Laughing Wolf

by Nicholas Maes

  He considered his options. The facts he’d discovered were of vital importance and had to be brought to someone’s attention but … how? It would take days to contact the Information Bureau, and even if he did get through, the auto-clerks weren’t programmed to forward his call.

  But the information was crucial and he had to do something.

  “You seem pensive,” Mentor stated, breaking in on his thoughts.

  “I have a problem,” Felix answered. “I’ve found some information that the authorities should hear.”

  “It will take four days and sixteen hours to reach the Information Bureau ….”

  “Yes,” Felix snapped. “That’s why I’m debating what my next step should be.”

  “On the other hand,” Mentor went on, ignoring Felix’s burst of temper, “you can inform the authorities by communicating with a talk-show host.”

  “Like whom?” Felix asked, his interest piqued.

  “Monitoring,” Mentor said, initiating a search of the broadcast network. “At present there are 17573 talk shows worldwide.”

  “I need one with a wide viewing audience ….”

  “The Angstrom Show has ten million viewers. It is running currently on channel 213. Shall I engage the Entertainment Complex?”

  “My dad hated that machine,” Felix gulped.

  “If your information is crucial, I am sure your father would understand.”

  “All right,” Felix relented. “Please screen The Angstrom Show.”

  No sooner had he reached this decision than a bright light appeared above the EC console and, like clay being shaped upon a potter’s wheel, assumed the form of two men sitting before a globe of the world. The blonde-haired giant in a Klytex suit was Siegfried Angstrom, the talk show’s host. On his right was Dr. Lee — or so a banner proclaimed — chief director of the Science Institute.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Angstrom was saying. “When will we have a cure for the plague?”

  “I really can’t say,” Dr. Lee replied.

  “Not even a rough estimate? A week? Two weeks? A month? A year?”

  “As I explained, we haven’t determined the virus’s structure. Until we do, we can’t replicate —”

  The EC was starting to beep — Mentor was processing a request for connection. Felix started breathing hard. The thought suddenly struck him that, if he appeared on the show, millions would be watching. The idea made him nervous.

  “… But we’re running out of time,” Angstrom said. “Half the population has been hit with the virus. They’re getting by on life support, but that won’t help if the plague keeps spreading.”

  “I agree. The problem is that a cure continues to elude us.”

  The pair kept talking. Angstrom kept hinting that the scientists were lazy, while the doctor kept repeating that his centre was doing the best it could. Every two minutes, Angstrom would let a caller speak. These people, too, were angry with the doctor and kept blaming the scientists for dragging their feet.

  After watching the show for nearly an hour, Felix started thinking he was wasting his time. People were calling from all over the globe, and the chances of connection were maybe one in a million. But no sooner had this thought registered than the EC started flashing red. Moments later a 3D image of Felix was visible beside Siegfried Angstrom and the doctor.

  Shocked, Felix realized he was on the air.

  “Felix Taylor from Toronto is on the line,” Angstrom said. “Good evening, Felix. What’s on your mind?”

  “Pardon me?” Felix asked, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.

  “Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Angstrom jeered. “Or maybe your ERR implants have failed?”

  “I’ve never undergone ERR,” Felix gulped, trying hard to focus his thoughts.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Angstrom growled. “In that case, call back when you’ve undergone treatment or have a grip on your nerves.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Felix spoke, swallowing his terror.

  “Okay.” Angstrom smiled. “Have you a question for our guest?”

  “Actually,” Felix said, inhaling deeply, “I’d like to report a discovery I’ve made.”

  “How exciting!” Angstrom grinned. “Please share it with our viewers.”

  Aware that the host was poking fun at him, Felix described his father’s routines, how he’d worked in the Depository, brought home piles of books and taught his son both Latin and Greek. The point was, Felix added, as Angstrom shifted restlessly, that he’d stumbled on an ancient text that cast some light on the plague.

  “Let me get this straight,” Angstrom interrupted. “You’re saying a book that was written in the past has something to say about the disaster we’re facing?

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Then I’ve heard enough,” Angstrom smirked, leaning forward to press the disconnect button.

  “You don’t understand!” Felix said sternly. “I’m saying this same plague struck two thousand years ago!”

  At this news Angstrom flinched, while the doctor sat up straight in his chair.

  “It will become clearer if I read to you,” Felix explained, opening the Historiae to the page with the bookmark. Angstrom and the doctor leaned forward in their seats.

  “‘Two days after the death of Spartacus,” he read, “a plague broke out near the town of Panarium, a small but prosperous farming centre. Without warning, people in the town fell ill. Spots erupted on their faces, their necks grew swollen, and their fingertips turned red, as if they’d been immersed in blood. Its victims also lapsed into a sleep so deep that no amount of shaking would possibly rouse them.’” Felix paused for breath and addressed Angstrom directly. “Notice the symptoms. Facial spots, red fingertips, coma …”

  “Are you a doctor?” Angstrom asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you have no right to jump to conclusions. In fact —”

  “‘For a month,” Felix went on reading, to prevent himself from being cut off, “the plague rampaged like a conquering army. Rich and poor fell ill, Roman and non-Roman, slave and master, honest folk and criminals. Offerings were delivered to the gods, but still the plague continued, drawing strength from every victim it claimed. Hearing of this sickness, officials in Rome grew worried. If the plague reached the capital, it would kill people by the tens of thousands. Rome’s foes might attack it in its weakened state, and slaves might remember Spartacus and continue his rebellion. The fate of the empire seemed to hang in the balance.’”

  “Slaves, war, invasion!” Angstrom growled, his 3D image recoiling in horror. “I think you’ve tried our patience enough!”

  “I’m getting to the important part —”

  “Finish quickly,” the doctor broke in. “This talk of the past is most unpleasant.”

  “‘In the third week of the crisis,’” Felix pressed on, “‘The plague struck the capital. Within days three thousand Romans lay dying. As officials struggled to halt the disease, and citizens prepared to flee the city, a farmer from Panarium made the strangest claim. Some months before the plague had started, his entire crop had failed. His fields had produced, not wheat and barley, but an ungainly flower called lupus ridens, so named because its petals resembled a laughing wolf. His neighbours had assumed he had offended the gods and refused to provide his household with grain. In desperation, the farmer had fed his family this flower, whose bulb, though bitter, was highly nutritious. The results were startling. Whereas every neighbour had fallen ill, the farmer was in perfect health. Far from being a curse, the lupus ridens was a blessing.’”

  “What barbarians!” Angstrom snorted, “To believe in gods …!”

  “‘Hearing this tale,’” Felix concluded, “‘the senator Gaius Julius Caesar bought the flowers from the farmer and distributed bulbs throughout Italy. Within weeks of eating the lupus ridens, citizens were delivered from the brink of death: they awoke from their sleep, their spots disappeared and their red f
ingertips regained their normal colour. And thus it was that a simple flower saved the empire in its hour of need.’”

  Felix closed the book. “So you see,” he concluded, “this plague does have a cure. We only have to find this lupus ridens and —”

  “Enough!” Angstrom cried. “How dare you mention … fairy tales! If you’d undergone ERR, you’d be thinking with your head and not your emotions!”

  “This is no fairy tale!” Felix said hotly. “Just because it was written —”

  “At a time when people thought the sun was a god,” Angstrom sneered. “And when slavery and war were everyday occurrences.”

  “But the story tells us something,” Felix cried. “Don’t you think so, Doctor?”

  “I think,” the doctor mused, “that we’ve heard enough superstition for one day.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Angstrom agreed. “Now if you don’t mind, Felix, there are other callers on the line.”

  Felix was about to protest, but Angstrom pressed a button and his holographic image popped like a bubble.

  As he sat on the couch without moving a muscle, other guests connected and ridiculed his tale about the lupus ridens. A few suggested that Mr. Taylor should be jailed for having taught his son such absolute nonsense and that all ancient texts should be thrown into a furnace. Felix asked Mentor to turn the EC off.

  The sun was setting. Shadows were gathering in the room. His loneliness a crushing weight on his shoulders, Felix curled into a ball and slowly drifted off.

  Chapter Five

  He was standing in a desert. Around him was a crowd of legionnaires, who looked tired and … apprehensive. They were staring in front of them, with such concentration that they failed to notice Felix. Curious, he moved through their ranks, and still they continued to direct their gaze forward. What WERE they looking at?

  Wait! The troops were suddenly changing: their faces were spotted, their fingertips were reddening and many were collapsing! He sprinted toward the foremost ranks where a figure was surveying the plain before him. Felix knew this was Marcus Crassus and that the battle of Carrhae was about to begin, one of Rome’s more troubling defeats. Even now the Parthians were approaching, with their fifteen-foot pikes. What was on the end of each? It couldn’t be! Hoisted on high, beneath the blinding desert sun, his father’s head stared lifelessly at Felix.…

  Felix awoke with a cry. He’d been napping on the couch and, with the night’s onset, the unit was steeped in shadow. Wait, no. A flashing light intruded from outside, and an angry buzzing was making his ears ring — as if a hive of bees had broken into their dwelling.

  “Mentor? What’s happening?”

  The flashing light grew brighter. The buzzing, too, rose in volume, until Felix could feel his insides tingle. He struggled off the couch and studied the room. His instincts told him something was wrong.

  “Mentor! Answer me! What’s going on?”

  Wait. Mentor’s light ports weren’t blinking; a sign his power had been cut. But how? The system was linked to three separate generators, and a short like this was out of the question — unless it had been engineered.

  Felix’s hair stood on end. Somehow someone had … murdered Mentor!

  “Felix Taylor!” a voice hailed him from outside, “This is Medevac 125037. We are here to transport you to a health facility.”

  A Medevac? Here? It was going to transport him? Felix felt his neck and scalp bristle. There could only be one explanation: he’d come down with the virus!

  He hurried to a mirror beside the front entrance. Although the only light was from the flashers outside, he peered into it anxiously and tried to spy his features. Were there blisters on his cheeks? Had his fingertips turned red? It was difficult to tell, but everything seemed normal. And far from feeling tired, he was filled with nervous energy.

  “Please step onto the balcony. We have dispatched a stretcher.”

  No sooner were these words announced than a stretcher hovered into view, its retractable arms as threatening as ever. With a quiet but insistent hum its miniature jets steered it straight onto the balcony. Watching it with bated breath, Felix thought he must have missed his next exam and the authorities were closing in. Mentor, poor Mentor, had been right all along and …

  How odd. The old-fashioned clock read 8:46 p.m. So he hadn’t missed his appointment yet. But then why was a Medevac paying him a visit …?

  “Please step onto the balcony. You are wasting precious time.”

  Felix unsealed the balcony door — a task Mentor would have normally performed. As he stepped outside and savoured the fresh air, the stretcher’s lid opened with a snake-like hiss. Spying it, Felix was taken aback. Once he climbed inside it and the lid wheeled closed, he’d be linked to a series of soul-less machines.

  “Lie down on the stretcher,” the voice enjoined him.

  He didn’t want to go. Earlier, he hadn’t cared if the authorities swooped in, but now that his freedom was endangered he was sorely afraid. And not just afraid: he was angry and defiant.

  “Lie down on the stretcher,” the voice insisted. “We are falling behind schedule.”

  “You’re mistaken,” he yelled back. “I don’t have the disease.”

  “Lie down!” the voice repeated. “We will not ask you again.”

  “Can’t you hear me? I’m not sick. And why did you disable my domestic system?”

  He sensed its approach at the very last instant. Glancing around, he saw a fist-sized sphere had stationed itself behind him. It was a BISDM — a Brain Interference Signal Delivery Mechanism. Before he could duck or jump to one side, a wall of energy seemed to engulf him.

  As a wave of black struck him, he was thinking he’d never open his eyes again.

  “You can open your eyes.”

  There was a high-pitched whine far in the background and the continuous beeping of a signal exchange. A blast of air felt nice against his cheek.

  “Come on. Hurry. My father’s going to test you once we’ve reached the stratosphere. Open your eyes and talk to me.”

  Without stirring, Felix struggled to puzzle things out. His brain had been shocked and his body flung onto a stretcher. And now a Medevac was conveying him to a facility in orbit, unless his refusal to co-operate would land him in jail. Either way, he didn’t care. The trick was to keep his eyes firmly closed.…

  “Open your eyes!”

  “Stop bossing me around!” he shouted, opening his eyes in spite of himself. To his surprise he was staring at a girl his age, with short, blonde hair, hazel-green eyes, and a chin that suggested she was very self-composed. He also noticed the stretcher’s lid was open.

  “The lid is open,” he stated. “So I’m not infected.”

  “No.”

  “So why am I here? Why did you shock me? Why did you kill Mentor? And who are you anyway?”

  “My name is Carolyn Manes. But never mind that. You sound angry, emotional.”

  “What do you expect?”

  “I mean, you haven’t undergone ERR.”

  “No. On my father’s advice, I dispensed with it.”

  “It must be odd to experience emotion. My father says it can hamper one’s judgment, but at the same time it can lead to valuable insight.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “He’s a general and is in charge of the Temporal Projection Matrix.”

  “This is all very interesting, but what’s it all about? Why did a Medevac …?”

  “No one can know about the TPM. That’s why we’ve faked that you’re ill and hauled you off in a medical transport.”

  “You’ve lost me …”

  “My father’s coming,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Without another word, she hurried to the far end of the Medevac.

  Seconds later, a large, well-groomed man approached. He had short, grey hair, light green eyes, a chiselled chin and, apart from his Chromine uniform, looked the spitting image of his daughter. Beside him was an older man
with a lavish white beard. He was thin and wrinkled, and was dressed in a suit that Mr. Taylor might have worn. Although Felix had heard of glasses before, he’d never met anyone who actually wore them. The lenses were distorting the man’s bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m General Manes,” the man in the uniform announced, grasping Felix’s hand and yanking him out of the stretcher.

  “Hello,” Felix said in a strangled voice.

  “This gentleman here,” the general continued, “is Professor MacPherson. Like you, he joined our project only recently.”

  “Project?”

  “I’ll explain in good time. Just now I’d like you to say something in Latin.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You claimed on The Angstrom Show that your father taught you Latin. Please prove to me now that you were telling the truth. Believe me, this is very important.”

  With a shrug, Felix spoke off the top of his head. He said the general’s name was odd because “Manes” meant “family spirits” in Latin. He then described his situation, how his father was dead, his mother was off-world, and their domestic system had been disconnected. He would have added more had the general not held up a finger.

  “Thank you, that’s enough,” he said. “Well, Professor?”

  “It is remarkable,” the old man spoke in a squeaky voice, as if he hadn’t practised speaking in a long, long while. “This lad’s Latin is superb. His grammar’s perfect, his vocabulary’s rich, and he speaks without any hesitation whatsoever. My boy, I do congratulate you.”

  “Could he get the job done?” the general demanded.

  “In my opinion, yes,” the professor answered.

  “Excellent. Thank you very much, Professor.”

  By now Felix was doubly confused. Before he could get a word out, however, the general steered him to an alcove and sat him next to Carolyn. At the same time he produced a small box from his pocket that contained a narrow hole in its side. He asked Felix to place his index finger in its hollows.