scotties bailed out a few hundred yards earlier, following the pathway through
the trees for a set of electric high voltage tension lines. Silently and
hopefully undetected, they approached Stony Ridge from the southwest.

“What marvelous weather we are having,” lamented Lenore 86
with a snort as she was jostled by the gusting wind from the northeast. The
black clouds hanging overhead were positively ominous as well as depressing. The
occasional blast of lightning and thunder made her skin crawl—well, it would
have if she had any skin!

She took one more look around and flew onward cautiously.

Ω

Vincent 286 waited impatiently in the bottom of the stone
quarry. The last of his troops had arrived through the four portals over
fifteen minutes earlier.

He checked his internal chronometer. It was 7:40 p.m. “Okay,
everybody, listen up,” he shouted over his WiFi link. “Our orders are clear. We
will travel underground to the southwest and approach Stony Ridge from the
northeast. Follow the Scottie in front of you. And don’t get lost! Okay, ready?
Time’s up! Let’s go!”

Turning, he cast a spell and plunged himself into the side
of the quarry wall, merging his molecules with the rock and earth, heading
south southwest underground, arrow straight for Stony Ridge. Unit by unit, I
Corps, 2nd Division, 3rd Brigade was right behind him.

Ω

Roberta 300 and 1st Division of II Corps reached the path of
the unfinished railroad just south of Sudley Springs on the Bull Run River. Their
position put them east-northeast of Stony Ridge. And they were running a few
minutes late. Not too surprising, considering the thickness of the growth along
the banks of the Bull Run. With a little luck, Roberta 300 was planning to make
up the time on the next leg of the approach.

There was a quick bolt of lightning and the heavens opened
up, suddenly pouring forth a deluge of rain.

Roberta 300 sighed in frustration.

The unfinished railroad that Southern General “Stonewall”
Jackson had used so well in the Civil War had never been completed, but
sections of the early embankments still existed. Roberta 300 had no difficulty
following the railroad bed as it led to the southwest, even though there were
no railroad ties or rails. The uneven hills of dirt were enough.

“This way, everybody!” she yelled, flying down the trail as
the rain fell harder.

“Sir!” screamed Lisa 486 (1985, Weird Science),
commander of 1st Brigade, in protest, just as a blast of plasma hit Roberta 300
from the right side, knocking her out of the air and into the bushes.

First contact with the enemy at the Third Battle of Manassas
had just been made.

Ω

“Dad!” shouted Daneel 1. “Look!” And he pointed at one of
the displays. “Roberta 300 is badly hurt! Lisa 486 of II Corps reports that they
have been attacked by Oni!”

“Where?” Paul bellowed, spinning around to look at the
display, a sudden stab of pain in his chest. With frenzied haste, he studied
the display map of the battlefield intently.

“Just southwest of Bull Run and Sudley Springs, along the
railroad embankment,” Daneel 1 reported smartly, throwing a blinking red light
onto the map.

Paul studied the chart. It made no sense for the Oni to be
at that location unless it was a patrol or observation post of some kind.
Unless…

“Where is Ulysses 18?” Paul shouted anxiously.

“Here, sir,” Ulysses 18 replied, floating quickly across the
grass in Paul’s direction.

He jerked a finger in the direction of the map. “How far
east along the railroad embankment did “Stonewall” Jackson position his troops?”

“Up to the intersection of the railroad with the
Manassas-Sudley Road,” Ulysses replied. “The same place that Roberta 300 was
attacked.”

Just wonderful! Paul inwardly screamed. Now he
tells me!

“Daneel!” he howled. “Tell Lisa 486 she has found the left
flank of the enemy. Tell her to attack with everything she’s got and to push
forward as hard as she can. Get Roberta 300 evacuated back to Mount Logan! And
tell Lisa to keep us informed!”

Ω

At 7:40 hours, 68 miles due east of downtown Washington DC,
on the empty beaches north of the small town of Claiborne, Maryland, Jarvis 186
waited with the Scotties of I Corps, 1st Division, 1st and 2nd Brigades
watching the sun go down over the black waters of Chesapeake Bay.

“People, listen up!” he yelled, with a magically amplified
voice. “Now all of you know the plan but let me go over it again, just for my
peace of mind, shall we? Pay attention. We are here, on the east side of the
Chesapeake Bay because it puts us far enough over the curve of the Earth that Errabêlu,
near Manassas Battlefield National Park, cannot detect our portals. In short,
they don’t know we are here. We will string out along the beach to the north
and south and then launch in a few minutes, using a low magic energy path upward
to 80 miles in altitude. Hopefully, as we rise above the curve of the Earth, we
will be using so little energy and we will be so widely spread out, that they
can’t detect us. Once we reach target altitude, we will further reduce our
energy emissions and drift westward, until we are over the Potomac. From there,
we will let gravity take over, which will bring us down in a parabolic path
down on top of Stony Ridge. If we do this right, they will never see us
coming.” He paused. “Are there any questions? No? Good. You all know your
assignments. Don’t mess this up people or you will not like the consequences.
Fear me more than the enemy. Got it? Dad is counting on us and the I Corps will
not let him down! Is that clear?”

In unison, they all screamed, “Clear, Sir!”

A large clock appeared in mid-air in front of Jarvis 186.

“Lift off in ten minutes!” he screamed. “It’s time to get
into your positions. Assume launch formation! And run final diagnostics!”

He watched closely as over 6,000 Scotties arranged
themselves into a north-south line, spaced roughly ten feet apart.

Internally, he checked bus voltages, core temperatures, and
event logs. Everything looked clean. Nervously, he watched his internal clock
click down.

At 7:49 p.m., he turned back to I Corps, 1st Division.

“Standby!” he yelled. “Thirty seconds to launch!…Twenty!…Ten!”

“Lift-off!” screamed Jarvis 186, and all 6,000 Scotties
began accelerating straight up at exactly 1.5 gee.

With growing speed they continued upward, accelerating
swiftly into the twilight. They passed 1 mile in just 20 seconds, 5 miles in 45
seconds, 30 miles in 110 seconds and began to arch their path over slightly to
the west.

With a gravity assisted turn completed, they stopped
accelerating, now moving at 2,000 feet per second, slowly pulling together to
form a disc formation. They went feet dry just north of Galesville, Virginia
still heading due west.

In another two minutes, they would shut-down all their magic
spells, becoming virtually undetectable.

Or so they hoped.

Ω

The time was 7:59 p.m. Less than one minute to go before the
attack was to have begun. No one west of Stony Ridge knew that the battle was
already underway on the east side, near Sudley Springs. Twiki 586 with 3rd
Brigade and Alpha 505 with 4th Brigade were spread out along a line southwest
of Stony Ridge, using what tree cover was available.

All they could detect up the slope was cleared fields and a
couple of homes. Everything else seemed to be hidden by the downpour of rain
and the darkness. Even the street lights in the area seemed ineffective at
illuminating the neighborhood.

It was time.

“Attack!” they yelled in unison, unleashing a spell in front
of them that would have rendered a flock of bull elephants unconscious. Then
they and their brigades advanced.

Without warning, a barrage of plasma fire met them head on.

Ω

Two thousand feet further north, Daneel 7, Lenore 86, and
1st Brigade of 2nd Division advanced from the west, out of the creek-bed of the
Little Bull Run. They too made little progress across the open fields before
meeting a horrendous wave of plasma fire.

Ω

Jarvis 186 and 1st Division had followed their ballistic
course, passing back into the lower atmosphere almost directly above Stony
Ridge. They played the part of dumb falling rocks really well, rapidly
approaching ground level at the top of the ridge, falling straight into the
dense black clouds of the raging storm.

And then, suddenly, before they could react, a huge maw of
nothingness opened up before them inside the cloud bank and swallowed 1,234
Scotties of I Corps, mostly from the center of the group. The rest emerged from
the clouds directly above the ridge into a huge volley of plasma fire.

Neither Jarvis 186 nor Dorian 223 was among them.

Ω

“Dad!” shrieked Daneel 1, above the noise of the now howling
wind and thunder. “2nd Division of I Corps reports very heavy plasma fire on
the northwest and southwest approaches to Stony Ridge! 1st Division of I Corps
reports some sort of portal opened up and swallowed almost a third of their
Division! Sir, Jarvis 186 is not answering! All communication with him has been
lost!”

To the northwest, Paul could see the storm swiftly
intensifying, lightning flashing through the black clouds continuously now, the
roll of thunder a constant roar, like an old steam locomotive at breakneck
speed.

“Who’s left in charge?” Paul roared.

“Jenny 199,” (TV series My Life As a Teenage Robot)
“reports very heavy plasma fire as well!” he shouted. “They are unable to
descend below 500 feet above the ridge!”

It made no sense! How was Errabêlu able to put up
this much of a fight? A couple of hundred wizards and a few thousand Oni? They
couldn’t possibly have the talismans necessary for the magic needed. The
Scotties should have crushed them within the first few seconds of the battle!
And a third of I Corps, 1st Division gone! Just like that?! How? A profound
sense of panic gripped him as he struggled to understand what was happening.
Paul pressed his palms hard up against his temples, trying to stop the
throbbing headache that had suddenly developed.

“Sir, do you want us to withdraw?” yelled Daneel 1.

Paul was on the verge of ordering just that. After all, it
was his beloved Scotties that were disappearing, maybe dying.

But the stakes here were incredibly high. If he withdrew the
Scotties, the war might actually be lost altogether. The lives of millions of
Normals depended on his getting this decision right. So he instead held up a
hand. He needed time to think!

“Get a report from Lisa 486 first!” he shouted, above the
noise of the constant thunder.

Ω

After dealing with the five Oni that had attacked them and
knocked out Roberta 300, Lisa 486 had quickly formed the Scotties into a broad
formation and ordered them to advance with shields raised. The trees and forest
growth was an impediment but they made steady progress, breaking free and over
the Sudley Road less than a minute later.

The far side was mostly an open field for 600 feet. Lisa
took an instant dislike for the open ground.

“Portal across!” she sternly transmitted.

She popped through a portal, emerging just shy of the forest
on the west side.

Her shields were instantly hit with plasma fire. Instantly,
she fired back, doing her best to render the enemy unconscious, as per standing
orders. For whatever reason, it was taking the combined magical energy of
multiple Scotties to render even this one single Oni insensible. From the five
Oni that they had already captured, she knew that the enemy’s talismans were
inferior to her own. How in the blue blazes did they resist the Scottie’s
spells with inferior talismans?

The Scotties’ shields held and Lisa 486, with the 1st
Division, advanced relentlessly, yard-by-yard disposing of the Oni in their
path.

Ω

“1st Division, II Corps is advancing down the railroad bed!”
Daneel 1 shouted. “Apparently, you were correct about it being the Errabêlu
left flank! But Lisa 486 reports that the individual Oni are incredibly
resistant!”

Paul watched as a funnel cloud formed northwest of Manassas,
the spiraling shape barely discernible against the horizon. Beneath him, he
could feel the trembling of the Earth itself.

And still it made no sense to him! Where was the
power coming from? Errabêlu couldn’t have enough talismans to do this!
Not without rare isotopes! And Paul felt certain that they didn’t have that
secret, not yet anyway! Without the power of rare isotopes, it would take a
talisman the size of—”

Without warning, the answer leapt suddenly into his head.
Oh, what an idiot he was! How stupid could a man get?

“Daneel! They must be using the Earth itself as a talisman!”
he shouted, confident that he had finally latched onto the right answer.

“The Earth? But how? It’s not homogeneous enough!” the
Scottie shouted back. “The lithosphere or crust is badly segmented and there
aren’t any really large rocks here. They would have to…oh…oh…I think I see! The
upper mantle!”

Paul nodded as it all came together for him. The wizards of Errabêlu
must have drilled a hole down through the Earth, past the lithosphere. Most
likely they were tapping the upper mantle also known as the Asthenosphere
which, according to the one geology class he’d taken as a college elective, was
fifty or sixty miles down. Great Lords of Kobol, if they could do that, then
the power they could wield would greatly dwarf the Scotties’ own!

How did they fight that? Overwhelming panic stalked him
openly, threatening to drown him in a sea of insanity.

“Dad!” Daneel yelled. “Lenore 86 reports that a huge portal
opened up and swallowed hundreds of her Scotties and even a few Oni! Sir, she
requests permission to withdraw!”

What to do? There seemed nowhere to turn! All of their plans
and schemes, all the simulations that they had run on Mars…nothing had prepared
them for anything like this! His Scotties were being swept from the battlefield
in group lots! The war was lost! Paul’s body froze in place and he found
himself gripped by panic, unable to speak a word. Disaster loomed before him, a
bottomless pit of blackness at his feet.

But his mind was still active, spinning like a dynamo as it
continued to search frantically for an answer, his thoughts flashing wild ideas
out by the score. True, there might not be many Errabêlu wizards, but if
they had tapped the upper mantle of the Earth, then the Scotties were doomed!
They stood no chance of winning this battle. Not unless they had a talisman as
potent—

The sudden idea slammed him upside the head. It was stunning
in its simplicity. Would it really work? Could it be as simple as all that?

“Daneel! Gort!” Paul yelled frantically, suddenly able to
use his voice again. “Get 4th Brigade of 1st Division to start a hole toward
the center of the Earth, now! Right here! It doesn’t have to be large! And
weave a series of carbon nanotubes down through the hole to the Earth’s lower
mantle!”

“But Dad! That’s hundreds of miles down!” protested Daneel
1. “It could take days! And what good would that do us, if they are using the
lower mantle instead of the upper one against us?”

Paul turned to the cube, gesturing wildly. “And why should
they use the one that is more difficult to reach? No, I’m sure I’m right! Go
for the lower mantle!”

Daneel blinked and considered the issue. “Yeah, sure, Dad!
We’ll start immediately!”

“Tell them to hurry!” Paul bellowed hysterically. “We have
to buy time for this to work! Arcee 77! 3rd Brigade is with me!”

Ω

Vincent 286 and 3rd Brigade, 2nd Division, I Corps were
running nine minutes late, mostly due to their slow progress through the thick
rocky ground between the Quarry and Stony Ridge. They emerged into the center
of a scene straight from Dante’s Inferno itself.

Darkness reigned everywhere except when bolts of lightning
lit the landscape, like a series of giant strobes. The storm was raging
ferociously, hailstones the size of softballs careening through the hurricane
force winds. Half a dozen tornadoes were dancing around the ridge, wildly
flinging debris and hard stinging rain like bullets in all directions. The
ground shook continuously in a constant earthquake. The Scotties of I and II
Corps were flying madly around, dodging a colossal number of impossibly large
and potent plasma bolts. A few Oni bodies lay motionless on the ground,
surrounded by a much larger number of immobile black cubes.

Vincent 286 and his troops entered the fray, fighting back
tenaciously.

A huge portal opened up on the southwest corner of the
ridge, swallowing another 789 Scotties and a dozen Oni, before collapsing
inward.

Vincent 286 didn’t notice, the battle too intense, too loud
and too disorganized. He and the remainder of 3rd Brigade, 2nd Division, I
Corps fought on.

TWENTY-TWO

Manassas Battlefield National Park, Virginia

Stony Ridge

Wednesday, 8:15 p.m. EDT

June

“But sir! You
can’t go!” adamantly shouted Daneel 1.

“I agree!” Gort 737 yelled, adding his two cents.

“‘The avalanche has started! It is too late for the pebbles
to vote!’” Paul screamed back at them madly, quoting Kosh of Babylon 5.
“This time I am needed there! Drill that hole, Daneel. We’re buying time with
the lives of Scotties here!” Paul turned to Arcee 77. “Move it, Commander or
I’ll find a Scottie that will!”

3rd Brigade of 1st Division did indeed follow him through
several portals, emerging onto the narrow blacktop of Featherbed Lane, east
southeast of Stony Ridge. Even here, the wind was blowing at gale force strength,
the rain moving horizontally like bullets from an army of machine guns, the
earth quivering like Jell-O.

Why had Paul brought 3rd Brigade here? The answer was that
this section of road was north of the unfinished railroad, the one that Lisa
was making such decent progress advancing down. It was his belief that Errabêlu
had taken a page from history and positioned defensive troops all along the
railroad, hoping that the Scotties would move in from Washington DC and attack
along the same path as General John Pope, specifically from Lee’s Highway
towards the northwest, across the open fields on the south side of the railroad
bed. If true, there were Oni just to the south of Paul’s location now but
facing in the other direction.

By coming here, it was his hope to bypass the Errabêlu
defenses on the railroad and approach Stony Ridge from an undefended quarter.
Lisa 486 and 1st Division could deal with the Oni on the railroad.

Paul spun in place, turning toward the west-northwest,
toward what they could see was the worst of the storm. The scope and violence
of it gave even him pause. But only for a moment. His Scotties were in there,
fighting for their lives. Paul could not let them down. They needed him!

“This way, everybody!” he screamed above the roar of the wind.

For 300 yards, their progress was unimpeded by Errabêlu
but contested every step of the way by the increasingly violent weather. Paul
had trouble envisioning how his Scotties were coping up there on Stony Ridge,
in the thick of the fighting.

The small voice in the back of his mind screamed at him in
total hysteria. Had he made yet another mistake? Perhaps he should have pulled
everybody out of the area? Errabêlu could not have followed, not if Paul
were correct about the tap deep through the Earth’s lithosphere down to the upper
mantle. They could hardly drag that with them in order to chase the Scotties.
Paul could have withdrawn to a safe distance, drilled his own tap to the lower mantle,
negated their advantage and then attacked at the time of his own choosing.

Logically, that would have been the correct course to have
taken. But in his heart, Paul knew it would have been the wrong decision. Even
during a withdrawal, more Scotties would have been snatched up before they
could have gotten clear. And then, after a withdrawal, all the Scotties that
had been taken might never be recovered. It was a gamble on his part, the
largest gamble he had ever made in his entire life. He was risking that by
staying in the fight, he and the remaining Scotties could buy enough time for
Daneel 1 to negate Errabêlu’s power and, at the same time, allow Paul
the chance to find and rescue the missing Scotties. Sure, the engineer in him
said that those Scotties were probably gone forever, destroyed by the evil
powers of Errabêlu. But his heart said no, that he had to hold on to
hope, that he needed to take the chance for their sake, even if it endangered
more Scotties in the process. Paul had to try to rescue the missing ones—or at
least know for sure what had happened to them. He owed them that, as their
creator and father. They deserved not to be left behind. More, they deserved
his very best effort to save them, if it was even remotely possible.

And, most important, Paul knew that his place was here, in
the center of this battle. Oh, no doubt, Capie would have demanded that he not
go, that he keep himself safe behind the lines, directing the battle as its
commander-in-chief. Yet, somehow Paul instinctively knew that if he had stayed
at the Manassas Regional Airport, the cost of success would have been much
greater. Again, this decision made no sense in the light of reason or logic. He
only knew, in his heart that it was true. It was a matter of life or death that
he be here, now, in the thick of the battle. There were decisions to be made,
actions to take, and the only way to make absolutely certain that everything
humanly possible had been tried was to go himself.

It was the ultimate in commitment, to himself, to his
Scotties and to the Normals of Earth. They were going to win this battle or he
was going to die trying.

Ω

With shields raised, Paul led 3rd Brigade through the woods
and up the east side of Stony Ridge.

Except for flashes provided by the lightning, the light was
non-existent. With the torrential rain, huge hailstones, and winds exceeding
most category five hurricanes, Paul knew that no unprotected Normal could
survive such conditions for more than a few seconds.

Boosting the shields around him, Paul launched himself
forward into the battle.

Arcee 77 stayed with him, guarding his right side. As Paul
cast a spell to enhance his ability to see, he immediately saw two Oni almost
directly in front of him, battling three Scotties.

The sight of that confrontation made him gasp. Three
Scotties should have quickly made mincemeat out of two Oni yet these two were
easily standing their ground. Somehow they were tapping into the energy of the
Earth’s upper mantle, though how they were doing so mystified Paul to no end.
But that problem was for later. Act now, analyze later!

Raising his arm, Paul screamed the Rebel Yell at the top of
his lungs and cast a spell to render the two Oni unconscious. He saw them
stagger then turn to face him. He repeated the spell again and was gratified to
see the Oni on the right buckle to his knees. The wind caught that Oni,
throwing him through the air. Then Arcee 77 launched her spell, simultaneously
with the other three Scotties. The other Oni too succumbed, the wind lifting
him off the ground and tossing him through the air like a rag-doll.

Dodging the hail and plasma bursts, they quickly moved on to
the next set of targets.

Thus began Paul’s nightmare in the Third Battle of Manassas.
For what seemed like hours, he and the Scotties waged a seemingly hopeless
battle against impossible odds. And as they did, Paul’s anger grew. Each
Scottie was a living person to him, one that he had helped bring into the
universe. How dare the evil of Errabêlu attack them or damage them in
any way!

It may have seemed like hours but was in reality only minutes,
as they fought the Oni tenaciously and, at the same time, fighting the weather.
There was little chance for a concerted coordinated action, the sheer chaos and
speed of the battle just didn’t permit it. Instead, it was pretty much each
individual on his own, defending himself while doing his best to attack the
enemy.

Paul saw hundreds of Scotties on the ground and hundreds
more struck from the skies, sometimes by hailstones but more often from flying
plasma bolts. And each time Paul saw an injured Scottie, a deep sense of loss
and pain stabbed him in the heart. With every step, he questioned his judgment.
Had he made the right decision? Even now, should he cut their losses and
withdraw, before they lost even more Scotties?

The utter pandemonium of the battle, the rapid casting of
high energy spells to both defend and attack worked to exhaust him. With
growing weariness, he savagely fought on.

And then, without the least degree of warning, a huge black
portal opened up in front of him and snapped up everyone in the vicinity.

TWENTY-THREE

Unknown location

Unknown time

Floating
weightlessly. Darkness everywhere. Those were the first things that commanded
his attention. And an overwhelming sense of disorientation, of being lost in a
vast nothingness.

The roar of the wind was gone. Paul noticed that as well. No
more rain either.

But there was the scream of an Oni.

With a twinge of fear, Paul raised his shields with one
spell, asserted a gravity field with another, and then enhanced his vision, the
better to see things around him. Even then, it was difficult to see anything,
mostly just shadows and vague shapes against a deeper darkness. Paul didn’t
dare create any light, lest he become an instant target of the Oni that was
somewhere in his vicinity.

There to his left, a shape spinning helplessly, another
spine-tingling roar of anger, fear, and aggression. Concentrating hard, Paul
cast another spell to render the Oni unconscious. And surprisingly, this time
it worked instantly, the form of the Oni ceasing to struggle against its
weightlessness, slowly cart-wheeling away.

And, without warning, there was light all around him.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Arcee 77 asked anxiously, a small ball
of intense light parked next to her.

Paul wiggled his arms, legs, fingers and toes. “Yes, I think
so,” he replied but inwardly suppressing his feelings of disorientation and loss.
“What is this place?” he asked indignantly.

More light appeared in different directions, allowing him to
see the strangest sight he had ever laid eyes on.

Hundreds of Scotties, all floating weightlessly—in a vast
space of nothingness.

Paul looked around, in several directions, his level of
confusion actually becoming even more acute. The background was the same
everywhere. A darkness that the light seemingly didn’t penetrate. With a spell,
Paul created a strong beam of light in his right hand to aim into the distance.
And saw nothing. It was as if there was nothing there to be seen, nothing at
all in this whole area of existence that could be seen, nothing except himself
and the Scotties around him. And nothing to give reference to the distances
involved.

It was like being in a vast cave where the walls were too
far away and could not even be glimpsed. For that matter, neither could the
floor or the ceiling. Indeed, it felt creepy that his personal spell of gravity
gave him an “up” and a “down”, but his feet were still searching for solid
ground beneath him.

“Dad, where are we?” Arcee 77 moaned.

That was an extremely good question.

“I wish I knew,” Paul replied honestly but with a wince.
“There is air here to breath. The temperature seems a little cool but otherwise
pleasant. But there is no gravity. How very strange.”

“This can’t be anywhere on Earth,” Arcee 77 concluded, fear
evident in her voice. “Not without gravity. Nor can we be in deep space since
there is air here.”

“Perhaps another dimension?” Andy 444 (from the TV series Eureka)
asked warily, floating a little closer to Paul.

“I don’t know,” Paul replied to the Scottie. “What was the last
thing you saw before you arrived here—wherever here is? Show me.”

A six foot wide by three foot tall display appeared in the
air in front of Paul. Scenes of the battle flashed across the screen, followed
by the sight of a huge portal snapping open, a total blackness visible through
its breach.

Then, nothing.

“That is what I saw too,” Paul admitted candidly. “Arcee 77,
please perform a roll call of everyone here. Find out if there are any injured Scotties
and see to their needs. After that, ask everyone what they saw just before they
came here. See if they can add any details to what you and I saw.”

“Okay, Dad,” the Scottie acknowledged briskly and then moved
off.

The vast nothingness beyond their group continued to disturb
him. So the wizards of Errabêlu had used a portal to transport them
someplace. But where? No place that Paul had ever heard of.

He reached out with both hands and attempted to create a
small portal, one leading back to the Manassas Regional Airport. The air in
front of him sputtered, the silver ring of a portal trying to form. But the
entire portal broke into a thousand tiny pieces and vaporized. He tried again,
with more power behind it, but the result wasn’t any different.

So. Wherever they were, they could not portal back to
Virginia.

Paul tried again, this time to different locations around
Earth. Potsdam, Moscow, Algiers, California, and Flint Island. Paul even tried
a portal to the Moon and one to Mars. The results were all the same. The
portals refused to form.

The panic threatened to return. They were trapped. He
thought of the other groups of Scotties, such as Jarvis 186 and I Corps that
had gone missing. And yes, even Bishop 911 and his platoon. Had they all been
portaled to someplace like this? Perhaps even this same place, just a little
farther out there somewhere, beyond their immediate vicinity?

Memories of various science fiction stories, films, and TV
programs came back to him. Were they in subspace? Hyperspace? Or some sort of
parallel universe? Or maybe some new dimension of space-time in their own
universe? How had the wizards of Errabêlu transported them here and,
more importantly, how could Paul and his Scotties escape?

The words of the wizard in Moscow, Dusha, came back to him.

Well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how bad it
could be. Trust me; you don’t want to find out. Surrendering now is your best
option…

Paul felt like screaming in rage. Yes, perhaps this was what
she had meant. This place certainly fit that description.

“Dad,” Arcee 77 came floating back. “There are 567 Scotties
here. And you are right, some of them are injured, seventeen of them badly so.
And there are a few others that are unconscious. I’ve set up teams to help them
as much as possible, but without supplies or special tooling, we will probably
lose some of them.”

Paul took a deep breath. “Please do what you can.”

“Sir, several of the Scotties tell me that they have tried
to portal out of here. They can’t get a stable portal to form.”

“Neither could I,” Paul openly admitted. “Arcee, ask for a
few volunteers. Send them out in various directions. Let’s see what is out
there around us. Perhaps we will find other groups of Scotties that were
snapped up by portals.”

“Good idea,” Arcee 77 said approvingly. “Six volunteers then,
one in each direction. How far out should I send them?”

“Tell them to take no chances. If they see anything, they
are to report back immediately. Anything that looks dangerous and they are to
come right back here immediately.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Merlin?” Paul said, in a half whisper. “Are you here?”

The familiar form of Merlin appeared, this time dressed in
his purple robe and his purple pointy wizard hat, the one adorned with yellow
stars.

“Merlin, we’ve got a problem,” Paul explained to him.

“But of course!” the hologram replied, glancing around. “My,
my, my! You are in a pickle this time, are you not?”

“I don’t suppose you could tell us where we are?” Paul asked
optimistically.

“Hmm, sorry, but I don’t recognize the place. Having said
that, hmm, it does seem vaguely familiar. Something I once read or maybe
something someone told me about once.” The ancient wizard shook his head.
“Sorry, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Arcee 77 returned. “Just about everybody volunteered, Dad,
even some of the injured. I selected six uninjured volunteers and sent them
out, each in a different direction.”

“Please keep me informed,” Paul asked of her. Where the
devil were they? Paul turned back to Merlin.

“It’s not Earth or any other planet,” he logically pointed
out to the sage. “And it isn’t outer space. Are there any magical places like
this? Some place in the mythology of magic or fantasy that fits the
description?”

Merlin shook his head. “Sorry. Nothing that comes to mind.”

“Sir!” Arcee 77 exclaimed in alarm. “I’ve just heard from
Tima 333,” (the anime film Metropolis, 2001) “and Leela 555,” (TV series
Futurama) “two of our volunteers! They can see each other in the
distance, sir! And they started out in opposite directions!”

Paul flinched in surprise. “You mean…?”

“I’m getting reports from Robby 747 and Andy 444 as well,”
Gort continued. “They can see each other too! And they went off in opposite
directions as well!”

“Ah! A closed space!” Merlin cackled. “What do you call it
in this century? Yes, a pocket universe! That’s it! Yes, that makes complete
sense now! A pocket universe!”

Paul was too stunned to say anything, too taken off guard to
know even what to think let alone to say.

“But how…?” Arcee 77 asked, bewildered.

Merlin slapped a knee, a huge grin on his face. “By George,
they did it! They honestly did it!”

“Did what?” Paul finally was able to ask.

“You came through a portal, didn’t you?” asked Merlin, his
face all lit up.

“Yes, we did,” a puzzled Paul confirmed.

“There’s your answer!” the old wizard boomed, throwing his
arms wide as if to imply that the whole situation was self-explanatory.

“Merlin!” Paul said, in exasperation.

“Okay, okay, I’ll explain,” the other said, chuckling. “It’s
one of those magical questions that we young wizards used to debate, back in
our heyday. Like how many angels can you get to dance on the head of a pin?
Well, this question was a little more intricate. Suppose you open a portal from
Point A to Point B. Then you open a second portal, from very close to Point B—say
a tenth of an inch from Point B—to Point C. Now, open a third portal, from a
tiny distance from Point C back to a tenth of an inch from Point A. Now, what
do you have?”

Paul blinked in surprise, the idea having never occurred to
him before. “A ring of portals?” he asked. “Could that be done?”

“Why not?” asked Merlin, grinning broadly. “I myself tried
doing it a time or two. Unfortunately, it takes a lot of magical energy to
convolute space in that fashion. It sort of resists being twisted that way.
And, to make a pocket universe, it must be self-sustaining, at least for an
hour or more. That takes a great deal more energy. In my day, we couldn’t get
it to work, not even with small portals. But these wizards of Errabêlu
seem to have it figured out! And on a large scale too! Large enough to capture
several hundred of your Scotties!”

Paul’s head roared with the concept. A ring of portals? All
positioned tightly together? His confusion factor went up yet again.

“That doesn’t make sense!” he objected loudly. “If it is a
closed ring, how did they put us inside the ring?”

Merlin shook his head at him. “It wasn’t closed—not until after
they put you inside. Then they formed the last portal to close the ring.”

Paul put his hands to his temples to try to lessen the
headache developing there. “Merlin, three portals that close together—we would
be coming out the last one before they could seal the ring closed!”

“You are thinking too small,” Merlin countered. “True,
portal transport is nearly instantaneous. But if the 2nd portal is a fraction
of an inch beyond the first, that introduces a time delay in transit, perhaps a
few milliseconds long.”

“A few milliseconds?” Paul asked. And then it hit him. If
one transition from the first portal to the second could delay a transport by
milliseconds, what would it take to delay total transport through the entire
ring by several seconds?

“It’s a ring of thousands of portals,” Paul breathed in
disbelief. “But the energy required—”

“Would be enormous,” Merlin finished for him. “I am almost
positive that I said that already. Errabêlu would need a lot of very
powerful talismans or one really huge talisman.”

“The Earth’s upper mantle,” Paul said, dropping the last
piece of the puzzle into place. “Of course, that explains the tornadoes, the
hailstones and the earthquakes! Zounds! The energy required!” He glanced around
the entire location. “And the air?”

“Was trapped with you when you entered the portal,” Merlin
added. “And, strictly speaking, this pocket universe is not completely sealed.
There are the gaps between portals. That will let in a little light and air,
although probably not much.”

Paul frowned. “Then why does it not let in gravity too?”

“Sir?” Rachael 222 (1982, Blade Runner) asked,
floating a few yards away.

Paul noticed then that their discussion had drawn the
attention of most of the Scotties.

“You have a question, Rachael?” Paul asked.

“If Merlin’s hypothesis is correct, is there any reason it
has to be a ring of portals?”

Paul blinked. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“We have created multi-ended portals before, Dad,” she
pointed out. “Theoretically, you could create a whole series of Y portals and
link them together in several geometric forms. Or X portals, for that matter.”

“Oh!” reacted Tima 333. “Like a cube?”

“Or a triangular prism?” asked Andy 444.

“Or perhaps a decahedron, or a dodecahedron, or a—”
volunteered Leela 555.

Paul held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, everybody, we
get the idea.” He turned to Rachael. “What does that have to do with gravity?”

“Well, Dad, if we are in some incredibly complex polyhedron,
then the direction of gravity would be dependent on which portal leg of the
geometric form we are moving through. And if we are moving among a lot of
different legs of the geometric form—”

“Then all the various vectors of gravity would cancel out,
leaving us weightless,” Paul concluded, noting with admiration how simple the
answer was, as soon as it was explained to him. “Very good, Rachael 222.”

“Smart thinking,” Merlin added, winking at the Scottie. He
turned back to Paul. “Okay, so you know where you are now. How do you get out?”

Paul looked around at all the Scotties, floating near him.
He could sense their faith in him. They expected him to pull a rabbit out of
the hat, or, in this case, to come up with a bright idea that would extract
them from imprisonment in a pocket universe.

Paul rubbed his jaw. “‘When confronted with a difficult
problem, you can solve it more easily by reducing it to this question: How
would the Lone Ranger handle this?’”

Ω

They discussed ideas for hours without coming to any
significant conclusions. And they tried a variety of spells, especially
experimenting with different portal spells, trying to find something that would
help them escape. Nothing significant came from their experiments.

Even worse, Merlin informed them that the pocket universe
could not sustain itself forever, that at some time in the future, it would
collapse and disintegrate. The effects on anything living trapped inside would
be fatal. The whole situation reminded Paul of a Star Trek: The Next
Generation episode, “Remember Me” where Wesley Crusher accidently trapped
his mother in a warp bubble, which slowly collapsed inward on her. Of course,
in the end, she managed to escape unharmed. Paul was not so sanguine concerning
their circumstances. In their case, they didn’t have The Traveler to help out
in a pinch. Paul’s sense of impending disaster disheartened him.

At his insistence, he and the Scotties took a brief break,
to collect their thoughts before they tried again.

Floating by himself for a minute left him time to think of
the outside world. What was happening out there? Had Daneel 1 and 4th Brigade
of 1st Division, I Corps managed to drill down to the lower mantle? Had they
stopped Errabêlu and then hopefully captured the evil wizards? Or had
the worst happened, and Errabêlu had won the battle, imprisoning most,
if not all, of the Scotties into pocket universes like this one? The
uncertainty gnawed grievously at him. More than anything else, Paul wanted to
find a way out of this trap, to return to the real world and continue the
fight. The hopelessness of the situation only served to feed his feeling of
despair and misery. There had to be a way out of this trap, there just had to
be!

Paul did not want to spend the last few hours or days of his
life spinning round and round in circles inside a pattern of portals!

Round and round in circles. Hmm. The tiny man at the back of
his head was at it again. A tiny voice was trying to tell him something. Paul
reached forward to grasp the idea, only to have it slip beyond his reach. He
pounded his head with the palms of both hands but it did no good. The idea
disappeared entirely.

Geez! Even his own subconscious mind was working against
him!

Another idea occurred to him, a devious one. He rubbed his
jaw. It might work.

Paul waved a hand. “In the names of Deanna Troi, Dr. Peter
Silberman, and Dr. Alfred Bellows, may a virtual reality avatar of myself be
created, to truthfully answer all questions of my conscious and unconscious
mind.”

A visual copy of himself formed a few feet away, but rotated
at a 45 degree angle, staring indifferently off in another direction, into
empty space.

With a tweak of his fingers, the avatar aligned itself in
his plane and facing him.

Arcee 77 drifted closer, apparently curious. “Dad, what is
going on?”

Paul held up a hand to silence her. “Paul Armstead, do you
know who I am?”

Like a zombie, the avatar nodded slowly. Without any
emotional inflection at all, the image of himself answered. “You are the real
Paul Armstead.”

Paul nodded. “And do you know where we are?”

“Yes. We are trapped inside a complex geometric three
dimensional shape composed of trans-spatial portals.”

“That’s correct.” Paul cocked his head to one side not
knowing what to expect for an answer to his next question. “Do you remember a
few minutes ago, an idea that nearly formed in our subconscious mind, an idea
that might have helped us escape from this trap?”

“Yes, of course,” the avatar replied impassively. “In your
subconscious, you were comparing yourself to a hamster running inside a
spinning cage.”

The mental image came forcefully to his conscious mind, and Paul
instantly realized that this indeed was the idea that had tickled his mental
processes a few minutes earlier. But he failed to see how hamsters would help
their situation.

“Why did I think of hamsters?” Paul asked.

“Because hamsters in a cage makes you think of water wheels
and those make you think of electric generators,” the avatar answered.

Stunned, Paul’s jaw dropped open. Geez, he could be such a
first class idiot!

He waved a hand and the avatar disappeared.

“What was all that about?” Arcee 77 asked.

“Get everyone over here,” Paul grimly ordered. “I know how
to break us out of this trap now.”

Ω

Crowded together, the Scotties and Merlin waited patiently
for Paul to explain his idea.

He told them of his mental image of hamsters and how it compared
with an electric generator.

“But Dad,” Omega 777 protested. “We are not in an electric
generator! And even if we were, how would that help?”

“Patience, grasshopper,” Paul said, eliciting a snicker from
all the Scotties present. “We aren’t generating electricity. That is true. But
our constant passage through all these portals is generating something else!”

“Neutrinos!” chorused several Scotties at once.

“Sure but how does that help?” Rachael 222 asked.

“If we string ourselves out in a long line, each of us can
map the level of neutrinos we generate as our bodies transit through the
various portals,” Paul explained. “Not all the portals will be equal. Some will
generate neutrinos with different energy levels than others. It will take some
computational power on our part, but eventually we can map the entire portal
structure of our pocket universe.”

“And this will help how, exactly?” Merlin asked, looking a
bit puzzled.

“We only need to break one portal link in the entire
structure to let us escape,” Paul told them smugly. “If we know how the
structure is built, we can focus all of our efforts on one portal link. Break
that and we escape.”

The Scotties all grew hands and arms and clapped for joy.

Merlin beamed from ear to ear. “Taught that boy everything
he knows! Does an old man proud, so he does!”

Ω

It did take a while. Fortunately, the geometric shape was
less complex than Paul feared. A hectohexecontadihedron with 306 portals.
However, there were a large number of possible trans-portal pathways. Errabêlu
could have shoved them down enough of these pathways and kept them away from
the open doorway until they were ready to close and lock it shut. It all made
sense.

The Scotties did all the hard math, since they were, in
essence, computers. Their calculations also identified what they believed to be
the weakest portal length in the entire structure.

In order to focus their energies on that one portal, they
again strung themselves out in a single line, one aligned with the shortest
pathway around the hectohexecontadihedron using the least number of portals
possible but a pathway that included their target portal. Then they began
moving quickly through that pathway, achieving a fairly significant speed. As
it happened, a Scottie passed through that portal every half second.

Timing their passage, each Scottie that passed through the
portal cast a burst of magical energy at the exact moment of passage. The
stress placed on that portal began to accumulate, especially since the entire
structure was weakening with age anyway.

Paul yelled, “‘Full power! Give me everything you’ve
got!’”

“‘If I were holding anything back, I would tell you!’”
simultaneously chorused the Scotties, quoting Lennier’s response to Sheridan in
the Babylon 5 episode “Messages From Earth.”

In less than five minutes, the portal link broke, revealing an
access to the outside world.

The Scotties began to scramble madly, diving through the
open portal in wild abandon. Paul stopped to help pull through some of the
injured and unconscious units.

When it was his turn, Paul was no less enthusiastic to see
the real world again.

His exit through the portal left him crawling in wet green grass.
As he got to his feet, Paul found he was only a few yards away from several graves.
Glancing around, he recognized the cemetery as the Stonewall Memory Gardens, a
couple of miles south of Stony Ridge.

The sky above them was blue and clear of cloud formations.

Paul turned to Arcee 77, a few yards away, who he noticed
was hovering near the grave of US Congressman Jay W. Johnson.

“Let me know when you have a link with anyone else,” Paul
requested, as he looked around the cemetery again, noting how quiet and
peaceful everything seemed to be. Internally, he was vastly relieved at their
escape, indeed almost euphoric. “We’ve been out of contact for nearly a day. It
would seem things have been happening in the meantime.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Paris, France

Castille Paris Hotel, Duplex Suite

33 – 37 rue Cambon

Friday, 7:02 a.m. CEST

June

The early
morning sun was just beginning to peak through the gaps in the window drapes.
Paul lay fully stretched out in bed, enjoying the luxurious feel of the sheets,
and the sublime softness of the pillow. Most of all, of course, he enjoyed
having Capie at his side, snuggled up warmly against him, her left hand on his
chest, as she softly breathed in his left ear. His degree of happiness and
contentment seemed to know no bounds.

Too bad his wife was still asleep. Well, it wouldn’t be long
before she woke up.

Paul was glad that the last three days were behind them now
and, starting the previous evening, that the two of them were now enjoying a well-earned
vacation.

When they—meaning 1st Division, I Corps and Paul—had escaped
from the pocket universe trap on Saturday, they did indeed discover that many
things had happened.

First, Daneel 1, Gort 737 and 4th Brigade had, to be sure,
drilled 650 miles straight down and managed to tap the power of Earth’s lower
mantle, far larger than the upper mantle and thus a far greater source of
energy for their magical spells. It had been a very near thing. Errabêlu
had managed to imprison nearly thirty thousand Scotties in pocket universes
scattered around the area, and to injure and incapacitate a few thousand more.
With Paul’s disappearance, Daneel 1 had been on the verge of canceling the
operation entirely, on his own authority. It was only the rapid progress of the
crustal drill that had encouraged the Scottie to stay in the fight for as long
as he had.

With their one major advantage negated, Errabêlu’s
resistance collapsed and the remaining Scotties were able to quickly surround
Stony Ridge, closing off all avenues of escape and capturing over a hundred
wizards and ten thousand Oni. All of the captives were stripped of their
talismans and moved to the Azkaban prison, now guarded by several battalions of
Scotties. The back of the organization was broken now, Errabêlu’s
existence a thing of the past.

For nearly a day following the battle, Daneel 1 and the remaining
Scotties had searched relentlessly for Paul and the missing Scottie units. Capie
had been contacted, of course, and had rushed to help in the search. The nature
of the pocket universe traps were unknown to them, so they had no real idea of
where to look. Attempts were made to interrogate the captive wizards of Errabêlu
but, as it turned out, most of those individuals did not know the secret
either. Only a few of the Conclave within Errabêlu possessed that
knowledge. And not one of them had been captured.

While thousands of Scotties were searching for Paul, other
thousands were recovering the injured from the battlefield. The butcher’s bill
was terribly high. 4,321 Scotties sustained injuries to one degree or another,
432 of them would require major work including new hardware components for
their repair. And 43 Scotties suffered catastrophic damage and would need a
complete rebuild of their hardware and reconstruction of their personalities
using their stored backup memory files. That part still saddened Paul the most.

After his escape and armed with the knowledge of how to find
and break open the pocket universes, Daneel 1 led the search efforts himself.
The good news was that he had been able to find all the missing Scotties,
including the pocket universe, nearly on the verge of collapse, containing
Bishop 911 and his platoon. Fortunately, none of the platoon was injured, only
badly frightened. It would take a few weeks to put everyone back to rights,
especially the 43 Scotties that needed a virtually complete rebuild.

The worst part of the last three days was the tongue-lashing
that Capie had given him, for heading off into the heart of the battle. He
endured it as stoically and as quietly as he could. After all, he understood in
his heart that she scolded him out of her love for him and out of her fear of
nearly having lost him. She had every right to be mad at him.

Nevertheless and notwithstanding, Paul felt that he had made
the right move. Had he not personally joined the battle, he might never have
discovered the nature of the pocket universes that Errabêlu had created.
At the very least, Paul would have lost Bishop, his platoon, Jarvis 186 and
most of I Corps, 1st Division, and probably would have lost a lot of other
Scotties from the other divisions as well, before those that were left could
have secured a proper withdrawal. And without knowing how they were trapped and
without his having access to the area, all those captured Scotties would likely
have died when their pocket universes collapsed a couple of days later.

Moreover, the war might have stalemated then and there, with
Errabêlu still in control of most of the other countries. That outcome
would have been a pathway to disaster.

So yeah, Paul had made the right choice. However, he found
it prudent not to argue any of that with Capie.

Some additional bad news arrived the previous evening from
Daneel 1. He had opened a microportal to the hotel and displayed his image for
Paul on a small 32 inch view screen. Paul remembered his exact words, quoting
as he did from the Star Trek episode “Space Seed.”

“Dad,” Daneel 1 said, “‘I have collected some names and made
some counts. By my estimate, there were some 80 or 90 of these young supermen
unaccounted for when they were finally defeated. Would you reveal to war-weary
populations that some 80 Napoleons might still be alive?’”

Of course, Paul had already known that they had not captured
all of the Errabêlu wizards. But he had not known that there were that
many missing!

The organization itself might be defunct, but the war would
go on, at least until they could capture more of those missing wizards. The one
thing he was sure of was that they would not be found in interstellar space on
a nuclear-powered DY-100 class ship!

Paul felt confident that it was only a matter of time before
the remaining wizards made their next move. In the meantime, Daneel 1 had
positioned a string of Scotties in low Earth orbit, watching ever diligently
for the bursts of neutrinos that would mark the use of magical energy emissions.
Maybe they would get lucky and catch more of them before they could create any additional
mayhem.

Maybe, but deep inside his soul, Paul doubted it.

Ω

On Wednesday morning, Capie and Paul reluctantly finished up
their mini-vacation in Paris. She grudgingly left for Africa, returning to her
humanitarian efforts, this time taking all of the remaining 55 gallon drums of MBE
Drug from the Mount Logan storage and a full Division of Scotties with her.
Paul half-heartedly left Paris via portal for Washington DC. His intent was to
check up on how repairs were coming on all their injured Scotties. He figured a
trip to see the injured might help lift their spirits.

Of course, Paul took Daneel 1 and Daneel 2 with him. He
suspected that they would enjoy the visit as well.

Before leaving Paris, Rommie 451 dropped by to tell him that
all her team’s preparations were made and that they were ready to remove Yuan
Wu and Hamadi’s magical powers whenever Paul was ready to have it done.

However, first things first. The trip to Virginia would come
first to the warehouse they had rented in Landmark. Later, he would coordinate
with Daneel 3 on strategic efforts to find and apprehend the still missing Errabêlu
wizards.

His Scotties came first.

It turned out to be a good thing, his visit to the injured
Scotties. They cheered him up more than he did them. That had not been Paul’s
intent, but it was certainly the end result.

Many of the injured units would be back in full service
before the month was over with. In some cases, a few Scotties would have an
extended wait, there being a real shortage of some special parts needed for
their complete repair. New fabrication shops were being set up around the globe
by teams of Scotties, just to make critical replacement parts, up to and
including new CPUs themselves. If the Scotties were going to stay in service
for the next few hundred years, they would need a constant source of such
components.

Ω

At 2 p.m., Daneels 1, 2, 3, and Paul portaled to the Azkaban
prison. Rommie 451, Talos 22, and Daryl 71 met them in the warden’s office.

“Hi, Dad. Welcome to the Rock again,” Daryl 71 said, his
face beaming from his holographic face.

Paul grimaced at the poor pun. “Ha-ha, son.” He glanced
around the room. “I understand you’ve made some improvements.”

“Yep, that we have. We had to—what with all the new
prisoners we’ve been sent. The prison has been expanded; most of the new space
is underground, of course. We’ve more than tripled our room.” He extruded an
arm from the side of his cube and used it to point in several different
directions. “There are tunnels leading from this chamber to all of the wings of
the prison. We’ve segregated the prisoners into three groups: men, women, and
Oni. After the first week, we discovered that the Oni were just too violent as
prisoners. They were constantly causing us trouble so we’ve put all of them
into stasis fields. It cut down on our food and water needs too. Now the prison
population is more manageable. I’d love to give you the fifty cent tour, let
you see everything.”

Paul raised a hand and smiled. “Well, we aren’t really here
for that. Perhaps at a later date.” He turned to Rommie 451. “You’re ready?”

“Yep,” Rommie 451 answered, if anything, with a larger smile
than that of Daryl 71. “We’ve created a whole separate wing of rooms for this
project.”

Daryl 71 couldn’t seem to restrain himself. “I’ve got to
say, it’s exciting, the work she is doing. Just thrilling. It gives me goosebumps.
Well, if I had real skin, it would give me goosebumps. Turning wizards into
Normals. What an idea! Brilliant, positively brilliant. Oh, yes, just come this
way and I’ll lead you right to the lab.”

Rommie 451 smiled and her image produced a small shrug. Paul
nodded in the direction of the corridor and they fell into step behind Daryl 71.

He escorted the group to a large unfurnished gray rock room
several floors down, guarded by a team of Scotties. Hamadi and Wu were chained
to chairs which had been carved from solid rock. Both of the Errabêlu
wizards wore tired, pained expressions.

The Daneels joined the other Scottie cubes but declined to
project their human images, preferring instead to observe Paul’s interview of
the two prisoners.

With a quick spell, Paul sat on an invisible cushioned chair
in front of the two dejected looking wizards and smiled pleasantly at them.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. Yuan refused to meet his gaze. Hamadi
produced a small shrug but didn’t reply.

“Akbar? May I call you Akbar?” Paul politely asked Hamadi.
“I would like to talk with you for a few minutes. I can either talk to you or
to your avatar. Which would you prefer?”

At the mention of the word ‘avatar’, both men flinched.

“I can speak for myself,” Hamadi replied frostily. “What is
it you want?”

Paul considered how best to approach the subject. “Back in
Transylvania, you threatened to kill both my wife and I. Were you serious?”

The Errabêlu wizard wrinkled his nose in distain. “It
wasn’t anything personal! Just business. It would have been quick and as
painless as possible. It still will be too, once I am rescued, I promise you
that, despite all the pain and inconvenience you’ve caused me.”

Paul chewed on his answer for a moment. “You expect to be
rescued?”

Hamadi stared back at him in astonishment. “Of course I do! Silly
question. Do you really think you can win this war? Crazy you are! Nobody can
stand up to the wizards of Errabêlu. I admit that your metal monsters
here are quite formidable so it should be quite a battle, yes. But the outcome isn’t
even in question.”

It was more or less what Paul expected the other man would
say. Even as a prisoner, Hamadi’s arrogance and condescension knew no bounds.

“And when you’re back in Europe,” Paul went on, “you will
continue with your preparations for World War III, correct?”

Hamadi chuckled softly for a moment. “So you know about
that, do you? Well, I guess it isn’t much of a secret. The signs are
everywhere; any fool can see that! But it’s for the good of Errabêlu, yes?
To be sure, Normies are going to die. Can’t be helped. But their loss isn’t
important. It’s the way things are, the way the human race has been for most of
Earth’s history. You’ll see. Oh, I forgot, you won’t be there. Well, take my
word for it. It will.”

His words verified Paul’s theory. The only effective ways to
stop the wizards from starting World War III would be to imprison them all or
kill them…or, thanks to Rommie 451 and Talos 22, strip them of their powers. It
was time to test the theory and Hamadi had just proven to Paul that, in his
case, it was fully justified.

Paul turned to Yuan Wu. “And you? Do you agree with him?”

Wu continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring him.

Paul signaled to the three Daneels. “I would like your
inputs, please. As I see it, there are three choices. Imprisonment, death, or
conversion. I vote for conversion. Opinions, please?”

Hamadi glanced around, puzzled. “What’s this conversion
business?”

Daneel 1 spoke one word firmly. “Conversion.”

Daneels 2 and 3 said in unison, “We agree.”

Hamadi was growing increasingly agitated. “What’s this
conversion nonsense?!”

Paul nodded at Rommie 451 and stood up. She grew two arms
from her cube and approached Yuan Wu first.

Turning back to Hamadi, Paul said, “You’ve killed for the
last time, Akbar. When you wake up, you won’t be a wizard any more. We’re going
to strip you of your powers. For the first time in your murderous life, you are
going to know what it’s like to be a Normie. Let’s see if you can take it as
well as you dished it out, murderer!”

“You aren’t serious!” the Errabêlu wizard shouted in
growing horror and fear. “No one can turn a wizard into a Normie! It can’t be
done!” Frantically, he spun to watch Rommie 451 move closer. “It can’t be done!”
he screamed. “Aaaahhhh!”

She put both him and Yuan Wu into a comatose state.

“Please keep me informed, okay?” Paul asked her, wearing a
wicked grin.

Rommie 451 smiled back. “Consider it done, Dad. ‘Piece of pie.’”

Ω

Thursday morning, Paul took the three Daneels with him to
the Panoramic View Oceanfront Resort on Long Island, New York and rented a
poolside cabana for a day. The weather was gorgeous so they took the
opportunity to sit in deck chairs alongside the pool, shaded by a patio sized
umbrella. Their location afforded them an undisturbed view of the beach as
well, under a cloudless blue sky. The sound of the surf combined with the ocean
breeze was practically paradise on Earth and Paul relaxed for a few hours,
basking in the breeze. The three Daneels seemed to enjoy his enjoyment as well,
even if they couldn’t feel the warm sun or the breeze themselves.

Alas, the enjoyment was much too short-lived.

A microportal formed over their heads, just under the peak
of the umbrella.

“Ah, Dad?” spoke all three Daneels simultaneously.

Paul glanced at them. “I can tell from the tone in your
voices that something is up.”

“Unfortunately, you are right, Dad,” Daneel 1 said with a
sigh. “We are in communication with Eve 32.” (Eve of Destruction, 1991)
“As I’m sure you remember, she’s been assigned as ambassador to the Canadian
government.”

The three Scotties were making Paul increasingly
apprehensive. “Is something happening in Canada?” he asked.

The three Daneels glanced at each other. “Perhaps you should
talk to her directly.”

A medium-sized display formed in mid-air. On it, a
thirty-something brunette woman dressed in conservative clothing looked
directly at him.

Eve 32 was in human form, a preference for most Scotties who
were dealing directly with human governments. Paul could not fault their
thinking on that score.

“Yes, Eve?” he asked uneasily.

“Dad?” she said, her voice a rich contralto. “This morning,
at our offices near Parliament Hill here in Ottawa, a woman knocked on our
front door and asked if we could arrange a meeting with you.”

“And who is this woman?” Paul asked, confused. Other than a
few Scotties, he didn’t know anyone in Canada.

“She says she is a wizard. She claims to be Isadora Eloá
Camila Ferreira, a naturalized citizen of Brazil. She also claims to have a
message from Oliver Jacob Clarke, a message that she will deliver only to you.
She’s here now.”

Paul rubbed his left temple. Oliver Jacob Clarke, a senior
leader in Errabêlu, was one of the missing eighty or so supermen that
Daneel 1 had alluded to just a few days before.

“Dad,” Daneel 1 said. “I can confirm her name on the list of
missing Errabêlu wizards.”

“I see,” Paul said, growing increasingly disturbed by the
turn the conversation had taken.

“Sir,” Daneel 3 interrupted. “We can’t let her into your presence,
not with a functional talisman in hand.”

“Just what I was thinking,” Daneel 2 remarked.

“Fine,” Paul said, turning back to Eve. “Ask her if she
would like to pass along this message of Clarke’s by way of this microportal.”

“I’ll ask her,” Eve responded.

The screen went blank for a few minutes. While they waited,
Paul talked to the Daneels about the possible content of the message from
Clarke. They shared the consensus that it meant trouble. Either Clarke stood
ready to negotiate his surrender—on his terms, of course—or he was up to
no-good. Daneel 3 even proposed the idea that Clarke might demand Paul’s
surrender. Even though the idea seemed ludicrous, Paul did not discount it. The
arrogance of the Errabêlu’s wizards was totally beyond question. Even
after the loss of most of his organization, Clarke still might find a plan that
he thought would give him the stronger hand.

When the screen lit up again, it was to show the beautiful
face of a young woman with black dazzling eyes, strong eyebrows and jet black
hair.

“Señora Isadora Eloá Camila Ferreira, I presume,” Paul said,
with a small nod. “Bom dia.”

“Mr. Paul Armstead,” she returned. “Courteous as well as
very handsome, I see.”

“And you, no doubt, have turned many a man’s eye yourself,”
Paul said politely in reply.

She smiled graciously and acknowledged his compliment with a
small nod. “I have been charged with a message to give to you, from someone you
may know as Oliver Jacob Clarke.”

“Can you give that message to me over this link?” Paul
asked.

“I believe I can deliver the principles of it,” she
answered, steepling her hands in front of her. “Jacob Clarke wishes you to
understand his message should be considered as an ultimatum, as I believe you Norte
Americanos would call it. He says that you must first release all the
wizards you have kidnapped, you must also stand down your metal machines and,
most important, that you, in person, must surrender yourself to him. All these
things must be completed before noon, Eastern Daylight Time on the coming Saturday.
The location is to be in front of the Theodore Roosevelt Statue on Theodore
Roosevelt Island, in the middle of the Potomac River, in Washington DC.”

The gall of the man was simply unbelievable. It left Paul
feeling angry but he did his best to squash the feeling.

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t see it at all. “And what
terms does he offer?”

She gave a female shrug. “Unconditional, I believe.”

Paul heard Daneel 3 mutter something softly, under his
breath. Paul ignored the Scottie.

“That doesn’t sound like a very attractive offer, Señora
Ferreira,” Paul pointed out. “Please tell me, did Clarke specify any—shall we
call them consequences?—if I chose not to take him up on his offer?”

“Why, yes, he did mention some such, I believe,” she said,
with a broad smile. “Let me quote him: ‘For every day beyond the deadline that
you don’t comply with these demands, I will atomize a major city somewhere on
Earth.’ Yes, I am fairly certain that is an exact quote.” Ferreira raised her
left eyebrow. “May I take back your reply to him?”

Paul sat back in his chair, stunned, his anger returning
tenfold.

“Did he say which cities?” Paul managed to ask through a red
haze.

She frowned in thought. “I believe that he is prepared to
target as many cities as it takes, but I remember he did mention two in
particular. I think he said he would start with Los Angeles, California. Oh,
and also with Lancaster, California. I understand Lancaster is close to where
you once lived? Is that correct?”

“Señora Ferreira, millions of people would die!” Paul said,
struggling to maintain his composure.

“Yes, millions of Normies would die,” she agreed, with a
casual wave of her hand, graciously granting the truth of his declaration. “And
since you claim to care about Normies so much, you can save all of their lives
by complying with Clarke’s demands. One life to save millions, even if they are
just Normies, that’s not too bad a trade, is it not? Not for someone who says
he cares about them.”

For a moment, Paul closed his eyes in exasperation and
outrage. It was a very good thing for Señora Ferreira that she was not
personally present, given his momentary impulse to strangle the living
daylights out of her, after which Paul would cheerfully beat her body into a
lumpy, pulpy, gooey mess. Fortunately for her, he was successfully able to
regain control of his emotions, though just barely.

“Are there any other parts of Clarke’s message that you care
to pass along?” Paul asked her, his voice seething with anger. “That is, before
I terminate this nauseating conversation?”

If anything, Señora Ferreira’s smile grew larger. “A lot of
lives are at stake, Mr. Armstead. A lot of Normies will die, including
Americans, if you choose not to surrender. And consider this: at least Clarke
is not asking your lovely wife to surrender as well. He wanted to demand that
too, but others in Errabêlu talked him out of it.” She paused a moment
before continuing. “There will be no further communication with us after this
point. Just release our wizards, shut down your metal monsters, and show up at
the Theodore Roosevelt statue, at your convenience. It’s being watched. You
have our word that no Normie will be harmed after you turn yourself in. The
choice is yours, Mr. Armstead.”

With a wave of her hand, Paul saw a portal form behind her.
She turned and disappeared through it. The microportal and display disappeared
as well.

“The nuclear blackmail option,” Daneel 3 said. “You
predicted it was possible, Dad, but never in my wildest dreams did I believe
they could be so monstrous, so evil as to consider using it against us.”

Paul nodded grimly, his stomach in pain from the acid
indigestion he had suddenly acquired. “I too considered it to be unlikely, the
ultimate act of evil and of desperation too.” He looked up at Daneel 1. “We
have, what, 45½ hours before the deadline? You know what needs to be done, but
please find Daneel 10 first and see how much progress he has made. Oh, and
Daneel 2, please find Capie, bring her up to date. Please ask her to join us in
the Situation Room of the Mount Logan facility.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The Saint Elias Mountains, Canada

Mount Logan Facility

Situation Room

Thursday, 3:12 p.m. EDT

July

Less than an
hour later found all of them buried in the depths of headquarters.

More specifically, the Situation Room.

Capie and Paul sat near the head of one of the tables. More
than a hundred Scotties floated around the room, mostly the corps, division and
brigade commanders and members of their staffs. There was a general murmur of
background conversations. Present amongst the Scotties, in addition to the
commanders and staff, were Rommie 451, Daneel 5, Valerie 42 (1995 TV series, The
Outer Limits), and Daneel 10, all tasked with special assignments.

Valerie 42 served as the commanding officer of MIB (Military
Intelligence Bureau), the Scottie intelligence agency. Daneel 10 worked in the
same organization but had a more specific assignment.

“Are we ready?” Paul turned and asked Daneel 1, whose cube
was floating not far away.

“Yes, Dad, I believe we are,” Daneel 1 replied grimly. He
floated a little higher above the table.

“Everyone! Attention, please!” he said in an amplified
voice.

The side conversations in the room died away.

“As you know, the enemy has elected to pursue a Nuclear
Blackmail option, a version remarkably similar to our NB Scenario Number 5, as
we played them in our Mars war-game simulations,” the Scottie reported. “As you
also know, the NB Scenarios were first envisioned by Dad, but even he thought
of them only as an act of extreme contingency, to counter the ultimate
desperation by Errabêlu. Because of Dad’s foresight, we do have prepared
responses in case one of the NB options was employed against us. Make no
mistake; without having played those war-games simulations and identifying
potential responses, we would have stood no chance in preventing the deaths of
millions of human beings. But with the experience we now have, we might have
that chance. I will now turn the time over to Valerie 42. Commander?”

Another Scottie cube, halfway down the table, floated
forward.

“As all of you know,” Valerie 42 said with a soprano voice,
her holographic image that of a striking auburn haired woman, “Oliver Clarke
has threatened to nuke a number of cities, including Lancaster, the largest
city of any size closest to Mojave, Dad’s hometown, as one of his first
targets.” Valerie 42 paused for a moment. “The first question for us to answer,
of course, is whether or not this is a bluff. Does he truly have the weapons to
carry out this threat? I will leave that question to Daneel 10 to answer. The
next question is a bit more complicated. As we know, nuclear weapons,
especially American nuclear weapons, are engineered with strong safeguards
built-in. They utilize PALs, short for Permissive Action Links. The details are
complex but essentially, without the proper codes, the nuclear devices cannot
be detonated. So the next question becomes, assuming Clarke has the weapons,
can he detonate them? Again, I will have to defer this question to Daneel 10.
Daneel?”

Valerie returned to her ‘seat’ while Daneel 10 floated to
the front of the room.

“So, as Valerie asked, question number one,” the Scottie
said without preamble. “Does Clarke have the warheads? As you know, my
department in MIB was given the assignment of locating and tracking all of the
nuclear weapons in the world. We have been working on that task ever since the
simulated war games ended back on Mars.”

He turned slightly to face Paul. “Dad, I know that time is
short so let me just lay the bad news out for you right now. Clarke may very
well have nuclear weapons in hand. At this point in our tasking, we can’t tell
you that he doesn’t.”

Paul frowned in disappointment but not surprise. He was
half-way expecting this negative report. On the other hand, Capie didn’t look
convinced.

“Why not?” she asked. “Can’t you just check to see if any
country is missing a few such weapons? I mean, don’t they keep a pretty tight
control on that sort of thing?”

Daneel 10 nodded. “Yes and no, Mom. Let me explain and I’ll
start with the United States first. From 1946 to 1989, the United States
manufactured more than 70,000 nuclear warheads of 65 different models.”

Capie gasped. “That many? Really? I didn’t know.
Haven’t they dismantled most of those?”

“Yes, they have,” replied Daneel 10. “Especially the ones
built before 1970. For the most part, those older warheads were inefficient
designs anyway and no longer served a viable purpose. You see, the early
weapons were designed to target mostly cities. They had a high CEP or Circle of
Error Probability. That’s another way of saying that the early weapons weren’t
very accurate. But then, with yields in the megatons and sometimes tens of
megatons, they didn’t have to be accurate. As the saying goes, close only
counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and H-Bombs.

“But later, starting in the very late 1960’s and continuing
through the 1980’s both the US and Soviet military planners went through a slow
but significant paradigm shift. They still targeted cities, but those became of
secondary importance. Instead, the accuracy of the new delivery systems—the
ICBMs and the submarine launched ballistic missiles along with the new cruise
missiles—began to allow targeting of strictly military targets. Each country
could, and each did, start targeting the other side’s delivery systems, such as
missile silos, nuclear air-bases, and where possible, ballistic missile
submarines. The idea was to take out the enemy delivery systems before
they could be used in a nuclear exchange. The improved accuracy of the delivery
systems gave both sides that increasing capability.”

Most of this was familiar to Paul, but he could tell by
Capie’s sour expression that it was news to her.

“But with so many warheads, couldn’t they hit both types of
targets?” she asked.

“Theoretically, yes. In reality, it wasn’t likely,” Daneel
10 answered. “You see, once the missiles started flying, it was problematic how
long such a war would last. There were already far more nuclear warheads than
there were ways to deliver them. And with each side targeting the others silos,
bombers and submarines first…well, I think you see the point. With the
increasing accuracy and the change of primary targets, neither side needed
warheads in the megaton range anymore, especially when they were losing
interest in cities as primary targets. Indeed, when they were targeting silos,
the mushroom cloud from a 5 or 10 megaton detonation interfered with any follow-on
warheads ability to target and hit another silo in the same general area.”

“Oh, I never thought about that,” Capie said. “Though it
makes sense, in a ghoulish sort of way.”

Daneel 10 nodded then went on. “Since the warheads could now
be smaller, this provided the option to put more warheads on a single missile.
Which the United States did by deploying the first Multiple Independent Reentry
Vehicle or MIRV capable ICBM in 1970, the Minuteman III. That missile carries
three warheads, which could each be independently targeted, meaning it could
hit three separate targets from one missile. Since then, the missiles have
continued to be more accurate and to carry more MIRVs. Naturally, with the
introduction of MIRV warheads, the old multi-megaton warheads became obsolete
and newer ones had to be designed and built, although, in a few cases, the old
ones could be upgraded to do the job. That explains, to some degree, why the
United States built so many warheads.”

“You still haven’t told me why we can’t quickly find out if
any weapons are missing or not,” Capie complained with a grimace.

“I’m getting there,” Daneel 10 said. “Now, in the United
States arsenal of nuclear weapons, there are three categories. The current crop
of warheads is in the first such category, known as Active Service. These are
the warheads in current deployment, all connected to ICBMs, cruise missiles or
other delivery systems. And yes, these weapons are tightly controlled. If one
or more of them went missing, it would be noticed immediately—if not sooner.

“The second category is known as the Hedge Stockpile. This
includes warheads that are fully operational but kept in storage, ready to be
mounted to a missile or loaded in a bomber or whatever, if something happened
to a warhead in Active Service. The warheads in this category are also pretty
tightly controlled, but not as tightly as those in Active Service. I would
think that an intelligent clever wizard could steal a few such warheads from
the Hedge Stockpile and they wouldn’t be missed for days, perhaps weeks at a
time.

“The last group is known as Inactive service. These are
warheads that are on their way to retirement and being eventually dismantled.
Most of them have had critical components removed. In other words, they aren’t
operational but, with enough time and additional components, could be made
operational again, if they were needed. This is the group of warheads that most
concerns me. These are the older, in some cases, larger warheads, less closely
watched, and thus easier to steal. These weapons are stored in a lot of
different locations, and thus harder to inventory. I believe that any competent
wizard, with some sleight-of-hand, could steal almost any of these warheads
that he wanted, and create the paperwork to imply that it exists but is simply
stored somewhere else.”

Daneel 10 looked at them soberly. “If Clarke stole American
warheads, these are the ones he would have taken. They offer him three
advantages. First, they are easier to steal. Second, he could choose some
rather large warheads, in the multi-megaton range, which would be better suited
to a large metropolitan area such as Los Angeles. And third, the vintage
warheads are easier to arm and detonate.”

Again, Capie blinked and shook her head. “Why would they be
easier to arm and detonate?” she asked.

“Because of the nature of the launch and arming codes
required,” Daneel 10 replied. “You see, up until the early 1960’s, none of the
US warheads required such a code to launch or arm them.”

Even Paul’s jaw dropped at that one. “None of them?!”
Capie and Paul asked, simultaneously.

Daneel 10 nodded. “The military felt that it would hinder
their ability to launch the weapons. They envisioned a sudden all-out nuclear
surprise attack by the Soviets. Under such a scenario, there would literally be
only minutes for them to respond. Obtaining the necessary codes and
implementing them would probably take too long. It wasn’t until President
Kennedy issued an Executive Order in the early 1960’s that the military was forced
to implement the first security codes. By today’s standards, those first codes
were a joke. They consisted of 3 digit combination locks, similar to a bicycle
lock. A little later, they went to a 4 digit lock.”

Paul produced a wintery smile. “Those wouldn’t be much of a
challenge to a wizard to bypass.”

Daneel 10 nodded again, in total agreement. “Over time, the
Permissive Action Links were upgraded. All Active Service warheads now use
Class F codes, which requires a 12 digit computer code and provides for some
rather sophisticated options.”

Capie stared at the table. “So, he could have stolen earlier
warheads, ones that would be relatively easy for a wizard to bypass the code
and detonate. One with larger warheads.”

“It’s entirely possible,” Daneel confided to them. “Assuming
he stole American warheads. On the other hand, he could have stolen Soviet
warheads, which I believe to be even more likely.”

Capie sighed in discouragement and sat back in her seat.
“Why is that, Daneel?”

“In the United States, it is frequently said that there are
so many government agencies, that the right hand does not know what the left
hand is doing,” Daneel explained. “But in the Soviet Union, even the fingers
and thumbs have no clue what the other fingers and thumbs are up to. No one
knows how many warheads the Soviets built, but it was decidedly more than the
United States constructed. Not even the Russians know how many, but it is known
that they probably manufactured fewer types. Probably. The breakup of the
Soviet Union did not help the situation either. Some nuclear warheads ended up
in client states such as the Ukraine. Some of those were shipped back to
Russia. Others were not. The confusion factor is high. Very high.”

Capie rubbed her brow.

“Is there more?” Paul asked.

“A little,” Daneel 10 replied. “The Soviets tended to build
larger weapons than the U.S. and for a longer period of time too. In general
they were still making large multi-megaton warheads after the U.S. was
downsizing theirs. In addition, first the Soviets and then the Russians have
been slower to retire and dismantle their old warheads, even when they had no
particular use for them anymore. In some cases, they simply stored them in
warehouses and forgot them. Dismantling a warhead takes real money and for them,
that has been a problem.”

The Scottie briefly sighed before continuing on. “And then
there is the matter of the PALs and the codes. The Soviets were slower to
implement any warhead safety systems. Those too cost money and slowed the
deployment/response times. Instead, they preferred to control their warheads
through procedures and bureaucratic interlocks. They put soldiers to watch the
warheads, soldiers to watch the soldiers, and soldiers to watch the soldiers
watching the soldiers. They didn’t begin using launch codes and other such
security lockouts until the early 1970’s and their codes never reached the
level of complexity that the Americans use.”

Paul shrugged and shook his head in exasperation. “So.
Clarke could have stolen American warheads, but you think that he more likely
stole Soviet ones instead.”

“That’s it in a nutshell, yes,” Daneel 10 agreed with a sad
smile. “I think you have no choice, Dad, but to assume that he has them in hand
and can arm and detonate them whenever he chooses.”

Paul turned to Daneel 1. “Have you started search teams
yet?”

The Scottie nodded. “There are two entire divisions now in
low Earth orbit and portions of a third. Of course, it would be easier if we
knew which cities to search.”

Paul sat and thought a few moments. “We need more manpower
than that. And even then, it will take time to be thorough.”

“True, Dad,” responded Daneel 1. “But I need your
authorization to release the other units for the search effort.”

Paul turned back to Capie. “I apologize, dear. But we will
probably need every Scottie to search for these warheads, including the units
in Africa.”

She grimaced. “I understand completely. Do what you have
to.”

“Daneel,” Paul said. “If we put every Scottie into the
search effort, how long will it take to search every large city in the world
for nuclear warheads?”

“According to our preliminary calculations, roughly 3.5
days, Dad,” the Scottie replied. “And that is only searching cities with
populations of more than 500,000 people. If we could do active scanning, such
as we used on Mars when we were looking for titanium and beryllium, we could
search the entire world in less than two hours.”

“But that would require an active scan,” Paul pointed out,
shifting uneasily in his chair. “And it would be detectable and would alert
Clarke. They would likely detonate at least one and possibly more of those
warheads, to make us back off.”

“Yes, that is what we surmised could happen when we ran the
war-game scenarios back on Mars,” Daneel I acknowledged.

“Please refine your calculations,” Paul requested, weighing
his words carefully. “I think we should put out the necessary instructions and
get everyone into space and start the search. Everybody except 1st Battalion,
4th Brigade, 2nd Division, II Corps. I would like to borrow them for a few
hours, at least. You can have them back later.”

“What are you going to do?” Capie asked him, a puzzled frown
on her face.

“We need to buy some time,” Paul answered her, reaching out
to take her hand. “I’m afraid you are not going to like my plan. For that
matter, even I don’t like it, but I don’t see many acceptable alternatives.”

Ω

The search method they referred to in the Situation Room,
the method that the Scotties would be using to look for hidden nuclear warheads,
was one they had developed during their war-game simulations back on Mars. They
owed credit to Gerty 2 (2009 film Moon), one of several of their experts
on nuclear engineering.

In her self-education on all things nuclear, Gerty 2 un-earthed
a scientific discovery made at Purdue University, namely that the rate of decay
of radioactive materials was not a constant, despite what Paul had been taught
at high school and in college. Researchers at Purdue noted that the radioactive
decay rates of silicon 32 and radium 226 were a smidgen higher during the day
versus at night, and slightly higher when the Earth was closer in its
elliptical orbit to the Sun than when it was father away.

Their theory, which the Scotties had laboriously confirmed,
was that solar neutrinos were responsible. Variations in neutrino flux were
determined to be the cause for a slight but measureable change in the decay
rate of radioactive materials. It was this principle that the Scotties would
exploit in their search technique for Errabêlu’s alleged nuclear
weapons.

Neutrinos were nearly massless particles which only weakly
interact with ordinary matter. Indeed, according to one scientific estimate
Paul had once read, an average low-energy neutrino could safely sail completely
through 50 light-years of solid lead! How neutrinos, which had so little interaction
with normal matter, somehow affected radioactive decay rates was a complete
mystery to Earth’s physicists. And, too, for the Scotties as well. However, the
process didn’t need to be understood in order to exploit it.

1st Brigade, 1st Division of II Corps were the first
Scotties to move into search position, 360 miles directly over the Dodger
Stadium, virtually dead center of the city of Los Angeles. The 360 mile
distance put the Scotties as close to any Errabêlu wizards on the
Earth’s surface as Paul dared allow them to be, lest the brigade’s presence be
otherwise detected.

The Scotties spread out horizontally, spacing themselves a
distance of 60 feet from each other, creating a huge circular disk. By way of
WiFi connections, they coordinated creating a huge portal, reaching outward 4.3
miles in diameter.

The portal they created was very specific in intent. One end
of the portal reached out, in a direct line with the sun, to a point just
inside the orbit of Venus, 43.8 million miles from Earth. The spell which
created the portal was highly singular, intentionally cast to allow only one
type of matter to transit through: solar neutrinos. Nothing else, not even
photons or radiation, was permitted. The level of solar neutrino flux at Venus
was double that of Earth. Added to the normal neutrino flow arriving at Earth,
the solar neutrinos coming through the portal tripled the amount now raining
down on Dodger Stadium and the immediate area.

The Scotties reached out and cast a second spell, which
created a giant convex lens around themselves. Again, the spell was very
specific and affected only solar neutrinos. Adjusting the focal point of the
lens, they were able to further concentrate the neutrino flux so that at ground
level around the stadium, in a circle one mile in diameter, the flux level was
840% of normal. Outside the circle, the flux level dropped to zero, out to a
diameter of 4 miles, under the “shadow” of the convex lens.

Inside the one mile circle, every radioactive element
responded to the 840% increase in solar neutrinos by doubling its rate of
decay, emitting twice as many gamma rays, neutrons, alpha particles and what
not as normal.

2nd Brigade, 1st Division of II Corps arrived after 1st
Brigade was fully in place, and like the 1st Brigade, the Scotties of 2nd
Brigade formed a large circle as well, their formation centered around the
convex lens of 1st Brigade but fifty feet closer to Earth. 2nd Brigade spread
themselves out 50 yards apart, their much larger configuration 50 miles in
diameter. They too cast a spell, forming a field designed to detect the
emission of anti-neutrinos. This field, which had a very narrow beam-width, was
aimed at the heart of the one mile circle of 1st Brigade’s target, where the
solar neutrinos were focused. All of the Scotties of 2nd Brigade were also
linked together by WiFi. It was their job to closely monitor any anti-neutrinos
emanating from that one mile circle. Under normal circumstances there would be
some few detected, perhaps a couple of hundred such anti-neutrinos per second.
For all intents and purposes, this would be nothing more than background
radiation.

Unless and until that circle of solar neutrinos encountered
a nuclear warhead. The solar neutrino beam would go right through the lead and
steel casing of the warhead itself, just as easily as neutrinos passed through
the center of the Earth (or 50 light years of lead). But the neutrinos would
greatly increase the decay rate of the warhead’s plutonium 239, the uranium 235,
and the tritium in the core. Oh, not enough to exceed critical mass. The
consequences of that event would be disastrous indeed! But, by Gerty 2’s
calculations, due to the two-stage design of all U.S. and Soviet warheads, the
radioactive decay of the plutonium 239 could be safely doubled without
triggering the device itself.

No, the increased output of the radioactive materials inside
the device could not pierce the bomb casing to the point that the Scotties
could detect it. It could, of course, be argued that the increase in decay rate
could be detected if at least one Scottie could make his way to within a few
yards of the warhead’s location. But, in reality, this risk wasn’t necessary.
During the radioactive decay process of both the warhead’s plutonium and uranium
components, six anti-neutrinos would be released for every fission event. And
anti-neutrinos were just as influenced by matter as were neutrinos, which was
to say, virtually not at all. The anti-neutrinos would escape the warhead,
passing right through the casing as easily as the solar neutrinos did entering
it.

The increased level of the anti-neutrinos, of course, would
be instantly seen by 2nd Brigade. The anti-neutrino flux level would go up from
only a couple hundred per second to tens of thousands per second. The change in
that flux level would alert both 1st and 2nd Brigades that they had
successfully located a nuclear warhead.

This was their search plan, the one they tested
efficaciously on Mars several times. The most consequential advantage it
provided was to allow detection of nuclear warheads from Earth orbit, hundreds
of miles away and without any of the wizards on Earth knowing that such a
search was even being conducted at all.

Unfortunately, the disadvantage to the search plan was time.
The solar neutrino search “beam” was only a mile in diameter. The Scottie
brigades would, of course, synchronously move above the city, conducting a
spiral search pattern outwardly from city center toward the suburbs, moving the
search beam at roughly 120 mile/hr. Even at that speed, it would take nearly an
hour to conduct a complete search of a medium sized city such as Bakersfield or
Colorado Springs. Cities the size of Los Angeles, with all the additional
metropolitan sprawl beyond its city limits, would consume a lot more time.

And given the number of cities on Earth to search, even with
50,000 Scotties, the search would take days to conduct. A lot more time than
was available.

TWENTY-SIX

The Saint Elias Mountains, Canada

Mount Logan Facility

Situation Room

Friday, 9:16 a.m. PDT

May

“Status
update?” Paul asked in a quiet voice.

“I just checked, Dad. We have twelve search teams in
operation now,” Daneel 1’s face on the front of his cube replied. “The good
news is that Team 6 found what looks to be a 550 kiloton warhead buried in the backyard
of an empty residence on West L Avenue in Lancaster, California.”

“Kudos to Team 6,” Paul said, smiling grimly. “And in Los
Angeles?”

“That’s the bad news,” Daneel 1 sighed sadly. “We’ve barely
scratched the surface there. And we’ve lost the effective search angle from the
solar neutrinos in that time zone. The search teams have moved on to Anchorage,
Honolulu, Auckland, Sidney, Tokyo and points west.”

Capie stepped over to Paul and squeezed his arm, lending him
moral support.

“We don’t have much time,” Daneel 1 pointed out dolefully.
“Just what did you want from 1st Battalion, 4th Brigade, 2nd Division, II
Corps, if I might ask?”

Paul sighed and scratched an earlobe. “Before I answer your
question, Daneel 1, I need to talk to Rommie 451 first. See if she is available
and, if so, put her on a display screen here.”

Daneel 1 only needed a few seconds in order to contact her. Rommie’s
image popped up on a standard sized display only a few seconds after that.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, her holographic face smiling. “What can
I do for you?”

“Do you have any further updates on Hamadi or Yuan?” Paul
asked, scratching his chin with one hand.

“Nothing since yesterday’s report,” she replied casually.
“Both ex-wizards have been repeatedly tested. They show no signs of magical
powers at all now. And they don’t seem to be suffering any side effects, at
least not anymore they aren’t. But we were right about the headaches! When they
woke up, they cried in agony for over an hour! Oh, and now they are both in a
deep blue funk. But that’s not an effect of the surgery; they’re depressed
because they lost their powers.”

“And you still have them on Suicide watches?” Capie asked.

“Yep. Mom, we’ve had to stop Yuan from killing himself twice
now. He’s a real basket case, he is. Won’t eat, not even when we cast a hunger
spell on him. I’d be surprised if he lasts a week out in the real world.”

Capie grinned maliciously. “My heart bleeds.”

Rommie laughed. “Since good old Yuan participated in the
communist purges of the early 1950’s, where millions of Normals were killed, I
just can’t seem to find it in my heart to feel sorry for the scumbag.”

Paul crisply nodded, with a deep gratifying sigh. “Based on
what you know now, is the conversion process a success?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Rommie 451 crowed.

“And can you start converting the other wizards?”

“Yep. Whenever you want.”

Paul turned to Daneel 1. “Send the 3rd Brigade, 1st
Division, 1st Corps to Azkaban Prison. I want all of our captured Errabêlu
wizards converted to Normals before the Saturday deadline. Convert them but
keep them unconscious until I call for them.”

Daneel 1 and Capie both grinned. “I don’t know what you are
planning, Dad,” Daneel 1 said, “but I like it already.”

Ω

“I can’t let you do it!” screamed Capie, practically in
Paul’s face, hers clouded with anger and despair. “Our child needs a father!
And I need you too! You can’t sacrifice yourself this way! You just can’t!”

She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and
gripping him tightly, crying uncontrollably.

Paul sighed, brushing her hair with his right hand and
waiting for her to get control of herself again. He could see that all the
Scotties in the room were more than a bit emotional as well, just a tad more
restrained about it.

“No one said anything about a sacrifice,” Paul said calmly
and in a reassuring voice. “The Scotties will be closely watching me.”

“Don’t lie to me, Paul Armstead! You will be in his
hands, without a talisman! He could kill you any time he chooses to do so and
the Scotties couldn’t prevent it!” she spat out at him. “Don’t do this!”

Paul held her tightly to him. “You know the score, honey. So
far the Scottie Search Teams have found eight nuclear warheads. Lancaster,
Auckland, Sidney, Singapore, Tokyo, Shanghai, Delhi, and Jerusalem. At the rate
that they are going, it will take a few more hours to finish searching cities
over a million in population. And another two days to search those over a half
million.” Paul sighed again, recognizing her anxiety and fear, feeling frustrated
himself that he could not take those feelings away from her. “If we only knew
how many bombs he has…but we don’t. We have to find a way to stall him, to buy
more time for the Scotties to finish their search.”

“Paul?” she asked, the pain in her voice causing him to
wince. “Please, Paul! Don’t do this! Don’t surrender to him! He’ll kill you!
And what will happen to the war then and the Plan, hey? It’ll be over with
then! We need you! All of Earth needs you!”

“One man? Worth more than who knows how many cities of
innocent people?” Paul asked, the anguish in his voice plain for everyone in
the room to hear. “Is that what you are saying?”

“It’s true and you know it!” she snarled.

“He won’t kill me!” Paul countered, his voice quaking with
suppressed emotion. “He will demand a lot of information first. The secret of
isotopes, the secret of how to turn Normals to wizards and wizards back to
Normals. And how to move through solid matter. Those secrets will take time for
me to explain. And while I am explaining how it all works, he won’t be
detonating any bombs. After all, he wants to take back control of all the
Earth. It really isn’t in his interests to set off any of those bombs, not if I
don’t force him to do so.”

“I can’t believe you would so willingly surrender this way!”
she cried in frustration, more tears running down her cheeks.

“If he detonated a single warhead, then I would have
millions of deaths on my head,” Paul explained quietly, though his heart was
breaking. “I couldn’t live with that on my conscience. Not when I can do this.
I know I can do this! All we need to do is buy another 24 to 36 hours.”

“No!” she sobbed quietly, her head on his chest, her tears
soaking through his shirt.

“I will make you a promise,” Paul assured her with the most
confident voice that he was able to generate. “The moment it appears that my
life is truly in danger, I will signal the Scotties to move in and rescue me.
You know how fast they can move. You’ve seen them. Trust me, darling, please! I
want to live too! There is so much to live for! I promise I won’t let them kill
me. This is just another ruse on my part, a rather clever one if I do say so
myself.”

“Paul Thomas Armstead, if you get yourself killed, I will
never forgive you, you dolt!” she cried, again losing her emotional control.

Paul held to her tightly. Inside, the tiny voice in his head
was screaming at him that she was right and that he was doomed to die a horrible,
painful death.

Ω

The deadline of the ultimatum was nearly upon them.

“Any further word from the Search Teams?” Paul asked again,
rubbing his sweaty hands together.

“No change in the last three minutes, not since you last
asked,” Daneel 1 replied. “Twelve warheads located, the last four in Minsk,
Naples, Dublin, and New York City. We expect to find more in the United
States,” he predicted. “And it seems strange that we haven’t found any in South
America or Africa yet. I think we will.”

Capie reached out to hug him tightly again. “Check your
transceiver once more, please?”

In Paul’s right ear, in the targus under the skin, was
implanted a miniature digital RF transceiver. Its power source was a small
battery also implanted beneath the skin, but below the right ear and behind the
jaw, near a lymph node. The battery should have enough power to transmit for a
few hours, which, hopefully, would be more than enough time. The transceiver
also used a tiny tantalum wire as an antenna, threaded under the skin down the
outside of his spinal cord to his right foot. The technology had been borrowed
from cochlear ear implants but improved upon by the Scotties.

Paul grimaced but clinched his jaw hard, activating the
transceiver. “Testing, one, two, three, four,” he said, in a monotone.

“Loud and clear,” Daneel’s tinny voice sounded in his ear.
At least, it sounded to Paul like it was in his ear.

“Working fine,” he reported to Capie, gently smiling at her,
doing his best to keep up his façade of confidence.

A portal opened up and the unconscious bodies of Yuan Wu and
Akbar Hamadi floated through, closely followed by Rommie 451.

“They’re all ready to go,” she reported. “Doped up enough to
keep them asleep for about a day, more or less. Can’t do better than that without
endangering their lives.”

“And the rest of the wizards?” Capie asked, still trying to
hold back her tears.

“We have over a hundred converted so far. We’ll have the
rest in another twelve hours or so,” Rommie 451 reported cheerfully.

A folded sheet of paper floated through the air and dropped
into Paul’s outstretched hand.

Daneel 1 nodded at the paper. “That’s the first clue set for
Yuan Wu’s and Hamadi’s bodies. We’ll have them in place shortly.”

“Thanks, that will be sufficient, I believe,” Paul replied,
anxiety gnawing away at his thin disguise of courage. He tucked the paper in
his shirt pocket, turned again to Capie, hugging her tightly again, perhaps for
the very last time.

“I promise everything will be fine,” he said, as cheerfully
as he could manage.

“Liar,” she snapped angrily. “You just come back to me in one
piece, Paul! I need you more than words can say.”

“I will,” Paul said, letting go of her. He pulled his
talisman from his arm and handed it to her. “Keep this for me, until I get
back.”

Somehow, he found the mettle to nod to Daneel 1. “It’s
time.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Theodore Roosevelt Island

Potomac River

Saturday, 11:59 a.m. EDT

July

Theodore
Roosevelt Island, previously known as Mason’s Island, was a 88.5 acre island in
the middle of the Potomac River, less than two miles to the northwest of the
Lincoln Memorial. The island was currently administered by the National Park
Service and contained a 5 meter tall statue of the 26th President of the United
States along with miles of trails and small creeks, in honor of Roosevelt’s
conservation ideals. There was a large white concrete plaza in front of the
statue with wide sweeping walkways leading into the interior of the island. The
park was renowned for its birdlife and wide variety of plant-life that could be
seen from the nature trails.

The island could only be reached by a foot bridge from the
west bank of the Potomac River. Due to its relative isolation and the fact that
it could only be reached on foot, the Roosevelt Memorial was one of the least
visited memorials in the Washington D.C. area.

Paul was reasonably certain that was why Clarke had picked
it as the meeting site.

Daneel 1’s portal dropped him into the center of the plaza
at exactly 11:59:55 a.m. EDT. Paul stood patiently waiting. A couple of middle
aged women visitors noticed him, but they turned and walked away.

A portal opened in front of Paul, sweeping him up and away.

He saw a brief glimpse of a city sidewalk, then an empty
warehouse, followed by a large wooden dock extending out into a mirror-smooth
bay of a bright blue lake, then an empty grass clearing in a forest, a hot
rocky parched desert and finally a large cinder block room with a dirt floor
and two bare electric lights dangling from beams in an open framed attic space.

In front of him stood a dozen Oni and two wizards. Paul
recognized the first one from photos he’d seen as Mahdi Hassan Shirazi, a
wizard from the Middle East. The other one was a dignified man in casual
American clothing and wearing a gold Rolex watch. Paul assumed that this person
was none other than Oliver Jacob Clarke himself. Behind the two Errabêlu
wizards, Paul saw a large black object, the size of a storage trunk, but it
glowed with an eerie iridescence. Ah, a very large talisman! So this was how
they created a talisman as potent as Paul’s own! They super-sized them! His
Great Aunt Dana’s whiskers, the thing must weigh several tons!

The wizard Shirazi took three quick steps toward Paul and
back-handed him solidly in the face. Paul collapsed to the ground.

“I should kill you right now!” the evil wizard hissed
angrily.

“Patience, my friend,” Clarke said, in a noble and calm
manner. “All in good time.” He nodded at two of the Oni. “Search him carefully.
Give me his talisman.”

Paul propped himself up on one elbow. “I don’t have a
talisman with me.”

The Oni searched him anyway, checking his shirt and pants
pockets, patting down his legs, waist, back and chest. And they weren’t very
gentle about it either.

Finished, they yanked him roughly to his feet. One of them
reached out and snapped a solid silver-colored band of metal around Paul’s
right wrist. Paul held the item closer for a visual inspection. The band was
engraved with a highly elaborate set of scrollwork.

Clarke casually studied his prisoner from where he stood.
“The devil incarnate, so it would seem.”

“What is this?” Paul asked, holding out his wrist.

Clarke waved an indifferent hand. “Oh, that? It’s a
disrupter. As long as you wear that manacle, it will disrupt your ability to
cast any spells, even internal ones. But you are here to answer my…our
questions, Mr. Armstead. Your presence here is only one of our demands. Where
are the wizards you have captured?”

“I released them,” Paul calmly answered. “As you demanded.”

Shirazi grabbed Paul by his shirt, jerking him closer and
back-handing him. “Liar! If you had released them, we would be hearing from at
least some of them by now!”

The blow from Shirazi was enough to daze Paul and it took a
few seconds for him to clear his head enough to speak.

“We drugged all of them with anesthetics,” Paul replied,
watching two images of Shirazi spinning crazily. “Enough to keep them asleep
for 12 to 24 hours.”

“Why on Earth did you do that?” Clarke asked, puzzled.

“To buy time, of course,” Paul stated forthrightly.

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “Time for what?”

“To extend my life,” Paul admitted. “I know that you plan to
kill me. Every second I can extend my life, I will.”

“Humph,” Clarke grunted, in reluctant deference. “I can see
where you might do that. Although the end result will be the same. Still, the
desire to continue life, even when one knows he is doomed, can be remarkably
persistent. However, you haven’t answered Shirazi’s other question. Where are
the wizards we demanded you release? Or would you prefer to see Lancaster,
California become a blackened crater?”

Paul reached up to his shirt pocket and extracted the folded
piece of paper.

“This will tell you how to find Hamadi and Yuan Wu,” he
explained to them.

“What is this?” Clarke asked, accepting and unfolding the
paper with a puzzled frown. “‘This is your first clue, don’t be lax. Go to
Hollywood Boulevard and look for the (blank)?’”

Shirazi back-handed Paul a third time, again hard enough to
knock him off his feet. For a few seconds, Paul lay on the floor and hovered at
the edge of unconsciousness, experiencing tunnel vision and a roaring in his
ears.

He heard the other men’s voices, but could not make sense of
the words.

Strong arms grabbed him and pulled him to his feet again,
holding him upright.

“I think you may have hit him a little too hard,” Clarke’s
voice finally pierced through the fog in Paul’s brain. “Mr. Armstead? Mr.
Armstead?”

“It sal wright,” Paul muttered, as vision slowly and
incompletely returned. He tried to cast a small spell internally, to help clear
the effects of the latest blow but nothing happened. With a start he realized
that Clarke had not been kidding about the effect of the disrupter on his
wrist.

“Whatss ta quesston agin?” he asked, blinking his eyes.

“Not so hard next time,” Clarke said, apparently to Shirazi.
“We still need some information from him.” A pause. “What does this paper
mean?”

“Skav…Scavenger hunt,” Paul said carefully, focusing through
the pain to pronounce the words correctly. “It’s a clue. Hollywood. California.
Rhymes with lax. Wax! Look in the wax museum. Find Wu…Hamadi. New clue.”

Shirazi leaned back to smack Paul again but Clarke held up a
hand.

“Mr. Armstead, that will take time, chasing each one down.
Why don’t you simply tell us where they all are?”

Paul shrugged. “Don’t know. Scotties picked the locations.
Morgues, window shop displays, funeral homes, wax museums, hospitals, crash
dummies…wherever bodies are found.” He chuckled. “Don’t forget Mythbusters
M5 Studios.”

“This will take time to check out,” Clarke pointed out to
Shirazi. “Obviously what he intends. Although the reason why is still unclear
to me. However, take a dozen Oni and a couple of other wizards. Be careful of
any traps. See if Hamadi and Yuan are in the wax museum.”

Scowling, Shirazi opened a portal and left.

“Now, Mr. Armstead, let’s go somewhere we can be more
comfortable,” Clarke said, with an evil grin.

Ω

Paul was taken to a large country estate, bordering on a
river someplace. He couldn’t pin it down any further than that. And he had no
idea what happened to Clarke, who, like Shirazi, also disappeared through a
portal.

Four Oni took him to a large metal shed out behind a house.
From the oil stains on the concrete floor, Paul had the impression that at one
time it was used as an auto repair shop.

The Oni tied his arms up over his head with a stout manila
rope and hung him from the main overhead beam. If Paul stretched a little, he
could barely support his weight on tip-toe. It was quite clever, as tortures
go.

Then he was left to his own devices, no doubt to make him
more responsive after the pain became bad enough. And since he was still
wearing the disrupter manacle on his wrist, he was unable to cast a spell to
reduce that pain. Without a doubt, this must have been Clarke’s intention all
along.

Two Oni were left in the building to guard him.

Paul concentrated on clenching his jaw, activating the
implanted transceiver, switching it on.

“CQ…CQ…CQ…CQ…,” Paul said softly, hoping his words were loud
enough to reach the transceiver but not loud enough to attract the attention of
the Oni.

There was a burst of static and he heard a weak voice through
the device.

“Triangulating now,” it said. “North America, east coast.”

Another burst of static and this time, a cleaner stronger
signal.

“Repeat your transmission, Dad,” one of the Daneels said.

“‘The Universe is run by the complex interweaving of three
elements: energy, matter, and enlightened self-interest,’” Paul whispered
painfully as he quoted G-Kar of Babylon 5.

“Very good, Dad. This is Daneel 1. We have you located. You
are in a rather ritzy neighborhood in Maryland, on the bank of the West River.
Status report, please.”

“They’ve been a little rough but not too bad,” Paul quietly lied.
“So far, everything is according to plan. What progress, your end?”

“Warheads found in Jacksonville, Florida; Chicago; Denver;
Los Angeles; and Seattle. Still nothing in South America yet. Sir, that’s 17
warheads so far. As best we can tell, they are all Soviet in design. We don’t
think he can have many more.”

“I agree. Have you run an analysis of their locations inside
those cities?”

“Yes. All weapons were placed near the metropolitan centers,
obviously to do the maximum amount of damage to city structures and cause the
greatest number of deaths,” came Daneel 1’s reply. “We are using that
assumption to cut down on the search times for the remaining cities. Heaven
help us if we are wrong.”

“How much longer, Daneel?” Paul asked.

“About 18 hours, Dad,” he answered. “That’s the best answer
I can give you. Can you hold out that long?”

“I think so. I’ll let you know if anything develops in the
meantime.”

“We will have a team close by, Dad. Just give us the word
and we can be there in seconds.”

“Thanks. Paul, out.”

Now he just had to somehow find the strength to endure the
pain.

Ω

It seemed like eons went by, and rather slowly at that, but
it was probably more like an hour or so.

Then two portals opened up. The first one disgorged Clarke.
The second one Shirazi and the two unconscious forms of Hamadi and Yuan Wu.

Shirazi’s face was filled with fury.

“There’s something wrong with these two!” he screamed at Clarke,
waving at the unconscious forms on the cold concrete.

“What?” Clarke asked, sincerely puzzled. “What are you
talking about?”

“Touch them!” snarled Shirazi “You’ll see!”

Clarke pulled off a leather glove and reached over, touching
Hamadi’s bare arm first, then Yuan’s left hand. After pausing a moment, he rose
and turned back to Paul.

“What did you do to them?” he demanded sternly.

Paul tried to shrug but with his arms tied over his head, he
couldn’t manage it. Besides, his arms hurt too much for him to move them much anyway.
So he flashed a grim smile at his two captors instead. “I took away their
powers.”

“That’s not possible!” screamed Shirazi, furiously.

Paul raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue.

“Let me get this straight,” Clarke said, frowning. “You
somehow took away the magic powers from all the wizards you captured? Is that
correct?”

“Yeah…I mean, yes, that’s right,” Paul verified for him.
“Like them,” he said, with a grin, pointing with his chin at the two
unconscious wizards on the floor.

“They’re both Normies now,” Clarke stated in puzzled amazement.
“You took their powers from them? How?”

Paul smiled secretively, “Just a reverse of the process
where I gained magical powers. Now they aren’t wizards anymore. And they aren’t
rich anymore either. We used bunches and bunches of lawyers and stacks of
paperwork. All the wizards signed over their money and properties to charity
organizations and several churches. All gone…”

Clarke shook his head with a snarl. “You’re quite the liar,
Mr. Armstead.”

Paul slowly shook his head, even though it made him feel
really dizzy. “No-ope, toooootttaallyy true…”

“Can he really do it? Take away a wizard’s power like that?”
Shirazi asked, still not quite accepting the concept that it could be done at
all.

“So it would seem,” Clarke replied grimly. “Quite clever,
actually, if it can really be done.” He glanced again at the two bodies on the
floor. “And apparently it can be done. On the other hand, perhaps, in the long
run, he has done us a favor. Once we learn how this secret works, to make and
unmake wizards, we can create a virtually unlimited supply of potential
replacements. And, at the same time, he has rid us of some wizards that used to
be a great deal of aggravation. I, for one, am not sad to see that Hamadi is
gone. Good riddance, I’ll say.”

Shirazi nodded, but was obviously uncomfortable with the
direction of events. “Yes, I guess so. But there are others that I will miss.”

Clarke shrugged, looking back at him. “If we can find them,
we might give a few of them back their powers. But we’ll work on that later.”

“What should we do about them?” Shirazi asked, nodding at
Yuan and Hamadi.

“They’re Normies now so what does it matter?” Clarke pointed
out dryly. “We can dump them anywhere. But I think the bigger priority right
now is to start pumping Armstead for those secrets he keeps bragging about. If
I still had a truth headband…but I don’t, thanks to last month’s raid on my
house by those metal boxes of his. I hope this twit resists. I would love to
use some persuasion on him when he does.”

“Torture is unnecessary,” Paul told the two of them, his
voice quavering from the pain in his arms and back. “I will answer any
question.”

“Humor us, Mr. Armstead. Allow us our fun, please,” came the
haughty response. “Now, the next thing I want to know is where your metal
monsters are.”

“I sent them off into space,” Paul forced through trembling
lips. “As per your instructions.”

“Space? As in ‘outer space?’”

“That’s the one,” Paul muttered, squirming from the pain.

“I see. And what are they doing in outer space?”

“They are waiting to hear from me, I think.”

“And if they don’t hear from you? What then?” Clarke asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul admitted frankly. “I guess they will
wait until they run out of power.”

He heard a smirk. “Yes, they are machines, aren’t they? Very
good, then, Mr. Armstead. Which secret of yours should we start with?”

“Take your pick,” Paul suggested weakly, while still trying
to get a spell to work to reduce the pain but not succeeding. That blasted
manacle on his wrist was apparently very effective. “But not the secret of the
super talisman, please.”

“Why not that one?” Clarke asked suspiciously.

“Because you know nothing of quantum mechanics,” Paul forced
his mouth to utter the words, wincing as a cramp seized his right arm. “My
explanations would make no sense to you.”

“Quantum mechanics, heh? You might have something there. But
I believe I can get an expert here that would understand.” Clarke snapped his
fingers.

A new voice, this time behind Paul, asked, “Yes? What do you
want?”

“You know something of Quantum mechanics,” Clarke’s voice
stated, in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

Paul heard a snort. “Of course.”

He could not tell whose voice it was. Probably a physicist
but definitely not Albert Einstein’s.

“Listen to this man and tell me if he tells the truth.”

“I would think he would, hanging from that rope as he is,” drolly
observed the unknown voice. “Very well, young man. I’m ready. You may start.”

Paul tried to concentrate, to keep his mind on track. It was
so hard! “Very well. It is known that the rarer an element is, the greater it’s
magical potency. It occurred to me that more potent magical materials might be
gathered using rare isotopes.”

“Ah, an interesting idea, that! Please continue.”

Such pain! And this would surely take a while to explain,
even to a magical physicist.

“Very well. To make a super talisman, I started with
tantalum 180m…”

Ω

The next few hours went quickly downhill. At times the pain in
his arms and shoulders reduced him to a quivering blathering idiot. For all he
knew, Paul confessed every indiscretion he had ever committed. He probably even
invented a few—whatever he thought they wanted to hear. He was fairly certain
he told them everything they wanted to know about talismans, isotopes, Mars,
and the ability to move through solid matter. Also too, about how he had
acquired magical powers, how he had given them to Capie and how they were taken
away from Yuan Wu and Hamadi.

He didn’t know when the ordeal ended. Blessedly, at some
point, he lapsed into utter unconsciousness.

Ω

Slowly, Paul regained his wits, the level of pain slowly
pushing him up towards consciousness again.

The surface beneath him was cold and very hard. Every part
of his body screamed with total pain. Very carefully, bit by bit, he
straightened out and rolled on his left side. From there he could see that he
lay on the concrete floor of the auto shop, the manila rope not far away.
Apparently, he had been cut him down and left where he fell. He also noticed
that the disrupter manacle was still secured around his wrist.

A glance around revealed the two motionless Oni still on
guard duty, near the door, as before.

Groaning, Paul pushed himself upward, slowly rising to a sitting
position. It was no more difficult than say building all of the Egyptian
pyramids must have been. Fortunately, Paul only came close to collapsing a half
a dozen times on the way up.

Once that horrendous task was accomplished, he used his left
hand to tug at the manacle. There was no give in the metal and it was secured
tightly to his wrist. Also, the metal appeared to be solid, with no obvious way
to unlatch or remove it.

With another groan, he instead focused his attention on the
distance to the nearest wall. Only ten feet or so. No worse than walking a mile
to school was for his parents each day, in a blinding blizzard, uphill all the
way.

It turned out not to be that easy. Some evil soul had spread
shards of invisible broken glass all over the concrete. Yet somehow he found
the will to move slowly, inch by incredibly painful inch.

Finally, with his back to the cool metal wall, he rested for
several minutes. And activated the transceiver.

“‘Isn’t it interesting that the same people who laugh at science
fiction listen to weather forecasts and economists?—Kelvin Throop III,’” Paul
muttered under his breath.

“Dad! Thank God! Are you okay? We haven’t heard from you in
more than twelve hours!” came Daneel 1’s excited voice.

“I’ve been better,” Paul softly muttered. “Status update.”

“We found three more warheads, Dad. One in Buenos Aires, one
in Sau Paulo and one in Acapulco. Nothing in the last eight hours, sir. We
think that may be everything. Twenty warheads in all! We have teams positioned
to take all of them out, whenever you give the word.”

“Are you still searching?”

“The sun’s over the Pacific right now. We’ve already
searched every sizable city in that part of the globe. There won’t be any new
cities to search until the sun rises over China. A bunch of places there we
haven’t searched yet.”

Inwardly, Paul groaned. “Another six or seven hours?”

“About that,” agreed Daneel 1’s voice. “Dad, you don’t sound
well. Do you want us to get you out yet?”

“No, not yet. Let me think a moment.”

As best he could remember, though the events were pretty
foggy, he thought he had divulged about everything he knew. With the exception
of the transceiver implant. And about the Scotties search for the warheads.
Paul probably would have revealed those secrets too, if Clarke had been
technically savvy enough to ask the right questions. Which, judging by the fact
the transceiver still worked, he wasn’t.

If Clarke thought he knew all Paul could tell him, then he
would likely kill him soon. The Scotties probably didn’t have enough time to
search the Chinese cities. They had found twenty warheads. That seemed like a
nice round number. Frankly, it was more than Paul would have predicted that
Clarke could steal.

“Daneel? Trash ’em all. The warheads. All of ’em.
Understand?”

“Destroy all twenty warheads. I understand. Don’t wait too
long, Dad. We’ll extract you as soon as you give the word.”

Paul shut down the transceiver. And waited.

And he slowly came to the realization that, beyond all the
muscle pain he felt, he was also incredibly thirsty and hungry as well. He
couldn’t remember the last time he drank anything. Carefully looking around the
garage, he noted a small wash sink in the far corner of the building. Ah,
water! But it was on the opposite wall, a whole solar system away. He could
never crawl that distance. He would be a desiccated skeleton before he managed
to crawl halfway there.

But if he could get to his feet…

He needed help. At least something to lean on. Perhaps the
building support post, a yard or so away.

Moving very carefully, Paul made it to the metal post and
with an effort equal to what Hercules used to slay the nine-headed Hydra, he
pulled himself to his feet, wavering unsteadily. Then, using the wall as a brace,
he tottered slowly all the way around the rear half of the building and
eventually to the sink.

The faucet handle was dirty and rusted but Paul managed to
get it open. Using his cupped hands, he greedily drank several times and then
splashed a little of the water on his face and arms.

“Bravo, Mr. Armstead! Bravo!” Clarke said, from the door at
the front of the shop.

Paul slowly turned his head to look at the evil wizard and
noticed that Shirazi was with him.

Clarke shook his head in amusement. “I wish I had a dozen
like you in Errabêlu. It’s too bad, really, that you have chosen to
oppose us. Really too bad. We’ve checked out the information that you gave us
and most of it has been confirmed. We really have no further need of you. And
after all the vexation you’ve caused us, I’m afraid I have no choice now. Your
time has run out. Shirazi, please terminate him as painlessly as possible, as a
favor to me, okay? You may dispose of the body out at sea.”

Shirazi grinned from ear to ear. “As you wish.”

“Before you feed me to the fishes, would you consider one
last little favor?” Paul asked with feigned nonchalance.

With obvious misgivings, Clarke studied Paul’s face for a
moment. “If it’s reasonable.”

“You see, there’s this office bet,” Paul explained coolly.
“The Lancaster nuke, the one on West L Avenue buried behind an empty residence.
Was that a Soviet model 15F173? Or a Soviet 15F183? There’s a fiver riding on
your answer—”

Clarke’s face turned bright red. With a snap of his right
hand, he created a microportal at eye level. And he shouted, “Hans! Trigger the
device in Los Angeles! Hans! Right now!”

“Right away,” came a reply Paul could barely hear.

Paul silently activated the transceiver. “Okay, Daneel, Red
Alert! Time’s up!”

“How did you know where the bomb in Lancaster was located?”
hissed Clarke, his nostrils flaring. “And who are you talking to now?”

“Let me kill him!” Shirazi screamed, spittle flying.

“The same way I found out the location of all the other
warheads,” Paul said as casually as he possibly could.

Clarke again went totally red in the face. “Hans!” he roared.
“Activate—”

A sudden sonic boom ripped through the building. Startled,
both Shirazi’s and Clarke’s heads snapped upward.

The distraction was Paul’s only opportunity. He couldn’t let
Clarke run down the entire list of warheads. Paul wasn’t certain the Scotties
had deactivated all of them yet.

Somehow, he managed to draw on his meager internal strength.
He threw himself forward, dodging past a startled Shirazi and leapt, clearing
the ground, sailing right into a shocked Clarke, bowling him over backwards.

“Sir!” Paul heard through the transceiver. “We’ll be there
in three seconds!”

With exceptional strength, Clarke fought back, leveraging
Paul off and onto the concrete floor. Clarke pushed hard, forcing his open hands
to Paul’s throat.

Fighting the other man’s wrists, Paul tried to keep them at
bay but he didn’t have the strength anymore. He was completely tapped out. Gleefully,
the evil wizard closed on Paul’s throat, throttling the life from him. His
vision began to narrow.

“Kill him!” screamed a hysterical Shirazi.

Paul heard but didn’t see several Scotties streak through
the front door, catching Shirazi by surprise.

He felt his hands fall away from Clarke’s wrists, all his
muscles melting like butter in a hot sun. And his vision disappeared completely.
All the loud noises faded away too, merging into a steady hissing noise, like
the sound of surf at a beach. That too died as he finally slid into a black
pool of nothingness.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hilton Suites

Ocean City, Maryland

Tuesday, 11:22 a.m. EDT

July

Paul came awake
slowly. The surface on which he lay was soft and warm, the air fresh and clean
and his level of pain was much lower. For a time, his mind rebelled at the idea
of full consciousness. That voice, the one belonging to the small man in the
back of his head, had returned. This time it was telling him to relax, go back
to sleep, that the outside world wasn’t going anywhere. Well, what did it know?
Paul ignored it.

He opened his eyes to see Capie’s bright face smiling down
at him.

“Hello, sleepy head,” she purred at him. “How are we
feeling?”

“‘My mind is so numb and brain-dead, I feel like I’ve just
attended a three-day seminar entitled ‘the future of plumbing’,’” Paul managed
to croak.

“Ah, Red Dwarf, I think. Was it Rimmer who said that?
British comedy is so—unique,” Capie observed. “Anyway, if you can quote Red
Dwarf, you can’t be too bad off.”

Paul slowly worked the muscles in his neck, gently turning
his head to look around the room. It was upscale with a nice inoffensive color
scheme, such as could be found in half the motels in the United States, but it
otherwise told him nothing. His vision was blurred a bit around the edges.

“Where are we?” he asked. Blinking his eyes, he stared
across the bed. Either he was seeing double or Patches had suddenly acquired a
twin brother.

“The Hilton Suites in Ocean City, Maryland,” Capie answered.
“This is your convalescence room, until you have recovered from your ordeal.”

Paul chuckled softly and concentrated on seeing one of
everything again. “What ordeal? A mere stroll in the park.”

Capie pursed her lips in doubt. “Gee, that was not what all
the doctors said.”

“What doctors?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. He
experimented with trying to raise an arm. No luck. Someone had replaced it with
lead weights when he wasn’t looking.

“You know, the usual suspects. McCoy, Maxwell, Bashir,
Franklin…those guys.”

“Oh. Those doctors.”

“Yep. And they mostly said the same thing. Nerve damage,
strained ligaments, broken collar bone…”

“My collar bone was broken?” Paul asked, startled. Yep, his
legs were refusing his mental commands too. The traitors!

“It was. We used a little magic to knit it back together
again, but all the doctors told me to watch you carefully. You are not to lift
anything at all with your right arm for at least a week and nothing heavier
than five pounds for the week after that. Got it?”

Paul could tell she was serious.

“Got it,” he wisely and softly answered. He glanced at his
right wrist. The disrupter manacle was gone.

Capie noticed his look. “Daneel 1 and Daneel 2 removed that—whatever
it was—when they brought you here. They said it had some magical properties
that they wanted to study. They also took out your transceiver too. So, don’t
worry about it anymore. Right now, I prescribe rest, and lots of it. Maybe
later we might go out and enjoy a ride along the beach in the sunlight. You’ll
be the one in the wheel chair this time.”

“Got it,” he repeated dreamily. “Is it permitted for the
patient to ask a few questions? You know, to sort of catch up on current events
sort of questions?”

“If you promise not to jump out of bed and run off trying to
do anything silly, like maybe saving the Earth from an alien invasion.”

“Got it,” Paul repeated again. She should have asked for
something hard. The way he felt, crawling was totally out of the question, let
alone things like jumping and running. And the world was around a long time
before he showed up. “I so promise. So give, please. What’s going on? Oh, a
better question. What day is today?”

“Tuesday. And yes, you’ve been asleep, almost comatose,
Franklin said, for 28 hours.”

Paul wiggled his head in his pillow, enjoying the softness.
“A new personal record, I think. Though I did come close to that once or twice
after an all-night binge back in my college days.” He paused. “And?”

“Yes, the Scotties did get to the nukes before Clarke issued
his orders to detonate any of them. So, nobody got fried, thank Heavens! And
the Scotties found some wizard named Hans. He was the one who held all the
warhead detonation transmitters. All twenty five of them.”

Paul blanched, feeling the blood drain from his face.
“Twenty five?!” he squeaked. “We missed five warheads?!”

“Yep. It’s a good thing that you charged Clarke and
distracted him before he could order a few more detonations. Otherwise, we
might be missing Austin, Texas right now. Or Kingston. Or Lagos, Nigeria. Or
Chengdu and Jinan in China.”

“So there were two more in China and one in Africa,” Paul
muttered, feeling an overwhelming degree of fatigue descending on him. “Oops.
I’m glad the Scotties found Hans so quickly.”

“They did a superb job. We can be very proud of them.”

“And?” Paul asked.

“The Scotties took Shirazi and Clarke to Azkaban prison.”
Capie looked down at her hands for a moment. “I seriously considered having
them killed but Daneel 1 talked me out of it. Instead, Rommie 451 burned out
their neural links, converting them to Normals.”

“You did the right thing,” Paul said, forcing his two ton
hand to reach out to lie on top of hers. “It’s what should have been done.
Those two would have killed millions of people…come to think of it, they
probably already have killed millions, if you count their involvement in World
Wars I and II plus all the brush wars.”

Capie smiled. “Good. I’m glad you agree. Now, that’s enough
talking. It’s time for your nap before we go for the walk.”

He blinked in relief. “A nap? What a wonderful, fantastic
notion…”

Paul fell asleep in mid-sentence.

Ω

The next morning, he felt a great deal stronger though he
was sore in more places than he knew he possessed. His talisman was back on his
right arm, and he had already used it for a few minor spells to help speed up
his recovery process.

The warm sunshine flooding through the bedroom window significantly
boosted his spirits as well. And the décor of the room was starting to grow on
him.

Capie fed him breakfast in bed, a treat Paul told himself
not to get accustomed to, lest she spoil him too much. After breakfast, Capie
sat with him the rest of the morning, in general catching him up on world
events.

“Daneel 1 is begging to meet with you,” she told him,
sometime during the conversation. “I told him later today, after lunch and an
afternoon nap. I also told him that he couldn’t take up too much of your time,
that you still need lots of rest.” She gave him a firm stare. “And I intend to
make sure you get that rest.”

Paul winced a little but forced a smile. “No problem.”

Ω

The afternoon nap was a short one. Already he was beginning
to develop cabin fever and itched to get out and start working again. His
fertile mind was busy making lists of things to be done, as soon as he could
escape his convalescence.

Daneel 1 showed up at 3 p.m., entering the room through the
door instead of using a portal. Capie kept her seat close to the bed, the
better to monitor their conversation, Paul was sure.

“Daneel 1!” Paul whooped for joy. “It’s so good of you to
come visit me!”

“It’s good to see you looking well, Dad,” the Scottie
replied, a bright smile displayed on his holographic face. “We miss you and
hope you recover soon. Quite frankly, we need your help—”

Capie coughed pointedly.

“—after you are fully rested, of course,” Daneel finished
circumspectly.

“Yes, of course,” Paul said, with a careful smile. “But for
now, let’s just deal with the highlights.”

“Good idea,” Daneel 1 responded.

“Yes, of course. What about those injured at Manassas? How
are they doing?”

“We finished fabricating all the spare parts we needed and
then some. All Scotties are back up to full health now.”

“Good! Excellent work. Thanks.”

“Next topic: the human wizards. We have taken almost all the
wealth that they have stolen and transferred it to where it will do the most
good. I can give you a full break-down on where we put the money—”

Another pointed cough from Capie.

“—at a later date, of course,” the Scottie lamely said. “In
terms of numbers, we have captured and converted two hundred eighty two
wizards. Our best count is that there are twenty-nine Errabêlu wizards
unaccounted for and several hundred Oni. For the moment, it appears that all of
them are in hiding or are on the lam.”

“We will eventually track them down, especially if they try
to make trouble for us or for any Normal,” Paul said, still smiling.

“Good. I was hoping that would be the answer,” the Scottie
said.

“Anything else?” Paul asked with an innocent air.

“Ah, I think I’ve already pushed my luck to the limits,”
Daneel 1 observed. “The rest will wait.” He turned to leave.

“One moment, son. There is something I want to tell you.”
Paul said, his throat suddenly dry.

The hologram on the black cube turned back around.

Paul wrung his hands a bit. Why was it so hard to tell the
ones you loved how much you loved them?

His eyes teared up a bit and he quickly rubbed the excess
water away. “I just want to say how grateful and how proud I am of all the work
that you and all the other Scotties have done. I love you all, each and every
one and couldn’t have asked more of you. Thanks for a job very well done.”

Daneel 1 smiled. “I’ll pass that along. You just get well,
Dad. We love you too.”

After the Scottie left, Paul kicked back in bed and thought
about dinner. For some reason, he was craving a nice thick steak, with all the
trimmings.

EPILOGUE

Atlantic Ocean, Bahamas

Eleuthera Island

Double Bay Beach

Tuesday, 2:09 p.m. EDT

August

“Daddy! Daddy!”
the young freckled-faced redheaded girl shrieked in delight, flying through the
air and throwing her small arms around Paul’s neck. “Lookie what I found!” she twittered
in delight.

Behind her, suspended in mid-air, dripping both water and
sand, was a seashell. As seashells went it was decent enough, though far from a
perfect specimen by any means. Still, it was the largest one that Alisha Christie
Armstead had produced so far today for her father’s inspection.

Paul hugged his daughter tightly. “That’s wonderful!” he
cried, with a huge smile. “That’s a perfect seashell! Where did you find it?!”

“Underwater, silly!” Alisha said, with a shy smile as she
pulled back out of Paul’s embrace. “I had to hold my breath and everything!”

“What a big girl you are now,” Paul praised her. “We’ll take
this one home and put it on top of your dressing table.”

“Not that one!” Alisha cried and then giggled. “I’m going to
find one biggest and bestest!” And she spun on one heel, laughing as she ran up
the beach. “Joccie! Selmie! Race you to the water!”

Behind her, airborne, two black Scottie cubes, Jocasta 1 and
Selma 1 flew along, lazily trailing the hyper-active young girl toward the water.
They had no trouble keeping up, even when Alisha, rubbing the talisman armband
on her left wrist, lifted off the beach sand, sailing twenty feet into the air,
clearing the breaking waves and diving into the clear turquoise tinted water
fifty feet off the beach.

“Careful, that smile might break your face,” Capie said as
she assumed a sitting position on a nearby beach towel.

Paul displayed a wide grin in amusement at his beautiful
wife. “She definitely is a daddy’s girl, isn’t she?”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?” Capie
replied, in challenge.

Paul’s smile was all the reply his wife needed.

“And what will we do with two of them?” he asked, nodding at
the pregnant status of his wife.

“Ah, no!” Capie responded with a phony frown. “This one’s a
boy! He kicks too much to be a girl!”

With a laugh, Paul got to his feet and helped Capie to hers.
“Let’s take a walk while Alisha is seashell hunting.” He took her hand and
together they strolled down the beach, leaving a string of footsteps in the
warm white sand.

Five years had passed since Earth had been liberated from
the clutches of the wizards of Errabêlu. Five peaceful and productive
years.

Oh, to be sure, there were still wizards unaccounted for at
large out in the world. Twenty-nine by Daneel 1’s latest count. But apparently,
they weren’t much of a threat. There hadn’t been so much as a peep out of any
of them during those five years. Apparently, all twenty-nine of them had
quickly figured out what had happened to the other wizards of Errabêlu
and had decided to keep as low a profile as possible, lest they too have their
magical powers stripped from them.

The same sort of thing had seemingly happened to their
government puppets around the world. The voices of the people were finally
being heard and more responsible individuals were being elected and appointed
to represent their constituents. And the changes in the world in just five
short years had been striking! Gone were the totalitarian dictatorships of
North Korea, Syria, Zimbabwe, and Uganda. Others were on their way down as
well.

In the United States, President McCluskie had been soundly
defeated in her re-election bid. The new President was Derek Smith, a former chemist,
data analyst, and rock climber from Portland, Maine. Paul had personally met
the man and was favorably impressed.

True, paradise had not yet descended on the world. There
were still problems in the Middle East and a few other corners of the globe.
People were still people. But even the press, clueless though they might
otherwise be, had noticed a big downward shift in armed conflicts. All the
talking heads were endlessly chattering like magpies about the growing trend of
reasonableness and the peace initiatives around the world.

One of the larger developments in Asia was China’s
announcement to leave Nepal, including the retraction of hundreds of thousands
of Chinese residents from the embattled country. Paul was particularly proud of
that accomplishment and had personally praised the Scottie team that had “encouraged”
the Chinese government in their decision.

The warm sea air blew gently over the water, stirring Paul’s
hair. In addition, the warmth of the sun on his face likewise buoyed his
spirits. He glanced over at Capie, grinning at her radiant, pregnant figure in
her maternity outfit as they ambled along the beach. He squeezed her hand
gently, eliciting a warm smile in return.

Two more days. Just two days and they would go back to work,
helping the poor and needy of Earth. To be sure, in five years, they had helped
quite a few of the Normals, delivering life-saving vaccine, averting droughts,
floods and pestilence as well as providing many other forms of sundry assistance.
And the Scotties were an enormous asset in that effort as well. But, since the
Scotties couldn’t reveal themselves to humans, and since Paul and Capie could
not reveal their magical powers, those restrictions limited all that could be
done for the needy of the Earth. However, even within those limits, there were
still an ample number of opportunities available and Paul intended to see that they
gave the maximum assistance possible.

On the other hand, Paul and the Scotties were still dealing
with the problem of all the Oni. The original estimate by Uncle Sam had been
surprisingly close, the actual Oni population coming in at 43,210 individuals.
And, just like the wizards of Errabêlu, the Scotties had similarly
stripped the Oni of their magical powers, rendering them “harmless”…well, in
that one particular regard.

But the problem had then become what to do with the Oni
after that. It wasn’t as if they could be released into the general population
of Earth. Their presence alone would create panic among Normals. And, too,
there was the problem that without magical powers, the Oni were simply unable to
fend for themselves in a human society. They lacked the ability for speech as
well as lacking the intellect needed to interact appropriately with humans.

Therefore, Paul had been forced to fall back on a more
imperfect solution. The Oni were transported to a few uninhabited islands
scattered around the globe. The most unfortunate side-effect of that decision
was that the Oni and their island locations required constant support and
supervision by the Scotties. The islands were too small, their ecologies too
limited to supply all the water, food, and other resources that 43,210 Oni
required. Also, there were too many humans (treasure hunters, vacationers,
geologists, environmentalists, oceanographers and other marine specialists)
wandering the globe, some of whom, eventually speaking, would visit one or more
of these impromptu prisons—unless the Scotties were present to ward them off,
of course.

Fortunately, not many of the Scotties were needed to act as
prison wardens or guards. A platoon or so for each of the island prisons was
sufficient. And with Daneel 1’s rotation of the duty, no one Scottie was going
to get stuck with that responsibility for more than a few days per year.

There was one positive aspect to the problem. Paul had been
surprised to discover that the average life expectancy of a “de-frocked” Oni
was a mere forty years. True, with magical powers, they had generally lived to
be much older, on average 350 years old. But without their powers, the Oni lifespan
was much shorter. And since they were also sex-less and totally lacking in the
ability to reproduce, then there really was no long term problem to be dealt
with. Sooner or later, the Oni would die off and the need to guard them would
simply go away. Personally, Paul planned to have a party on the day the last
one died.

His prediction concerning the world’s reaction to the
unexplained magical incidents of the war with Errabêlu had been largely
correct. Most of the evidence (such as the wonderful cell phone videos of
Godzilla storming the beaches of Tokyo!) had been suppressed by the governments
of Earth. In a few cases, the Scotties had pitched in and helped a little as
well. To be sure, there were a lot of stories floating around, especially on
the internet. But the public at large treated them in the same manner that they
had always dealt with ghost stories, UFO sightings, and other unexplained
phenomena of the past. It was all ignored.

Indeed, it looked as if international affairs were
proceeding along a great deal more successfully than personal ones. To be
specific, Capie and he were worried about Alisha. No two people had been more
shocked than they had been when they discovered, two weeks after she was born,
that Alisha didn’t have any magical mental barriers; that she had, instead,
been born a full wizard.

Many times since her birth, Paul had asked himself if Alisha’s
lack of a magical barrier was some type of accident or, like with recessive
genes, a very rare event. Otherwise, all that the wizards of Errabêlu
had needed to do to create a few more wizards to swell their ranks was to have
a few children…

Which they apparently hadn’t been interested in. The having
the children part, that is. Being parents probably didn’t fit in very well with
their lifestyles. So, by opting not to have children, they had probably unintentionally
cut themselves off from adding wizards to their ranks. For which Paul was
profoundly grateful.

But none of that helped Paul with the problem of how to
raise Alisha. Needless to say, her magical abilities had created a whole host
of problems with raising her, not the least of which was to keep her away from
Normals. And especially away from Normal children. Even now, she was too young
to understand that she was “different” from other children and that she needed
to hide her magical abilities.

It helped that all of the Scotties wanted to spend time with
her, to be her friend and play games. And Alisha never seemed to tire of their
company. But both Paul and Capie knew that their daughter needed to spend time
with other children too and to learn to bridge the differences between them. If
nothing else, such contact would keep her from becoming arrogant, haughty, and
superior like unto the wizards of Errabêlu.

The one option they had was to immerse Alisha in stories of
nobility. In a way, Alisha was of “noble” birth, which made her situation
roughly akin to that of a princess, destined for a higher level of
responsibilities. So they had started her early on stories with those themes.
One of the first had been Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper, but
there were many other similar stories that emphasized the duties of royalty.

Alisha loved them all. But she was too young yet to realize
how they would personally impact her. And later, her brother to be. When Alisha
did finally understand…well, Paul felt pretty gloomy about it. That would be the
day she would understand how she had been robbed of a “normal” childhood.

“Thinking about Alisha, again, aren’t you?” Capie asked,
half in accusation.

“Something like that,” Paul admitted, glancing down at the
white sand.

Capie hugged him tightly. “It will be okay. It will help
when Junior is born.”

Paul gripped his chest with one hand, feigning a heart
attack. “We will NOT call him Junior! I was thinking maybe Christopher Kenneth
Armstead instead.”

“After our fathers? The name Chris is fine with me. But I
thought you didn’t get along with your father.”

Paul thought back, to the near-death experience he had undergone
in Chicago. “Now that I’m a father myself, let’s say I’ve had a change of
heart.”

She nodded and they walked a ways further.

“So, when do you start building starships?” she asked with
feigned nonchalance.

Paul came to a sudden stop, as if he had hit a brick wall.
He stared wide-eyed at his wife.

“Starships? What are you talking about?” he asked with
contrived innocence.

Capie grinned mischievously at him. “You think I wouldn’t
find out? That little research team you put together with Gerty 2 and the money
you funneled to Japan? Ha, you silly man! I know all your tricks! And don’t
think you’re going anywhere without me or the kids! So…answer the question.
When do you start building them?”

Paul grunted and looked imploringly up into the sky. “I was
thinking maybe four years on lab research, looking at the science behind
portals. Then a few more years for the preliminary hardware…”

THE END?

Author

Glenn Michaels is a freelance author and a full-time
electrical engineer from Tennessee Tech University. The author has been a
fanatic on the subject of science fiction for decades, ever since reading his
first sci-fi book, Freddie (the pig) And the Spaceship (1953), when he was in
the second grade. Glenn is currently employed by a contractor that tests
turbo-jet engines for the United States Air Force but who also worked, for a
few years, at Edwards Air Force Base, near Mojave, California.

His website can be found at: http://glenmichaelsbooks.weebly.com/