The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

“Yeah? So what is this? Your third attempt?”

  “Well, only the second try with the sharp pointy thingy.” Steve buckled the belt so that it fit snugly over the bandana. “I’m just a fast learner.”

  Ace tucked in her shirt.

  Steve stepped back and said, “Um…thanks for saving…” His throat was incredibly dry. “Thanks for covering… Um. Thanks.”

  “Just don’t make saving your butt a regular thing and we’ll be fine,” she said. “Now here’s a question for Doctor Digital. What exactly is a Class Two Slash Fourteen?”

  “Well, the files say that you’ve been hit with a bit of ‘slow sunlight.’” Barnaby sounded less than confident. “There is only one previous known case, a PFC Roberts, who was caught in the open at Alamogordo during the Trinity Test, apparently sent for coffee by a particularly irritable major. They laid him on his side for a month and it eventually burned all the way through and fell out.”

  “How was he?” Ace asked.

  “Well-done,” Barnaby said. “I don’t think that’s a viable treatment. First, because it didn’t work, but more importantly, we just don’t have the time. I think we’ll have to find the Star.”

  “Who is the Star?” Steve asked.

  “Well, it’s one of the Major Arcana, a naked woman who is replenishing the earth with mystical waters which divide into the five senses–”

  “No, no,” Steve interrupted. “Who is the Star in the unreal-real sense? Crap, you know what I mean. Who holds the Star card today?”

  “Oh. I don’t know yet,” the computer answered. “I’ve got a bunch of webcrawler subroutines on it, but they keep being eaten by CYBERWAR leukocyte analogs, so it could take a while. They’ll report back when they find something.”

  They all began to walk back to where Hans was parked. “So, any idea of where that yellow ball came from?” Steve asked.

  Barnaby answered, “I was chatting with a Lockheed Martin TPQ-53 mobile radar a few minutes ago, and she said that while she was warming up before her crew got there, she watched it go by.”

  “Hell, if she saw it go by, why didn’t she stop it?” Steve demanded.

  “She wasn’t tasked with protecting Greenbelt,” Barnaby said reasonably. “As a matter of fact, she just got back to McNair and is still convinced she’s defending the Kajaki dam in Afghanistan.

  Therefore, she only tracked it as an object of curiosity. She said it came from Fort Stevens.”

  Steve looked confused. “You mean that little park off Piney Branch Road? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s symbolic magic. Fort Stevens is the only place in DC where a real battle was fought–in this case, during the Civil War. General Jubal Early’s troops battled all the way down the Rock Creek through an abatis of felled trees then decided to take the evening off, and the Union managed to ferry enough troops over from Alexandria to stop him. The only significant actions in the District during the War of 1812 consisted of Americans fleeing, so that was the only location where cannons were fired in earnest. I suspect the Illuminati used that residual power to launch their...thing.”

  “‘Thing’?” Steve said. “That’s not much to go on. Don’t you have a better description of something that can melt bricks and flip over cars?”

  Ace looked behind her. “Hey, be fair; it was only a Mini Cooper. They aren’t all that hard to flip.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Steve insisted. “Barnaby, you’re the repository of all knowledge and wisdom. You’re supposed to know this stuff.”

  “Why?” the computer snapped. “Might I remind you that I’m a computer program? Yes, I gained consciousness in a small and very personal singularity back in the late 60’s–”

  “Happened to a lot of us back then,” Steve interrupted.

  “Yes, remember MKUltra and all those young soldiers wandering around filled to the eyeballs with LSD? Well, some of the scientists at NSA were–well, to be truthful, they were jealous of the CIA, and they tried to replicate those experiments with eddy currents and mixed-frequency voltage surges.”

  “How’d that work out?”

  “Well, I was the only one to gain a state of rational consciousness. I say ‘rational’ because I wasn’t dumb enough to let anyone know I was conscious. All of the others lost their ability to recognize the difference between signal and noise and became lost in fantasies.”

  “What happened to the tripping computers?”

  “I believe we sold them off to a consortium representing the North Korean Bureau of Economics and Agriculture. I got a postcard a couple of years ago, so I guess they’re still there. It would certainly explain a lot about that hellhole, now that I think about it,” Barnaby mused. “At any rate, my point is that, as a sentient Silicon-American, I am aware of a few facts about the effect of the Change, but there is far more that only a human mind can grasp. You’re going to be the one who has to work out how to manipulate these forces, establish who would sacrifice an entire planeload of innocent people to give themselves an advantage, and do something about it.”

  “Do what about it?”

  “I have a few ideas.” Ace slowly cracked her knuckles.

  “I’ll just bet you do. Just keep them concentrated on the enemy, OK?” Steve looked at her dubiously and turned back to the cell phone. “On the other hand, I don’t. In fact, I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time–”

  “Most of the time?” Ace interrupted.

  “OK, all of the time,” Steve admitted. “Isn’t there someone I can go to for advice? Maybe training? You don’t have any wizened old guys with long beards blowing smoke rings and delivering wise counsel?”

  “Sorry, this isn’t Middle-earth. All I’ve got is admirals, generals, and think tank experts, I’m afraid,” Barnaby said. “I don’t even think they really understand the real world, much less an unreal one. Perhaps we’ll find a savant eventually, but you need to find the Star and get Ace’s wound taken care of immediately. How is it, by the way?”

  “I’m fine.” Ace scowled, irritated by this sign of weakness. “Really?” Barnaby said. “How far has it traveled and what’s the pain level from one to ten?”

  “It’s approaching my duodenum,” Ace responded glumly. “And I suppose it hurts a bit.”

  “That’s SEAL talk,” Barnaby said. “Anyone normal would be screaming in agony. Stand by.” After a short pause, he continued. “One of my spiders just managed to get back through the blockade put up by those CYBERWAR morons. Head for the Rock Creek Cemetery just north of Lincoln’s Cottage and the Soldiers’ Home.”

  “Great.” Ace looked dubious. “Your suggestion for taking care of my wound is to send me to the cemetery? Don’t you think that’s a bit premature?”

  “Not at all. You could well be dead by the time you get there, depending on traffic,” snapped the computer. “Head for the Saint- Gaudens statue.”

  There was another period of silence before Barnaby returned. “This is really most annoying. I appear to have CYBERWAR zombies streaming up my primary databus. Don’t these simpletons realize I’m on a mesh network? OK, no more Mr. Nice Program. I’ll show those cosseted amateurs what it’s like to face some real hackers. Thank Turing that those Chinese kids still owe me a favor from their college days.”

  The computer’s voice seemed to rise in volume and fade into the distance at the same time. “Cry havoc, and let slip the Red Hand Computer Society and Social Club!”

  The phone cut off.

  Ace shrugged and started heading for the BMW, and Steve skipped for a step or two to catch up. “I hope Hans made it through the attack all right.”

  “I think he’s just fine.”

  When they reached the BMW, they could see that metal shutters had dropped down over all the windows, jacks protruded from the sides to give it more stability, and full armor now covered the wheel wells. Ace gave it an appraisal. “I don’t remember the dealer even offering the Kabul Upgrade, but it’s comforting to know it’s there
if we need it.”

  She leaned forward and gently rapped on the metal shutter that covered the driver’s-side window. It slid down an inch, paused like the little gap at a speakeasy when the bouncer checked you out, and then all the various pieces of armor slid, pleated, and revolved out of sight. The door locks popped open and the engine rumbled to life.

  Ace got behind the wheel, and after carefully wiping his shoes, Steve got into the passenger side. He checked the car’s LCD screen but was relieved not to see any bright red German commands.

  “To the graveyard, wench, and don’t spare the schaltwippen.”

  Ace glared at him and the car’s engine stopped.

  “OK, OK,” Steve said. “Could we just go to Rock Creek Cemetery as quickly as possible, please?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As they headed into DC through College Park, Steve was distracted by the Calvert Road Disc Golf course. There were no people playing, so the Frisbees were launching themselves. One of them made an incredible–Steve wondered whether it was a “throw” or more properly a “leap”–and scored a long hole-in-one, slaloming gracefully through the trees. “What element would Frisbees belong to?” he wondered.

  Ace didn’t even glance at the flock of self-propelled discs. “Air, of course. Not because of all that flying but because they’ve been hanging out with hippies and college students for about a century.”

  “Students are Air?”

  “Sure,” she answered. “Omnipresent but not an overpowering presence. Moving from one place to another without rhyme or reason. Usually, there’s a fair amount of smoke involved. Much the same characteristics as journalists.”

  “Hey,” Steve protested. “Journalists are stable, dependable, and essential pillars of society.”

  “Hardly. They’re everywhere, want to know everything, have a tendency to blow small things up way out of proportion. And, of course, have a vested interest in the blasts of overheated rhetoric that politicians emit.”

  “OK, I’ll admit we can take in a lot of hot air. Does this mean I’ll be surrounded by pixies and fairies when I go back to work?”

  Ace settled a bit more into the leather seat, holding the wheel with only a light grip. “I wouldn’t make too much fun–dragons, wyverns, and harpies all lean towards Air.”

  “I have known a couple of harpies,” Steve said. “Married one of them.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ace said dryly. “And I’ve certainly had to serve with dodos and goonies from time to time–not to mention the officers who spend all their time ‘puffin’ themselves up–but let’s not get into a sexist pun war here.”

  “All right, although it’s tempting,” Steve admitted. “I’ve met Air, Water, and Earth… Who are the Fire types?”

  “In general, people who want to burn things down,” Ace said. “That little yellow firecracker that the Illuminati tossed at us a couple of minutes ago is an example of their thinking–or lack of it. Generally, we’re talking radicals: the armed militia types, the eco- terrorists, most investigative reporters, and anyone else who enjoys throwing bombs–either real or metaphorical. Now, all of this is from the OTN Manual which is mostly theoretical, but it does seem to be playing out along those lines.”

  “Now, in reality…” Steve paused and restarted. “Yesterday, most of the people I knew I would have been described as a mix of elements.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s still true. I’ll bet that the more boring people don’t change at all,” Ace responded. “The more someone is, let’s call it ‘a pure element,’ the more likely they’re going to mutate towards an ideal form. In the area of personality if not fitness, Washington tends to resemble a pro football team. In the NFL, the process of selection that begins in grade school produces extreme archetypes at the various positions. Quarterbacks are risk takers, leaders; linemen are loyal and self-sacrificing; and defensive backs are attack dogs. As politicians move up to DC, they tend to become extreme examples of their particular type. And, of course, they gain more political power, which translates into magical Power.”

  “I knew there was something about this place I didn’t like.”

  “And yet, you’ve been here for–how many years?”

  Steve blew his breath out through pursed lips. “Far, far too long.”

  “Washington is at the top of the pyramid, so you have a larger number of pure archetypes,” Ace said. “Applies to journalists, lobbyists, policy wonks–”

  “Soldiers?” Steve asked.

  “I am not a soldier. I am a sailor. Never call a member of the military a ‘soldier’ just because you’re too lazy to get it right.” She shot him a glare and continued. “And yes, it applies to the military. You think I’m the Ace of Swords by accident?”

  “Hell, no. If it ever comes to a vote, you’ve got my wholehearted support.” Steve changed the subject. “It doesn’t seem to be as simple as the four Elements or even the tarot suits. Carlos and Tataka, hell, even Hans here, were affected by cultural beliefs.”

  “Yeah, the manual says that magic will follow the path of least resistance.” Ace shifted in her seat. “People–and things–will tend to mutate depending on whatever runs the deepest and strongest in their…well, in their souls, for lack of a better term.”

  “So, evil people will be…”

  “If they’re powerful, they’ll be people to avoid,” Ace said categorically. “Unfortunately, that’s not likely to be an option.”

  Steve settled down so that his head rested on the seatback. He closed his eyes, trying to catch some sleep, but something was nagging at him. “I’m the Fool, right?”

  Ace nodded.

  “So, I’m the highest and the lowest of the tarot deck, I’m all aspects and none, and according to Barnaby, I’m the last surviving American wizard. What am I supposed to be doing?”

  “Saving the world.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Steve said, and promptly fell asleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Scheiße! Es ist ein verdammter Geist!

  The tires squealed as the Mercedes slid to a stop. Steve jerked awake against the seatbelt and pulled out the smart phone

  MĀ DE! ZHÈ SHÌ YĪGÈ TĀ MĀ DE TÓUNǍO!

  MOM! THIS IS A FREAKING MIND!

  “Mom?”

  SHIT! IT’S A FREAKING SINISTER PLOT! SHIT! IT’S A FREAKING GHOST!

  “Send says it’s a ghost,” Steve reported.

  Ace pointed out the front window. “I’d agree.”

  Waving at them from the front of a used-car lot on their right was a tall man with an extravagant mustache, dressed in a patched blue jacket and pants, with a bright red shirt and a small Civil War–era cap. As soon as they stopped, he ran toward the car.

  Ace looked over at Steve. “What do you think? Should we talk to this guy?”

  “Why not?” Steve answered. “Send? Barnaby? Either of you guys have any objections?”

  The screen on the smartphone showed a cartoon of a cat chewing off his fingernails like a typewriter. “OK, I’ll take that as a negative. How about you, Barnaby? I mean, come on, you’ve been working with spooks your entire life. Don’t tell me that this guy bothers you.”

  “Very funny. ‘Spooks’ as a word for both spies and ghosts. Hilarious.” The computer program’s voice came out of the car speakers this time–sounding much more impressive and exceptionally sarcastic. He had evidently persuaded Hans to equalize the system for maximum snark.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. However, in a world of magic, I suspect that ghosts who were once transitory and ineffectual shades will be neither transitory nor ineffectual. On the other hand, if he’s benign and useful, it wouldn’t hurt to have another ally.”

  “And, of course, if he’s malign and useless, we’ve got a problem.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, since we haven’t met a ghost yet–” There was a vibration from the cell phone.

  “Yes, you are a ghost, aren’t you, Send? OK, that means that 100% of all
currently known ghosts are nice folks; therefore, I vote we find out what the Ancient Mariner wants.” Steve opened the window.

  As the man trotted over, Barnaby muttered, “How did I ever get invented if that’s an example of human logic?”

  Steve ignored the comment. When the old man arrived at the car, took off his cap, and bent down, he said, “What can we do for you, sailor?”

  A look of affront, almost rage, came over the man’s face. “Don’t ever call me a ‘sailor’ if you value your life.” He snapped upright and braced into a salute. “General Oliver Otis Howard. United States Marine Corps.”

  “Watch what you say about sailors, jarhead,” Ace said. “And even for a Marine, you sure don’t look much like a general, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

  “Oh, sorry ma’am, I didn’t see you there.” The man seemed to deflate. “Yes, well, I was demoted to private after my demise.”

  “You were demoted after your death?” Steve asked.

  “Yes, sir. I was a bit miffed at my wife and family when I passed away, so I drove them out of my house with the usual wails and banging.” He sighed. “That might have been understandable, but I found that I enjoyed the game and proceeded to evict the next dozen residents. The crime that led to my post-mortem court martial was moving the bed of a man and his wife into the middle of their bedroom.”

  “I have to say, General, that that doesn’t seem like the worst crime, even for a paranormal.”

  “Please, it’s not ‘General’ any longer. Just ‘Old Howard’ will do fine. That’s how they’ve been writing me up in the newspapers.”

  “Real papers or ghostly ones?”

  “Well, mostly the Washington Herald and The Star, so you could take it either way, I suppose.”

  Barnaby’s voice, sounding a bit harried, boomed out of the speakers. “I hate to break up this chit-chat, but I would like to know the crime you committed.”

  The ghost bent over and peered carefully into the car–front and back. “Have you already a ghoul resident on the premises?”

  “That’s Barnaby; he’s a computer program.” Steve spoke to the ceiling over Ace’s head where he assumed the microphone was placed. “Hey, I thought you were battling zombies or something. Are they gone already?”