Fool Me Twice (Filidor Vesh)

by Matthew Hughes

  “What is it?” asked Emmlyn.

  “I feel as if we are about to land in a fog with instruments dead,” the young man said. “My uncle has reappeared, but I cannot speak with him. Faubon Bassariot’s associates -- and there must be some within the Archonate service -- may yet have moves to make, but I do not know who they are, nor how many, nor what they intend.”

  She reached for his hand again. “My uncle Siskine says, ‘a downwind approach is not always a must, but it’s never a mistake.’”

  Filidor made up his mind. He told the car to put them down in the plaza before the Connaissarium. They alighted and passed through the doors of the great building and found the gallery where the alien slab stood in its alcove. As they squeezed behind it, the object emitted its mysterious phrase, “Spa fon?”

  “No, thank you,” said Emmlyn.

  Filidor paused, looked from the woman to the black artifact, then shook his head and said, “Never mind.”

  He pulled open the door, got a lumen from the box on the floor, and lit it. “Look,” he said, and shone the light on the dusty steps. His footsteps of a few days ago were clear, as were another set of prints that overlapped them. “I thought this passage was unknown to any but me. Again, my uncle proves me wrong.”

  They climbed the steps and stopped on the landing at the top to catch their breath, then Filidor pressed the stone that his younger self had circled in chalk. The wall pivoted and admitted them to the workroom.

  Filidor sighed glad relief when he saw the tall imposing shape of the Archon bent over the main workbench at the far end of the great room. He took the young woman by the hand and led her through the maze of benches and disassembled apparatuses that cluttered the floor.

  “Uncle!” he cried, as they came upon the man at the bench. “I am so glad to see you safe.”

  The image of the Archon looked up sharply. It was the first time Filidor had ever come upon his uncle unawares. But the august face immediately recomposed itself and regarded him with the usual calm austerity from the other side of the bench. “Where is Bassariot?” said the familiar magisterial voice.

  “Dead in Trumble,” said Filidor. “He plotted against you, and would have killed me and... But I forget my manners. Uncle, I have the pleasure to introduce...”

  “Emmlyn Podarke,” said the Archon, turning his eyes on her.

  “I did not think you would know me, sir,” said Emmlyn.

  “I know your family,” was the reply.

  Filidor looked at what occupied the workbench between them and his uncle, a flat rectangle of metal and synthetic materials, the size of a spacious bed, its surface smeared and drab. “Is this what Bassariot dug for in Trumble?”

  “It is,” said the Archon.

  “I was told it was some sort of entertainment device.”

  “It was designed as such, but turned out to be adaptable to other functions,” said the Archon. He resumed dabbing with a rag and cleaning solution at a dark patch on the top surface. A utilitarian power coupling emerged from beneath the grime, and the Archon pulled a cable from the floor and connected it to the device. A subtle hum filled the workroom, and the Archon made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

  “Now, the controls,” he said, wiping at a panel that was more heavily crusted with the detritus of the machine’s grave.

  “I still can’t make sense of Bassariot’s plan. How did this thing figure into his aims?” Filidor said.

  “Let us consider him mad,” said the Archon, not looking up from his work. He swore a strong oath. “These command nodes will have to be rebuilt.”

  Filidor had never heard his uncle use such language. “No need for distress,” he said, drawing from his pocket the palm sized device he had dug under the threat of Bassariot’s gun. “I believe this is its tapper.”

  The Archon came swiftly around the bench, ducking under a low overhanging light fixture. “Give it to me,” he said.

  “I think not,” said Filidor. He tossed the control to Emmlyn and said, “Run! He is not my uncle! Back to the volante and away as fast as you can.”

  She caught the device, stared at him only an instant, then did as she was bid. Filidor turned to deal with the man in front of him. He drew Bassariot’s energy gun and pointed it at the figure of the Archon and said, “I don’t know who you are, but stand still or I shoot.”

  The Archon drew a similar weapon and pointed it at Filidor. “Emmlyn Podarke!” boomed the modulated voice, “stop and return, or this fool dies!”

  Filidor heard the woman’s footsteps come to a halt. “Don’t listen to him!” he shouted, not taking his eyes off the man in front of him. “Lower your weapon!”

  The projection showed an expression Filidor had never seen on either of his uncle’s faces, a sneer of contempt. “I am at ease with this weapon. If necessary, I can shoot your Podarke friend through the head with very little risk of hitting the control.” He swung the gun in a leisurely arc toward her.

  “No!” cried Filidor, and pressed his weapon’s firing stud. Nothing happened.

  “You gun is, in fact, mine, lent to Bassariot. It will not fire on its owner.” He pointed his own weapon back at Filidor. “But this one will cut you in half if she does not bring back the control.”

  Filidor heard the reluctant traipse of Emmlyn’s feet returning across the stone floor. The man behind the Archon’s image beckoned with one finger, and Filidor passed him the energy gun he had taken from Bassariot.

  “Put the control on the device, then step back.”

  Emmlyn did so, then said, “What will you do now? Kill us?”

  “In a little while, it will not be necessary.”

  “I presume you have killed my uncle,” said Filidor. “Be assured that I will avenge him as soon as I may.”

  The image snorted. “What a bold puppy it has become. Still, you will make an accommodating lap-pet.”

  “Never,” said Filidor and Emmlyn, as one.

  The image slid open a small hatch on the tapper and made some adjustments. “There,” the man said, “a few moments for the mechanism to reorder its function, then all will be well in the garden.”

  “What is it?” Filidor had to know. “What does it do?”

  “It’s the Magguffynne Sensibility Augmentor, the only one of its kind, designed and built my ancestor, Edile Magguffynne, of Trumble County, as it then was.”

  “Then you are...”

  “Correct.” There was a double click, and the image of the Archon Dezendah VII disappeared, to be replaced by a tall, spare shape that Filidor recognized. He also knew the voice that told Emmlyn, “I am Vadric Magguffynne, and I am pleased to have a damned upstart of a Podarke witness my moment of triumph over this ninny and all the Veshes before him. Though I can assure you there will be none after.”

  Emmlyn elevated her head and regarded Magguffynne from a posture that suggested she was far from convinced. Filidor admired her bravery.

  “Where is my uncle?” he demanded.

  Magguffynne gestured airily with the gun. “A matter for conjecture. Bassariot informed me that the great Dezendah was plinking about with a Zenthro Intrusifer. I had him remove the hand control and replace it with one that I had, shall we say, ‘adjusted.’ My best guess is that your uncle has become one with an infinity of cosmoses, all of them very small, as suits his puny stature.”

  “You knew,” said Filidor.

  “Of course, I knew, as did anyone who was anyone. Dezendah and I were at school together, even developed a shared interest in old devices: Dez and Vad, the antick delvers, they called us; but never Vad and Dez. Then he was selected for ‘enhanced mastery,’ and I was sent to rusticate in a cottage my family still owned in Trumble. It was there that I learned about my ancestor Edile’s tinkerings and the reason why that timid fool had the thing buried. When I came back to Olkney, I c
ontinued my researches, and now all is at a pinnacle.” Magguffynne inspected the pattern of lights that had appeared on the surface of the machine, and said, “We are ready.”

  “But what does it do?” Filidor said.

  “Not even your celebrated uncle would know that,” the usurper sneered. “It’s a sensibility augmentor. It gathers, amplifies then projects the operator’s feelings to others. My ancestor thought he would encourage the most refined aesthetes of his time to project their sentiments regarding great works of art to bumpkins who could not otherwise appreciate them. Grouped around the device, they would have clearly seen the tetrarch’s finery that was invisible to them moments before.”

  Magguffynne adjusted something on the hand control, then continued, “What Edile didn’t realize until he had built the thing was that, with a more potent power feed, it could be effective over a much wider area -- an entire city was well within its reach -- and that, in the hands of a strong willed operator, it could impress more than sublime artistic appreciation upon its subjects. Whether they were willing or no.” He made a final adjustment to the tapper. “For some reason, he thought that would be a bad thing, and so he buried his invention.”

  “You are despicable,” said Emmlyn.

  “In a moment, you’ll think me the most wonderful man in the world, and you’ll do anything to oblige me.” He looked her up and down. “You’re a presentable young thing, so I might even let you. In memory of long-dead Hableck.”

  “You mean, you’re going to make everyone share your opinion of yourself?” Filidor said. An idea had occurred to him. He needed to find something buried in a deep pocket of his breeches, and to distract attention from what he was doing he burbled on. “I see it, now. You will masquerade as my uncle until the machine has generated a great public affection for Vadric Magguffynne. Then, still in my uncle’s guise, you will announce Dezendah Vesh’s abdication and hand over the Archonate to the popular choice; that is, to yourself.”

  “That is my plan,” said Magguffynne, adjusting a control. “And in a moment, you will see it brought to completion.”

  Filidor continued to dig in his pocket. “You were just going to push me aside, weren’t you?”

  The usurper’s fingers slid and pushed the augmentor’s controls. “You were, and are, of no importance. Bassariot did so desire to kill you, however, that I allowed him to throw you from the ship. After all, he had earned a reward.” Magguffynne adjusted a final setting and said, “There we are. Time for a change.”

  “A brilliant strategy!” said Filidor. His questing fingers now touched the object he sought. “I’m coming to think that you indeed deserve to be Archon!”

  “Is the device already working?” said Emmlyn. “I still find him abhorrent and repulsive.”

  Filidor swung toward her, gesturing floridly with his left hand while the fingers of his right closed at last on the thing in his pocket. “But you must admire the power of intellect, the breadth of vision!” he said, in a loud voice, then in a much quieter tone, he added, “Duck out of sight, now!”

  Emmlyn turned and dove behind a pile of defragilator parts. Magguffynne sneered. “These shallow tricks won’t save you. Hide if you wish. The effect of the device is all pervasive.” He punched a control. “Behold!”

  But as his extended digit connected with the implementation stud, Filidor had already brought his right hand out of his pocket, his fingers clasped around the little vial that Ovile Germolian had left behind. Now the Archon’s apprentice squeezed and snapped the glass tube, spilling its contents of espolianth powder into his palm. This he blew into Vadric Magguffynne’s sneering face.

  Two things happened. First, as the augmentor’s energies touched his mind, Filidor felt a rapidly growing regard for the personal qualities of Lord Vadric. The man was clearly the most superior human being Filidor had ever met, and if anything was overqualified to be Archon. But no sooner had this conviction established itself than the espolianth powder suddenly and drastically began to alter Magguffynne’s view of Filidor. There was a brief but intense surge of horror, followed by an absolute devotion to the person of the Archon’s nephew. As the augmentor washed waves of Magguffynne’s regard for him in a tide that swept the room, the young man knew, without latitude for the least vestige of a quibble, that he was the most lovable, agreeable creature ever to walk the face of Old Earth; he yearned to do something for himself, something really nice.

  His face agrin with unoccluded self-regard, Filidor looked at Magguffynne, who was now gazing at the young man with eyes as round and soft as any tame ruminant’s. A shadow of an inner struggle crossed the usurper’s features, and for a moment Filidor felt just a little less wonderful. He shared the aristocrat’s internal discord as the man tried to regain his hatred of Filidor, but the contest was as brief as it was futile. Magguffynne swallowed, gawked at the Archon’s heir and said, shyly, “Gosh.”

  Filidor was still wondering what lovely thing he could do for himself. “I know,” he thought. “I’ll save my life.” He put out his hand to Magguffynne and said, “Let me have the tapper, please. Oh, and I’d like the guns.’

  The desperate shadow again appeared in the usurper’s face, and again the augmentor passed on to Filidor the most distant twinge of negative regard, but it soon passed. With a dainty simper, the aristocrat handed over the items. Filidor stepped back until he could see where Emmlyn lay behind the pile of parts.

  She looked up at him and said, “I think you’re wonderful.”

  “Me, too,” said Filidor. “Would you do something for me?”

  “Anything,” she breathed, getting up.

  “Please hold onto these while I bind up our friend.”

  Emmlyn took the control and the weapons. Filidor found some cable and packing straps and used them to secure Vadric Magguffynne to a stout chair. The prisoner cooperated with expressions of delight and shy glances of affection.

  Then Filidor wistfully contemplated the sensibility augmentor. “Integrator,” he said, “are your circuits affected by the device before me?” Quickly, he explained its powers.

  No, said the inner voice.

  “I was wondering,” the young man said, “whether you thought this is how your Filidor feels about himself all of the time.”

  I would not know, said the voice. But I do not think you should need artificial augmentation to feel well about yourself.

  “You don’t?”

  After what you’ve accomplished? In fact, I suggest you turn off the device and see how you regard yourself.

  Filidor went to Emmlyn, took the control from her while she gazed at him with a doting expression he had never seen on a woman’s face except in dreams. He depressed the power stud and the humming of the augmentor stopped. At once, he felt the sweet sentiment that had filled him begin to drain away, but as he observed its fading, he noticed that it left a residue behind, a sense of wellbeing that was new and yet at the same time familiar.

  He looked at Emmlyn. “Are you all right?” he said.

  “I think you’re wonderful,” she replied, which caused him to re-examine the augmentor to ensure that it was truly off. But the expression on her face, though now not slavishly adoring, was something far better. He put out his arms, she came into them and a moment passed between them that neither would ever forget.

  A whine of jealousy sounded from across the room, and Filidor thought it well to inspect Lord Magguffynne’s bonds. His new-found love for Filidor would not extend to Emmlyn or anyone else. This was confirmed when the aristocrat smiled dotingly while saying, “I think you’re wonderful, too, but at least I got rid of that noxious, little yellow mite, Dezendah Vesh.”

  “No you didn’t,” said Filidor. “He was always ahead of you. He knew you had interfered with the controls of the Zenthro Intrusifer.”

  The young man went to the side of the room, where the device rested on an armature, th
e doctored control next to it. “Old Confustible,” he said, and when the integrator replied, asked it for information on the operation of the device. The instructions were abstruse, but somehow Filidor had no difficulty in assimilating them. It was as if long blocked channels in his mind had opened, to let his thoughts flood back and forth without hindrance.

  He adjusted a number of settings on the ancient device, then stepped back and pressed the top stud on the hand control. A sphere of blackness flecked with tiny lights appeared above the bench. It hovered in the air for a moment, then from it emerged a tiny blue orb which speedily grew into a ball of azure swirls perhaps half Filidor’s height. Then the blue sphere popped into nonexistence with the quiet dignity of a soap bubble’s bursting, and where it had been stood the small, hairless person of Filidor’s uncle.

  The little man looked at his nephew, at Emmlyn Podarke and at the fuming, swearing figure bound to the chair. The dwarf’s almost lipless mouth split into a grin. “Magguffynne,” he said, and if it wasn’t a cackle, it was very close to one, “so it was you.”

  “You knew?” said Lord Vadric.

  “I suspected. Trumble gave me an inkling.”

  “Uncle,” said Filidor. “Are you well?”

  “I am very well, and I believe I have reason to thank you for it.”

  Filidor wanted to respond, but something in his throat got in the way. Finally, he managed to say, “Bassariot is dead.”

  “I know,” said the little man. He turned to Emmlyn. “And you would be Emmlyn Podarke.”

  The young woman gracefully struck the appropriate formal posture. “I am,” she said.

  “Welcome,” the Archon said. “And thank you.” Then he clapped his hands and said, “Integrator. Send someone here to collect Lord Vadric, and have his house searched for any other nasty devices he may have accumulated. Arrest all shareholders of The Ancient and Excellent Company of Assemblors and Sundry Merchandisers, suspend publication of the Olkney Implicator, and bring in Tet Folbrey, Lord Magguffynne’s son-in-law. Also, detain all of Faubon Bassariot’s establishment for interrogation.” He smiled at Filidor and Emmlyn, but it was better than the one he had given to Magguffynne. “Now I think we should all have some punch and something to nibble on in my withdrawing room.”