A year and more passed in gainful enterprise, with Clarice ever at my side as my most trusted and knowledgeable deputy, from whom I was pleased to learn more of this century and its denizens, their charms and dreams, their fears and foibles.
One such foible deserves especial note in this chronicle. In my era, reverence bordering upon worship was expressed unto the sovereign for his—or her—granting of the peasants’ daily provisions. We all, highborn and low, mighty and humble, gave thanks unto Our Sovereign Lord throughout each day, as is His rightful due; but everyone from noble rank down to slave also expressed gratitude to their earthly rulers as the Lord God’s representatives. It was, as is said in this century, one of the “perks of the job,” this reverential adoration and appreciation. In the twenty-first century, wherein governing monarchies have become an endangered species limited to such geographically insignificant realms as Monaco or of altogether intolerable terrain such as Arabia, said natural expressions of reverence have become translated to the boss from whose hand flows the monetary compensation for each task. Thus the base greed engendered by the freedom deemed so precious to the inhabitants of the realm of America subverts the natural inclination of man to worship one higher than himself whose rank and bearing merits such an honor for having been educated and trained for governance of the masses. In America they simply, and without any thought whatsoever, promote to the rank of “management” those men (and women, it pains me to admit) who have proven themselves incapable of performing any meaningful work, and “call it a day,” when in fact, said promotions should be called nightmares by all involved, upper management and lower subordinates alike.
President Malory, scenting victory close at hand after I had long and faithfully toiled on her behalf, gifted me a princely sum in compensation, far over and above my considerable monthly stipend—I did not worship her for this expression of her generosity, but appreciated it none the less—which I soon would multiply a hundred times a hundred fold.
Chapter IX:
The Tournament
ONE OF THE reasons I hight Morgan the Wise is by cause of a modest level of foreknowledge that I possess. I dare not call myself a prophet, for such a title imparts far more danger to the bearer than that of enchantress, sorceress, or witch. Were it ever to befall me to be seized for to be burned at the stake, I could always summon a thunderstorm to quench the flames and strike dead with lightning those who dared put me there. Prophets are crucified, stoned, dismembered, disemboweled, beheaded, behanded, befooted, and bejeweled in ways too terrible to behold; and even the Most High Sovereign God does not permit them to be delivered of such a fate. I with my poor magic cannot hope to prevail against divine prohibition.
However, I venture to suggest that I do know the outcome of some things with a surety that surpasses everyone else’s knowledge and expectations, and one of the things I knew beyond all possible doubting was that Malory would be re-elected President. I did not noise aloud this knowledge, for such noisings often produce the opposite effect and render one’s foreknowledge useless—tempting fate is the customary term. In reality, it is a type of contramagic that dashes all to pieces the plans and designs of the unwary and unprepared. Being wary myself and prepared, I avoid exercising contramagic like the proverbial plague.
Prayer is a form of magic, too, as much misunderstood as it is misused; but I caution you, faithful reader, against stating that fact in public, especially among a congregation of foaming Fundamentalists.
Thus, secure in my privy knowledge regarding President Malory’s favorable electoral fortunes, I deemed it meet to rest from my travail and indulge in the viewing of the games of the 2080 World Tournament of Baseball.
In the enjoyment of spectacles featuring feats of physical prowess, the twenty-first-century denizen differs not one whit from those who inhabited the sixth, even in preferences of gore and mayhem, which can be found aplenty while viewing ice hockey and lacrosse, wherein opponents beat each other with sticks not unlike the melees of my acquaintance, but with blunted weapons, no shields, and scarcely any armor. Ice hockey adds the amusement of the frozen playing field, which engenders more fights among the players and quite often the spectators, too, increasing the mayhem and titillation factors for all involved. A goodly amount of mayhem occurs in games of basketball since (Dirk informed me) the old rule regarding the commission of personal fouls is now ignored except in cases most egregious, such as throwing a punch at an opposing player or slam-dunking his head onto the court’s floor. Basketball games are tedious to watch, however. The constant back-and-forth action makes me feel as if my head will shake itself to death; and by the game’s end, my neck is so grievously sore that I wish my head had popped off and saved me the trouble. Football, the sport Americans to this day insist on calling “soccer” in spite of the fact that no player ever gets socked—only spectators do—is commendable by cause of said melees, which break out among said spectators during the most important tournaments. Watching American football is like watching a miniature war with half-armored knights fighting without shields and weapons, edged or otherwise. If ever I do conceive a wish to watch a war, I shall start a real one with all the proper trappings and accoutrements.
Baseball may seem tame in comparison, but it possesses the twofold virtues of being passing familiar to me and having a stately quality that hints of ancient nobility even though, as I have recorded heretofore, no one of recent noble blood deigns ever to play this game. Its stateliness is of especial value when viewing the game with the assistance of a most remarkable type of twenty-first-century magic, “virtual-reality television,” which its familiars call VRTV. With VRTV one can place oneself in the middle of the playing field with no harm either to oneself or to the execution of the game. ’Tis frighteningly disconcerting to watch an approaching stampede of players during tournaments of ice hockey and lacrosse, yelling at each other and waving their sticks, only to have them pass through you unawares like ghosts. I tried once to enter the center of a rugby scrum, for to see what really transpires within, for all that huddling and muddling about looks intriguing enough from the outside, but the VRTV device would not obey my command; a disappointing limitation to the magic. VRTV is best suited for sports such as baseball, where one may choose to look over an umpire’s shoulder and judge balls and strikes and outs for oneself, take the batter’s view without risk of being hit by the pitch, wind through the pitcher’s motions from the mound, or even see as your favorite fielding champion sees the game played out before his own eyes, keeping pace with his actions without expending the energy. Powerful and heady magic, indeed.
In this manner I watched Game One of the World Tournament on Wednesday, the 23rd day of October in the year of Our Lord 2080. The London Knights, winners of the European League and Asian League playoff banner, were hosting the Americas banner winner, the Silver Springs, at New Wembley Ballpark of London.
London! I had trouble believing the evidence presented by my own eyes! Although I suppose I should not have been so surprised, given the wonders of Washington; still, the absence of rickety huts and muddy streets teeming with unwashed and sickly humanity, and the air bereft of choking smoke and fog, came as no small shock. I resolved to visit London rather than watch the second game on VRTV, for I discovered yet another limitation: VRTV’s magic interfered with my incantation to enhance the Knights’ performances, and they lost Game One by a score of two to one.
Ambrose Hinton, being a serious fan of baseball in general and the Springs in particular, arranged for me to attend the remaining games as his guest—doubtless hoping to curry favor with me, since I had risen so highly in his wife’s estimation. The quaintly barbaric twenty-first-century term is “suckup,” which implies, well, never mind what it implies; doubtless you, my intelligent reader, know it already.
For Game Two, Ambrose and I journeyed to London inside a privately commissioned car of the Transatlantic Bullet Train. If flying through the air inside the belly of a steel dragon produced a thrillin
g rush, speeding along the ocean’s floor inside a great worm was a peerless marvel that inflicted far less stress upon my entrails. Conversations, however, had by necessity to be left for the very beginning and end of the journey; throughout the vast middle duration, the train was traveling faster than Ambrose’s words could reach my ears, and no enchantment I assayed could untangle the sounds. A lot of what Ambrose says is a muddle most of the time, anyway; I did not miss anything of tremendous import.
The evening of the 24th day of October, Ambrose and I attended the game as honored guests of Britain’s reigning monarch, the courteous and comely—and essentially powerless—King William VI. Had I not been absorbed in assisting President Malory, I might have turned my efforts toward the task of throwing the arrogant, exasperating, idiotic, and otherwise useless pretenders out of Parliament and restoring full power to the Crown where it belongs, but a king can attend to the restoration of his powers if he wishes it; if he chooses not to exercise his divine right, then all the enchantments on earth cannot change the inevitable and unenviable outcome, and his subjects deserve what they receive as a result.
Being the king’s guest distracted me from helping the Knights with my magic, and they lost again, this time by a score of eight to six when the Springs’ center fielder hit a three-run homer to go ahead in the top of the ninth. The Knights could not find an answer to the Springs’ ultra-fast-ball relief pitcher, and they fell in three straight strikeouts.
Game Three, on Saturday the 26th in the host team’s namesake city of Silver Spring, Maryland, was such a massacre that its description is not worthy of being recorded in this chronicle. Magic cannot overcome the sheer stupidity of decisions such as poor base-running, badly hit bunts, and the misjudging of fly balls. It led me to the painful conclusion that the Knights had slipped into the World Tournament due to a woeful lack of stiff competition on their side of the Atlantic. For the sake of completeness, I shall report the score: Knights 3, Springs 12.
The Knights made a much more valiant effort in Game Four, again in Silver Spring, on October 27th. They were down by two runs, the score at five to three, by the top of the ninth inning, and managed (mayhap with a bit of my help) to get one of those runs back. The tying run was on third; the go-ahead run on first; two outs. A wide, wild pitch tempted both runners to steal. Magically I nudged the first-base runner, trying to ensure the win, but the third-base runner was thrown out at home to end the tournament in four disgraceful games. I had much yet to learn about the game.
Since Ambrose was such an avid Springs fan, he and I were attending as guests of the Springs’ owner, Ira Desmorel. Although I knew it was impolitic to be cheering for the opposing team in Desmorel’s presence, I must have allowed some of my frustrations to show, for in the midst of the spraying champagne bottles and accompanying huzzahs, Desmorel turned toward me, displayed a grin, and said:
“Word is the Knights are for sale. Their owners, the BBC, are developing a VRTV mega-series ‘Doctor Who’ extravaganza wherein viewers can be TARDIS passengers in the privacy of their own homes. The BBC is looking to raise some fast cash for the project by dumping its baseball business. I will be happy to see you in three or four years’ time, Morganna Hanks. If you care to put your money where your mouth is, I shall make arrangements for the Springs and Knights to meet for a rematch.”
This queen never backs down from a challenge! And that was as fair a gauntlet throw as any I have ever seen.
However, one thing puzzled me, given what I knew of the vagaries of the game regarding players’ injuries and slumps and attitudes and “juicing” and arrest records and so forth. I said, “Are you a prophet, then, sir, that you can predict with certainty that such a thing shall come to pass?”
Desmorel laughed. “Not a prophet, dear lady, but a man of profit. And no man of profit ever amassed a fortune the size of mine by allowing critical details to be subjected to the whims of fate.”
As both sorceress and queen, I understood him implicitly. Using the parlance of the age, which I am pleased to report I was mastering nicely by this time, I said:
“Then you are on! I shall buy the Knights from the BBC and see you with my best team in four years.”
We, in the customary fashion of the time, shook on it. ’Twas a more exhilarating rush than a flying dragon ride and swimming worm ride combined. More satisfying still was how non-plussed Ambrose looked, as if I had outmaneuvered him to gain checkmate. Perhaps that was the truth of it—Ambrose, knowing the extent of my powers, was afraid that I would defeat his precious Springs the next time they met the Knights in the World Tournament. I invited him to enter into a wager with me on the outcome, the exact amount to be determined when the time came. To his credit, he did not refuse.
To ensure the Knights’ victory, I intended to bring all of my magical arts to bear.
Chapter X:
Beginning to Change Civilization
I DID MAKE good upon my vow to Silver Springs owner Ira Desmorel to purchase the London Knights baseball franchise and all of its affiliated lesser teams and concerns, striking a deal with the BBC for—ah, curious reader, the exact amount is of no concern; suffice it to say ’twas a mountain of treasure. President Malory insisted I use a team of her personal practitioners of the law to ensure that the transaction was completed without incident. In due course, I became the owner of a World Baseball Federation club.
The only problem was that, as much as I wanted to participate in club decisions throughout the course of the next four years, I was kept far too occupied in my mission to help Malory become—if not Queen of America, then at the very least President for Life. I owed her that boon; she had loaned me far more than just her lawyers so that I could buy the Knights.
Altering a nation’s government can be accomplished in one of two ways. The first and most popular, regardless of the era, is bloody: invade and conquer. Round up and execute the opposition’s leaders, move your military battalions and navies into strategic positions throughout the land and along the sea coasts, and impose martial law until the populace falls into line behind your banner. In my era, it was a lot simpler to achieve since the populace was well-trained to accept whichever noble sat in power over them at any given moment; quite often the martial-law phase of the operation could be omitted without inflicting any harm to the cause. The bloody way also has the virtue of being the most efficient in terms of time expended, and the chances are better than good that the ruler you have replaced will have been so evil that no one will miss him when he is gone except perhaps his mother,—and sometimes not even she will.
When I advocated this strategy to President Malory, she paled a little and became squirmish; thus it came as no surprise when she rejected it. However, I forgave her this character defect—no ruler rules long who is not willing to roll a few heads now and then, which doubtless accounts for the paltry five-year average governing span of American Presidents and which doubtless contributes to the everlasting mire that clogs Washington’s political gears such that nothing of value ever is accomplished except for the annual vote to raise their own salaries. I presented her with the second option, to which she gave her assent: to whit, the plan to raise President Malory’s popularity by influencing Congress to legislate certain much-needed and long-overdue social and political reforms. ’Twas a plan designed to proceed in easy stages, tedious as such plans are wont to be, and with a disappointing lack of bloodletting, unless one cares to count the number of political suicides engendered as a result.
First on the list of reforms—for having the largest potential impact on Malory’s approval rating—was the restructuring of the tax code in favor of the middle and lower classes, putting the bulk of the burden back onto the wealthiest people, as in my own sixth-century experience, where it had lain up until the middle years of the twentieth century, and where the Patriotic Millionaires for Fiscal Strength movement had gamely tried but ultimately failed to guide it in the first years of the twenty-first century. As with the response to the P
atriotic Millionaires’ efforts, the overwhelming majority of the wealthy class screamed in bloody protest to my tax code overhauls; this came as no surprise to me, for the wealthier you are, the more tightly you want to clutch your treasure to your bosom, even though you possess so much that you cannot possibly hope to spend it all within a single lifetime. The difference between failure and success this time lay in my judicious application of magic. A few of the wealthiest people managed to flee America before my calming spell could ease them into a state of acceptance. That was fine by me; they were the troublemakers. Enough was gleaned from the rest of the citizens to go a long way toward erasing the government deficit and getting the country back onto more solid financial footing. Furthermore, I made Malory vow not to spend, as President, more than her country’s annual income; overspending, while conveying undeniable short-term benefits, is not sustainable over the long term. ’Tis acceptable—and even expected—to overspend on a special feast or tournament now and then as a display of largesse for the masses, but to do so as a normal course of conducting the business of government is nothing short of stupid. Even daft old King Pellinore had never condoned such a practice. Of course, his kingdom was so small that he had trouble finding it again after the zest for knight-errantry had borne him away for years at a time. Still, he had ruled within the limits of his annual income, for the most part, as did we all. There was no reason why Malory, at the helm of America, could not do so as well.
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