The Wizard from Earth (31 page)

“Not really, but it's sort of the general idea.  Go on.”

She held out her hands on each side, and looked at one and said, “Here inside the probe we have the mentors, who are artificial people with great repositories of human knowledge.”  She looked at the other hand and said, “And here we have humans who are running free like animals, absolutely ignorant of all knowledge.”  She brought her hands together.  “So how is it that the tiny artificial-person mentors came to be the full-sized human mentors known to our history?”

Matt tilted his head.  “Ivan says there were designs for mobile implants that could walk and fly.  So the mentors would be implants that could travel from the probe to a human, then get inside the human and communicate like Ivan does with me.”

“So the people whom we call 'mentors' were actually only the hosts to the true mentors.  But still, how do the mentors get inside the humans?”

Matt made a pensive frown.  “Ivan is installed through a nasal cavity.  And the mentors would probably have been primitive compared to Ivan, but still they wouldn't have been very big, maybe about insect-sized.  So yeah, maybe they'd fit through a nostril.”

Carrot cringed.  “A bug crawling up a person's nose to settle inside his brain.  I can't imagine a greater horror!”

“Well, it would probably happen while the host was sleeping.”

“
That doesn't make it better!
”

“Look, Carrot, it wasn't my idea.”  He waved at the scene.  “This whole world is basically an illegal genetic experiment.  I'm here, but I had nothing to do with it and I didn't want anything to do with it.”

She said quietly, “I'm part of the experiment too, aren't I?”

“Oh, Carrot, I didn't mean it that way – “

“That's all right.  I didn't take you to mean that you despised me.  But I am part of their experiment, aren't I?”

“Yes.  Theirs, or the seeder probe's.”

“What do you mean . . . oh, wait, I think I see.  To do all it does, the Box must have an artificial person inside of it, too, like the mentors and Ivan.”

“Yes.  And to operate over centuries, it would have to be capable of independent thought and have its own self-actualized personality.  And I'm just guessing, but it was probably named Pandora.”

“Pandora.  Why do you think that?”

“There's a well-known old Earth myth about a woman named Pandora, who opens a box and lets out all the troubles of the world.”

“That does sound very appropriate.  But do you have additional reasons for believing it is named Pandora?”

“Also, the Star Seed Project had a secret program named Pandora, which Ivan and I think had to do with sending a seeder probe to Ne'arth.  And there's something like a religious cult here that worships an entity named Pandora.”

“Yes, I have heard of that.  So Matt, do you think Pandora is still alive?”

“Seeder probes were designed to last centuries.  So, yeah.”

“Where is she then?”

“Good question.”

She looked at him levelly, and said, “Matt, for what purpose do you think Pandora made me?”

“I don't know.  Carrot, I was wondering, do you have your own idea on that?”

Carrot didn't answer. 
As a mutant
, she thought,
perhaps I am a special project
.  Perhaps that had something to do with . . . . Carrot thought of the creature that had killed her mother, and knew instinctively, 
Pandora is the true enemy.

The Master of Rome began to bong.  Carrot read the dial and drained her cup in a single gulp.  "I must be on.  I promised Mola I would be back in time to help with lunch."

Matt stood with her.  "Where are you going now?  Mind if I come along?"

"I don't think you'd like it.  The slave market."

"Oh.  Well, maybe I should see that.  Just to know what it's about."

So he followed her to the slave market.  It was a typical day:  whippings, brandings, women made to bare their chests.  Children howling when separated from parents.  But what seemed to affect him most was how the buyers in the auction crowd chatted and laughed about the misery they were underwriting.

Finally, he growled,  "What the Emperor said the other night about having to keep people poor out of necessity.  That's just an excuse the people in power make.  They really do enjoy controlling and tormenting other human beings.  I think certain people are addicted to sadism."

"From what I have seen of masters and rulers, those who crave to control the lives of others seem to enjoy inflicting oppression.  Do you suppose that is the real reason why this world was made?”

“I just know it led to this and all the other injustices I've seen here, and proves that people in my time were right to be against uncontrolled interstellar seeder probe programs.  I mean, I like Archimedes and you and all your friends, but – “

They heard a whip snap and a woman shriek, and Matt winced. 

"Carrot, this is worse than Palras.  If you don't mind, I'll go back to the house."

She realized that was proof once more that he really did come from another world. 
He can't look and not feel.

By then she was disappointed to see him leave.  During their animated conversation at the cafe, she'd almost forgotten her mission.  She had to admit, she had never been more fascinated by a male her own age, not even the boy from South Umbrick who had sought to acquaint her with all the things that could be done inside a hay stack.  And this time, Geth wasn't there to chase her instructor away. 

She almost smiled at the memory, and then she turned unsmiling to the auction platform.  She stayed for a few minutes longer, but she didn't see the men or detect their scent. 

She headed for the waterfront, relieved that she didn't have to contrive a lie to avoid revealing to Matt what she was about to do.

At the public warehouse, she stopped and presented the claim ticket that gained her entrance to her rented storage bin.  In privacy she emptied the satchel.  Next stop was the courier station, where the bored clerk accepted her payment and watched her self-consciously fill out the envelope label: 
To Ral the Tailor, Cork Lane, Town of Londonium, Province of Britan.
 

As she always did at the waterfront, she paused at the edge of the shoring and watched ships on the piers unload slaves and raw materials, then load with soldiers and the manufactured goods of Roman factories.  But at that moment the commerce of an empire was not sufficiently diverting to keep her from thinking about Matt. 

Then – as she turned – she stopped in mid-step, and all thoughts were chased from mind by the faintest trace of a scent.  Her eyes rapidly swept the waterfront but she saw no one in particular.  And then the scent was gone.  Carrot remained trembling.  However, though she began with fear, she quickly turned to rage and resolve as she squinted at the imagined foe.

“Agent of Pandora,” she said.  “So you are here!”

And she thought,
Let's see what can be done about that.

34.

Carrot did not come to his room that night, or the next.  Matt's attempts at conversation were declined with a variety of excuses.  She had too many chores.  She was very tired and had to take a nap.  She was about to leave on errands and asked that he not come along because it would slow her down. 
No, nothing's wrong.  If you'll pardon me . . . .
 

Meanwhile, Archimedes became involved in activities of his own.  He would only grunt when Matt asked for assignments and then disappear behind a locked door in the basement for hours without explanation.  Matt heard a lot of clanging and banging, and more grunting when Archimedes emerged speckled with grease. 

Matt at first welcomed the slack time, as he was able to uninterruptedly read – that is, photograph – all the books in the library.  But all too often, after dinner, he found himself sitting on his bed in his room, staring out into the lamp-lit courtyard at the garden and servants and feeling very much a stranger in a strange land.  And yet . . . strangely not. 

“It's beginning to be just like Earth,” Matt remarked to Ivan.  “I have only two friends on the planet and they're both too busy for me.”

"Matt," Ivan said, "I am your friend."

"I hope," Matt found himself saying, "that I've been a good friend to you as well."

He reclined on the bed and stared at the ceiling – something that he was aware he was doing a lot of lately. 

"I wonder if it's something I said.  She seemed all right at the cafe."

"I detected elevated respiration and pulse rates on her part at that time.”

"Now that you mention it . . . run the video for when we were just about to go out that day."

The pop-up augmented-reality window blocked out most of the ceiling.  Carrot was standing in the courtyard, holding a satchel in one hand and an envelope in the other.  For the most part the envelope was obscured by her body, but the waxen imprint was unmistakable.

"She used the Seal of Archimedes," Matt said.  "She must have taken it from his office.”

“Or, she asked to borrow it and he allowed her to do so.”

“Uh, yeah.  Well, I'm glad one of us here isn't the suspicious type.  But see how she's holding the envelope when we're together?  She's trying to keep us from seeing it.  Like she's afraid that I'll have you scan it.  By the way, did you?”

“I did not.  Do you wish that I automatically scan the next time I see someone holding a letter, or specifically when she does?”

“I guess that would be too nosy  But continue scanning everybody for hidden weapons.  I'm tired of being mugged every time I go out at night.”

“It has not been every time.  It was only twice.”

Matt sighed.  “Keep going on the video, please.”

Matt reviewed the video of the entire time that he had spent with Carrot, noting that she continued to keep the envelope positioned so that Ivan would not have been able to scan it. 

He winced at his casual reference to her being a mutant, and realized from her expression how much she had been disturbed by his description of how mentors might behave.

“I wonder if I come off as a bit insensitive,” he said. 

"I have a social behavior metrics program that could evaluate your conversational style.”

"All right, run an analysis for the conversation at the cafe."

Matt waited, but Ivan didn't say anything.

"Ivan, is the analysis done?"

"Yes, Matt."

"Well, what did it say?"

"Matt, the evaluations made by programs in the social behavior metrics suite are those of the respective development teams and not my own."

"Okay . . . so what did the program say?"

"Your conversational style is evaluated as, 'Narcissistic.'"

"WHAT?" Matt spoke out loud and had all but shouted.  He sat up and scowled.  "How could it say that?  We were talking about helping a planet!"

"Would you like the summary?"

"I'm sensing that I would not like it, but tell me anyway."

"'
Subject monopolizes conversations.  Subject is defensive and retaliatory.  Subject expresses grandiose visions of societal change.  Subject expresses extreme moral judgments.  Subject demonstrates lack of sensitivity toward listener's wants and needs –
'"

"I bought her a mocha!"

"The entire analysis commentary is four thousand two hundred and fifty-five words in length.  Would you like to view it?"

"Later."  Matt flopped over and buried his face in the pillow.  He still saw Carrot, though.  He willed the AR window shut.  And then he still saw her.   

"Matt, it appears your tear ducts are about to – “

"I'm not going to cry.  And be quiet."

He pulled the pillow back, wiped his eyes, and resumed staring at the ceiling.  After several minutes, he said:

"It's taken a few centuries, but I've decided what I want to do when I grow up.  I'm going to be the kind of person that Carrot likes.”

Sometime later, he heard the voices from the courtyard.  A few minutes after that, Jaros knocked on the wall by the doorway.

"Archimedes wishes to see you in haste.  He is in the basement.”

"What's up?"

Jaros replied deadpan,  "I have elaborate theories upon which I can expound, but if you linger to listen to them he will not be able to see you in haste."

While Jaros lit the courtyard torches to supplement twilight, Matt went to the basement.  Archimedes ushered him through the door behind which he had been mysteriously working, an area of the house that Matt had yet to be permitted.  It opened into a hallway, and at the far end was a well-lighted, hexagonal room.  Around a hexagonal table sat three older persons, two men and a woman.  They looked at Matt the same way that Archimedes had done when they first met at Palras, as if he were a machine part and . . . .

"This is the boy," Archimedes said.  "He is named Matt of Seattle.  And Matt, we four call ourselves the Council of the Moon.  This is Prin, the lady is Andra, and the fellow at the end who is giving you a glare is Landar.  You may consider us simply as a group of private citizens interested in scientific affairs of the day.”

And today, Matt realized, he was the scientific affair they were most interested in.

"He doesn't strike one as special," said Prin, who wore what on Earth would have been called an artist's beret and whose mustache terminated in points.  He reached for the bowl in the center of the table.  "Yet you say he invented these?"

"Actually, Prin, it's a dish of Seattlean origin, called 'potato chips.'  The mixture at the side is called 'dip.'  As the name implies, one must 'dip' the 'chip' to fully experience the intended flavor.  And also, after eating from it once, mind not to dip the same chip again."

"You're not the only one who's heard of germs, Archie.  Do I look like a patrician?  I do have some wits about me.”

Andra patted his hand.  “Prin, he's only admonishing you because you're sometimes forgetful.”

Prin slouched and folded his arms.  “Yes, dear.”

“I think those two are married,” Matt subvocaled.

“Yes,” said Ivan.

In unison, the group brought out notebooks and pencils.

Landar opened his notebook, hiding the page from Matt's view.  "Let's put him through his paces," he said.  "Now listen here, Boy – "

"Landar!" Archimedes snapped.  "He is not a slave."

"You said that he came from Palras."

"He's freeman now."

Landar put on a pair of spectacles and scrutinized Matt's hands.  "Was he ever a slave?  I see no tattoo."

"Apparently they failed to tattoo him.  You had a question for him?"

"Yes . . . Matt."  Landar consulted his notebook.  "Are you familiar with the concept of the number pi, and the concept also of the decimal place?  Then recite pi to the tenth decimal."

Ivan easily provided the answer, and Matt simply regurgitated.

"Very well, then how about fie to the same?  And the natural logarian-theme that is known as 'eh.'"

Matt finished, but Prin snorted.  "This proves nothing!  A bird can recite!  Have him do sums and multiplications.  No – have him perform at long division!"

Matt instantly answered calculations involving numbers of three, four, and then five digits in length.  They nodded with expressions of growing incredulity as they lengthily cross-checked by hand.

Then came questions about science, chemical formulas and thermodynamics.  It wasn't long before those at the table lapsed into silence.  They looked at each other, and then at Archimedes, and then Andra said, "I think we are all in agreement.”

Prin looked at her.  “In agreement of what?”

Andra looked at him.  “That he should be permitted to look at it.”

“At what?”

With deliberation, Andra glanced sideways.

“Oh, that.  Yes, that.  Yes, I agree.  He should be permitted to look at it.”

Andra clasped her hands.  “Then we are all in agreement.” 

Archimedes led them into the hallway and headed in the direction that Andra had glanced, back toward the library.  Midway down the hallway, he unlocked a sliding door, pushed it aside, and lit lanterns.  It was a workshop.  The tables were strewn with metal parts in the same kind of mess that the other workshops in the house had been in before Matt had organized them.  The walls were covered with writing boards displaying the same kind of crude project-management diagramming that Matt had seen in the telescope workshop, but here the task blocks were so numerous that their captions were (at greater than arm's length and with normal vision) unreadably tiny and cramped.  Whatever this project was, it was much more complex than a telescope.

On the main table had several parts that Matt instantly recognized as pistons.  The block of iron in the center of the table had holes just the right size and depth to be the corresponding piston cylinders.

"Matt," Archimedes said, waving at the assemblage.  "Do you know what this is?"

"It's an internal combustion engine," Matt replied.  Once more, he have to upgrade his estimate of Roman technology by several decades.  "Where did you get this?"

"We built it based on the ancient texts."

"I never saw this in any of your books."

"Not all of my books are in the library."

Archimedes unlocked a cabinet and returned with a large and somewhat moldy book, which he carefully laid flat on the table.  He opened to the bookmarked page.  There was a precise engineering drawing of the engine, with forward and side and cutaway views, dimensions and part callouts.  As Matt compared the drawing with the engine, he spotted a crucial difference.

"The one you're building is three times as large," he said.

"The one on Steam Island is ten times larger still," Prin said.

Landar glared, but Archimedes said, "I think we must tell Matt about Steam Island, if we want his help.  And we do need his help."

"Help?" Matt asked.  "To do what?"

"To render war impossible.”

Matt blinked.

Archimedes smiled and said,  “It's time we showed you everything.  Assist me, Prin."

Archimedes opened a cabinet, and he and Prin carried a two-meter long draped object over to a side table.  Archimedes removed the covering.  Revealed was a carved wooden model of exquisite detail:  cigar shaped main body – and upon its underside were slung a gondola, fins, engines, and propellers. 

"It's an airship," Matt mumbled.

Archimedes replied,  "The ancient texts, if I recall, refer to it as a 'zepallion.'  But 'airship' is quite apt.  How did you know to call it that?  Do you have these in Seattle?”

"We're familiar with the concept.”  Matt didn't think it would be productive to mention the 'dinner blimp' that had cruised over the city each night.

He examined the model closely and had Ivan examine it closer.  He asked,  "What kind of gas are you using to fill the balloon?"

"The ancients referred to it as 'hydrogen,'" Andra replied.  She pronounced the 'g' as a hard 'g' and not a 'j' sound.   

"Hydrogen is very flammable."  Matt saw their gazes.  "Or – so I've heard."

"The balloon is not capable of catching fire," Andra replied.  "It's made of Sarkassian silk."

"What's that?"

She opened her pouch and presented a swatch of gray fabric.  “It's very lightweight but also very strong, try it.”

It was thin as foil.  Matt yanked and pulled, yet could not rip it.  Ivan analyzed,  "It is an advanced graphite composite, similar to carbonoflex used for construction of magnetic sails."

It took an advanced printer indeed to print carbonoflex, so Matt asked,  “Where did you get this?”

"From the anus of a Sarkassian worm, where else?"

The others laughed, and Matt subvocaled, “Ivan, do a search on 'Sarkassian worm.'”

Ivan promptly replied, “There is no information on Sarkassian worms in my archives.”

Aloud, Matt said,  “I've never heard of Sarkassian worms.”