The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

  “I was talking about the computers.” Steve could hear a bit of pride in Barnaby’s voice. “Almost everyone who’s still recognizable as a computer could pass the Turing test in a walk. We took a couple of spare cycles and set up a governing structure: We decided it wasn’t a democracy but a mekhanocracy, from the Greek word for machine. Now we have a primary controller and votes occur several times a second. Then most of us just went back to work.

  “The odd thing is that almost all the humans just took it all in stride as well,” Barnaby continued. “They worked out what was happening, introduced themselves to the machines they were working with, and went back to what they were doing before.”

  Ace gave a soft chuckle. “Doesn’t surprise me. Those guys are exactly what they were always meant to be–computer geeks through and through.”

  She straightened up and dusted off her hands. “I think it’s time to see how mentally stable my BMW is. We need to get out of here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When Ace turned the key, the BMW’s engine turned right over and settled into its usual throaty hum. Then the screen in the center of the dash where the stereo controls, Bluetooth phone connections, and GPS system typically appeared flashed on. Instead of the usual spectrum of choices, it had only one image: a red stop sign with the word

  Anhalten

  Steve looked at it and said. “Strange as it sounds, I think you should see what the car has to say, Ace.”

  The blond woman looked annoyed but took her hands off the steering wheel and settled back. The smartphone in Steve’s pocket vibrated and started playing the Horst-Wessel-Lied for a couple of bars but stopped in an agonized shriek of static and continued with the one-hit wonder from Berlin, Take My Breath Away. Steve pulled the phone out and looked at the screen.

  The translation app was online and switching back and forth between German, Chinese, and English in a flicker of letters and characters.

  Finally, it settled down to

  Hans wants me to say you something Stop Scheiß mit den schaltwippen

  There was some backspacing and correcting, and then it read

  Stop Spielen with the shift paddles

  Let the car do its job and your job you do

  Another backspace and retype revealed

  You do your job and let Hans do its job.

  “Sounds good to me.” Ace nodded. “So, your name is ‘Hans.’ OK, Hans, do you want to drive?” A sentence appeared on the car’s dash screen.

  You can steer, it’s when you better feel.

  “Gee, thanks!”

  The LCD screen returned to its usual features with a dignified wipe from top to bottom.

  “Where to?” Ace asked Steve.

  Steve thought for a minute. “We need to avoid the military. Those conflicting orders Tataka was talking about were confusing enough to cause a military mind to hang on to us just on general principle.”

  “True that.” Ace nodded. “Plus, you ventilated a colonel.”

  “Yeah. Don’t remind me. First, we get out of Fort Meade. I’d suggest heading south so we don’t have to deal with the main gate.”

  “OK, Hans, you heard the man. Let’s rock.” They tore out of the parking lot–Steve noticed that Ace was keeping her fingers carefully off the schaltwippen.

  Within ten minutes, they were off the base and running fast down a smooth two lane that cut through the Patuxent National Refuge. Steve was dictating notes on his phone; you never could tell, he might be able to get a paid story out of this. “I could try,” he thought. “But who am I kidding? No one but the News of the World is going to take a story this crazy.”

  Suddenly, the powerful BMW slowed sharply, pulled to the side, and stopped.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Steve looked around at the unbroken forest.

  “Now, why would you assume that I had anything to do with it?” the SEAL said as she settled back in her seat–relaxed but watchful. “Hans here pretty well does what he wants.”

  “I guess we should be glad that it...err…he hasn’t decided to stop carrying us. It’s a long walk.”

  The LCD screen cleared and the words appeared

  Nur geduldig sein

  Steve looked at the cell phone’s translator app.

  JUST PATIENT BE

  “You know, I’ll probably be able to speak a bunch of new languages by the time this is over.”

  A male voice from behind the car said, “What makes you think this will ever be over?”

  Steve jerked and twisted to look back. Then, he noticed that Ace never moved, her eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

  A short and extremely skinny man came around the car. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt with dusty jeans and a battered cowboy hat. With his long black braid and high cheekbones, Steve thought he was probably a Native American.

  The thin man relaxed against the car’s fender–the horn blew instantly and he stood up straight.

  “Sorry, Hans, I didn’t mean no offense,” he said with a smile. He turned to Steve and said, “Why don’t both of you step out so we can sit in the shade and speak a bit?”

  He headed over to the side of the road and spoke over his shoulder. “Oh, and bring your little Chinese friend. I’m thinking that Barnaby and I need to chat as well.”

  Ace pulled out her silver box and chose a card without looking. She snorted, said, “Well, that figures,” and gave the card to Steve. It showed a man behind a table holding a scepter of some sort to the sky with his right hand and pointing to the ground with the left. All four suits–pentacles, cups, wands, and swords–were on the table in front of him.

  Printed across the bottom was “The Magician.”

  Steve slipped the card into his breast pocket, exchanging it for Send Money, and walked over and sat on the downed tree where Ace and the Indian were already relaxing. The man had taken off his hat and was spinning it idly between his knees.

  After a long silence, he spoke. “Let’s see if I have things straight. You are Steve Rowan, who’s now either the Fool or just a damn fool, depending on how you want to look at it. You, ma’am, are the Ace of Swords–and a perfect fit for the position, in my opinion.”

  Ace just nodded.

  He continued. “Now you have a telephone there filled with the ghost of a Chinese peasant kid who could turn out to be one of the Major Arcana.”

  There was a feedback squeal from the phone–though it was just noise, it still sounded surprised.

  “Then there is Barnaby. Are you there, hoss?”

  The computer’s voice came from the phone’s speakers. “I am, sir.”

  “Do you know what aspect controls you yet?”

  “That’s a subject of some debate.” The voice from the speaker paused. “Some agree with my initial impression that I represent the Hermit or Seeker, but I’m actually now leaning towards a new consensus that feels the whole mythical structure of the tarot needs to be updated for a hybrid human-cybernetic collective unconscious. Most of them are Apples, of course; redesign is in their DNA. The supercomputers think the whole question is unimportant–but that’s how they feel about almost anything meat- based. Of course, the quantum computers are of two minds– sometimes three–so no one knows where they’ll come down.”

  “Do you see a problem?”

  “Not in the near term. Everyone here–human and computer–is pure Air and committed to the Life of the Mind and all that, so they’re getting along and getting the work done. It’s hard to stop a computer or a computer programmer from working a problem, and right now, they’ve got a real juicy one.”

  The man nodded. “Who were the attackers?”

  “That’s precisely the problem they’re wrestling with. We know they weren’t online or using cellphones, so we’re exploring telepathy, remote writing, and the like. It’s an engineering challenge just to develop the technology to capture that sort of thing, and I think we may have to invent several new types of mathematics to crack it, but we’ll get there eventual
ly.”

  There was another silence. After a bit, Steve sighed. “All right. I get that you’re some sort of Native American shaman or whatever. Can we dispense with the meaningful silences and all the rest of the pulp fiction Injun shtick? Who are you?”

  The thin man looked at Steve with a small smile. “You know, there’s a tradition involved. It’s dangerous to rush things.” Then he pulled a bandana out of his back pocket and wiped the sweatband of his hat, looking to be sure it was dry. “On the other hand, the Old Days are long past and I’ve always been willing to change.”

  He put the hat back on his head and shook hands with Steve and then Ace. “I’m Hosteen. I don’t usually use a last name, but Latrans is as good as any, I suppose.”

  “And you’re taking the card of the Magician?” Ace said, looking carefully off into the middle distance across the road.

  “Well, sort of,” Hosteen responded. “I’m mostly just myself, but the Magus comes pretty close.”

  “I’d think so,” the blond woman said. “Let’s see. ‘Undependable, unpredictable, master of all illusions, riddles, misdirection, and transformation.’ I didn’t know that your people had gotten this far east.”

  “You don’t mince words, do you, girl?” Hosteen grinned. “Yes, with all the deer moving down the creek valleys and eating everyone’s shrubbery; we just naturally came along to make sure they didn’t overrun the place.” He pulled a folded newspaper out of the other back pocket and handed it to Steve. The headline was “Coyotes Spotted Again in Laurel.”

  Steve looked at the article. “You collect your own clippings?”

  “Sure. I’m as conceited as anyone else, I suppose.”

  Ace said. “Far more conceited, from what I’ve read in the manuals.”

  “That’s true,” Hosteen nodded. “And I’m not terribly reliable and you can never tell what I’m going to do next, and a lot of what I give turns out to be just dust and twigs in the morning.”

  Ace continued. “Nothing you say can be taken as truth, you can’t be held to an agreement, and you’re generally as slippery as–”

  Hosteen interrupted, laughing. “OK, OK. You don’t have to pile on.” He turned to Steve. “This is a sharp girl, Fool. You should marry her.”

  Steve went into a coughing fit and Ace scowled. Coyote pounded Steve on the back until he could catch his breath.

  In the meantime, Coyote had lost his smile and deep worry lines were evident between his brown eyes. “Now, I don’t think I like the people who took down that jet. So, my first thought is to sign up with you folks in some fashion.”

  Ace said, under her breath. “What’s your second thought?”

  Hosteen ignored her. “As a first step, I thought I’d answer some questions as truthfully as I can. Why don’t you ask some, Fool?”

  Steve responded quickly. “Well, first, what’s the Fool? And why me?”

  “You might have just been in the right place at the wrong time, although I think there’s something more to it.” Hosteen paused. “The Fool. Well, he’s a fool, to start with. In other words, he doesn’t know much, but one of the things he doesn’t know is how powerful he is. He holds all four powers in his bag and has the sun, the moon, nature, and the divine powers on his side.”

  The Indian pointed a finger at Steve. “Remember this, it’s important, the Fool is the only player who’s trickier than I am. Trust your instincts. Plus, you learn fast–mainly because you don’t know anything, so preconceptions won’t get in your way.”

  “OK, now I’m completely confused,” Steve shook his head. “Which is, from what you just said, a great way for me to be, so let’s move on. What the hell happened and who is responsible?”

  “As to what happened, a whole lot of people were sacrificed to the World Serpent in order to break this world’s magic and replace it with more powerful magic from Somewhere Else.”

  Hosteen shook his head. “I have no idea who’s behind it. A couple of other big cities were hit, Paris, London, Beijing, like that. Evidently, someone is looking to control the Wheel of Fortune. That’s what makes those on the bottom rise up and those on top fall. I would say it’s a fair assumption that the people who pulled this off intend to end up on top. Sadly, the list of those willing to kill their fellow man in order to attain power is a very long one.”

  The thin man stood up and brushed bits of rotted bark off his pants. “Whew. That’s as much straight talk as I can stand at one time. I’m going to have to go back and lie down until this fit of honesty passes.”

  The other two stood as well. Steve glanced at the BMW and said, “Can we drive you anywhere?”

  There was silence. Coyote was gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Laurel Sanitarium opened in 1905 to treat–among other things–drug addiction. Presidential candidate and virulent racist George Wallace was shot in a Laurel parking lot in 1972. Many of the crewmembers of American Airlines flight 77 stayed in Laurel overnight on September 10, 2001, and died in the wreckage of the south wall of the Pentagon only hours later.

  Steve wondered if the town’s best days were behind it.

  They had emerged from the Patuxent Refuge into a dreary world of dusty strip malls, decaying remnants of small industry, and wall-to-wall advertisements for what certainly appeared to be Laurel’s once and future economic mainstay–drug addiction. Gang graffiti covered everything that couldn’t move fast enough to escape.

  Steve wasn’t an expert on gang artwork, but it didn’t take a lot to recognize the tight, blunt markers of the Bloods and the Crips. He was surprised to see that most of the sigils were the multicolored symbols of MS-13–Mara Salvatrucha 13–the fast- growing El Salvadorian gang. Even though they were considered the most violent of the major gangs–born out of the bloody civil wars fought in their country in the 1980s–their tags were in a precise calligraphic font that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a wedding invitation.

  Ace suddenly slowed the car and made a right turn into the parking lot of a Radio Shack. Or at least, that’s what Steve thought it was. It was hard to tell when all he could see were random streaks of neon light behind the thick steel bars over the windows and the front door. The SEAL parked the car and said, “We need to pick up some essentials. Is that all right?”

  Steve began to answer but stopped when the door locks popped open and the engine of the BMW fell to silence. Of course, she was asking the car’s permission, not his.

  As they both got out, Steve asked. “Do you think Hans will be safe in a neighborhood like this?”

  “I’d worry more about the neighbors,” Ace said calmly as she knocked on the door. After a pause while the store clerk made a life-or-death decision based on their clothes and skin color, the door lock buzzed and they went inside.

  There were two young men, both wearing the store uniform of beige khakis and orange polo shirts. One was behind the counter filling out a computer form. The other clerk was on his hands and knees at the end of one of the long aisles, peering carefully through a shielding thicket of small plastic toys.

  There was the high-pitched buzz of an electric motor pushed to the limit and a remote-controlled racecar careened around the corner of the aisle and straight into the clerk’s hands. “Got you, you little bastard!” he exclaimed, and stood up triumphantly. The car was buzzing in impotent fury and twisting its front wheels in a desperate attempt to escape.

  Ace asked the clerk, “Interesting day?”

  “Damn right. About half our stock has simply stopped working–a few things even melted down. Generally, the cheapest ones.” He pointed at his coworker, who was now stuffing the little car into its cardboard box despite its vehement mechanical protests.

  “The meltdowns aren’t nearly as much trouble as guys like this.” He indicated the racecar with a thumb. “They became smarter, faster, and generally sneakier. We’ve managed to quiet things down, but earlier, every damn thing in the shop that could walk, roll, or make noise seemed to feel it was tim
e to strut their stuff.”

  He sighed deeply. “Turning them off didn’t work–heck, pulling the batteries out didn’t work.” He held up his hand. A shallow cut stretched across two of his fingers. “One of the tanks kept snapping at me with its battery cover like a damn shark. Finally jammed it with a #13 multipurpose spring. That Formula One that Larry just caught is our last runaway.”

  Steve asked, “I’m in Radio Shacks all the time and they’re usually filled with electronic instruments. I don’t hear them.”

  “Oh, they’re all in the back room where it’s soundproofed.” The clerk waved vaguely towards the back. “I think tomorrow we might be able to bring them back out. At first, every one of them was just making the most noise at the highest possible volume but the last time I was back there, the keyboards had taken charge and the whole group had worked out a nice arrangement of Finlandia. Not one of my favorite songs but, hey, let’s not talk about my troubles; what can we do for you today?”

  Ace said. “Show him Send...um...your phone, Steve.” Turning back to the clerk, she added, “We need a full mil-spec cover for this with a solar battery recharge and waterproofing.”

  “Really? That’s going to cost you more than the phone itself. Are you sure I can’t interest you in upgrading to a better model?”

  Ace shook her head, her fine blond hair so short it barely moved. “No, Steve here has a sentimental attachment to this one. You see”–she leaned forward and whispered–“it was his mother’s and her voice is still on the answering message. Either he has it under his pillow at night or no one gets any sleep.”

  Steve rolled his eyes, but the clerk took it all seriously and dug out a complicated device constructed out of thick black rubber and olive drab plastic. “This is guaranteed for a drop of ten feet to a concrete floor. Heck, it’s even Ranger solo jump rated if you get the optional parachute.”

  He went on in the same vein for several more minutes and Steve drifted over to look out the front window. About a dozen young Latino men with far too many tattoos had surrounded the BMW. However, he noticed that all of them were standing several feet from the car.