by Simon Hawke
"Pamela, please, try to appreciate my position. I-"
"Appreciate your position?" she said. "What about mine! I happen to be a responsible scientist. And quite aside from that, my first and only concern at this point is for Marvin's welfare. I've been devoting all my energies and effort to this situation ever since Marvin disappeared and this is the thanks I get? This is the extent of your support, that you tap my phone and have me followed?"
"Pamela, let me assure you that I-"
"The only assurances that I require from you are that you will live up to your part of the bargain and back me up with all the resources your company can provide," she snapped. "If you want your precious little monopoly on Marvin's discovery, that's perfectly all right with me. What I want is Marvin back, safe and sound. And just in case you're thinking of placing someone else in charge of this, you might wish to know that I've committed certain key sections of Marvin's papers to memory and then destroyed the originals, so without me, you've got nothing."
"All right, Pamela," the CEO said, knowing when to bite the bullet. "Whatever you say, we'll do it your way. I'm not completely insensitive, you know. I'd like Marvin back safe and sound, as well. I'm concerned about his welfare, too. The question is, can we do anything about it?"
"We can build his time machine," said Pamela, "provided you can supply the key components."
"Can you actually do it?" asked the CEO.
"I'm a cybernetics engineer," Pamela replied. "I can read a bloody schematic. What's more, I can make sense of Marvin's notes, which is probably more than anyone you've got on your payroll can do. I understand him, I know the way he thinks. You get me what I need and I'll build his time machine for you, and then I'm bloody well going after him."
"You mean you know where he went?" asked the CEO.
"Marvin logged everything he did," Pamela replied. "I have the precise settings he was using, right here," she added, tapping her forehead. "I've committed it to memory and then I burned the papers, so if you want him back, and if you want to find out how his discovery works, then I'm the one you'll have to deal with. Understood?"
"Understood," the CEO said quietly.
"Now I've made a list of what I'm going to need," said Pamela, handing him a sheet of paper. "And number one on that list is a fresh supply of Buckminsterfullerine. I don't know how you're going to get it, or where you're going to get it, but I would suggest that you direct your energies chiefly toward that end, because without it, Marvin's discovery is as useless as tits on a bloody bull. You've said a great deal about EnGulfCo's vast resources and what they can accomplish. Well, go and accomplish something, and leave me to my work."
"Right," said the CEO. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket, then turned and quickly left the lab.
CHAPTER NINE
It was nearly morning by the time that Brewster and the others-
"One moment. You have been avoiding me ever since Chapter Four. Now I have been extremely patient, but my patience is beginning to wear thin. Now who is this Brewster?"
All right, now look, Warrick, this really is too much. A little interaction with the narrator from time to time during your scenes is one thing, but interrupting the narrative flow when it isn't even your turn is something else again. Admittedly, this whole business of a character interacting with the narrator is a bit irregular, but it's different and it adds a certain off-the-wall spice to the story. However, this is getting out of hand.
"You have not answered my question," Warrick said. "And don't bother with that space break, cutting to another scene trick. I have devised a counterspell and it won't work again."
Threatening the narrator is going to get you nowhere, Warrick. Trust me, it really isn't very smart. You're dealing with powers you couldn't even begin to understand.
"Is that so?" Warrick countered. "Then how do you explain my ability to break into the narrative when it's not even my scene? I have, not been idle during all this time, you know. You may have less power than you think. Or I might have more than you suspect."
Don't be ridiculous. I'm the one who's telling this story, not you. And I'm not about to have one of my characters slipping the leash. Well-developed characters that take on a life of their own are usually an asset to a story, but now you've brought the momentum of the plot to a screeching halt. This is absolutely intolerable. I tell you, I won't have it.
" Twas not I who asked for this, you know," Warrick replied. "I was merely minding my own business when you began to tell this tale."
You didn't even exist until I began to tell this tale, for crying out loud!
"That is purely a matter of perspective," Warrick said. " 'Twould depend upon your frame of reference."
Listen, I'm not going to sit here and listen to a lecture on relativity from a fictional character! What the hell do you know about science, anyway? You're a sorcerer, for heaven's sake!
"Any branch of knowledge that is sufficiently advanced would seem like magic to one who did not completely understand it."
Damn it, don't you go paraphrasing Clarke to me! He isn't even published in your universe!
"A fact does not depend upon publication for its validity," said Warrick. "I will grant you that there is much about your reality that I do not fully comprehend, but that does not cause me undue concern. As a student of the occult, I am disposed to be flexible. Now we have some unfinished business to settle, and avoiding answering my questions is not about to make it go away. You still have not told me who this Brewster is. Is he some sort of alchemist? Does he have anything to do with this time machine apparatus? Is-"
Clang!
Warrick grunted and collapsed to the floor of his sanctorum as Teddy the troll brought the frying pan down upon his head.
"Great goblins!" Teddy exclaimed, horrified. "What have I done?''
He gazed at the frying pan in his hand, wondering where it had come from, and what had possessed him to strike his master with it.
"Possessed!" Teddy whispered, awestruck. His eyes darted wildly from side to side. "I've been possessed! Demons! Voices in the ether!"
He dropped the frying pan and ran screaming from the room.
Well, with any luck, that'll keep Warrick out of the picture for a while. In fact, Teddy hit him so hard, he'll probably have a concussion and it will take him a few days to recuperate. Poor Teddy will probably need therapy by the time this is all over, but it couldn't be helped. Besides, trolls are a little schizoid, anyway.
Now where were we? Oh, right.
It was nearly morning by the time that Brewster and the others finished listening to Rachel's tale. The first gray light of dawn was showing over the treetops and Brian reverted to being a chamberpot again. It happened right in front of Rachel's eyes and, much to his annoyance, she reacted to the transformation by clapping her hands with delight and saying, "Oh, do it again! Do it again!"
"I never did like elves," grumbled the champerpot sourly.
"Quiet, Brian," Brewster said. "I need to think." He scratched his head and frowned. "Okay, so the fairies saw three brigands loading up my missing magic chariot into a cart. From your description, it couldn't be anything else. Also, from your description, those brigands sound suspiciously like Long Bill, Fifer Bob, and Silent Fred. And then they took it to this wizard? What I don't understand is, why didn't they say anything about it?"
"Simple," the chamberpot replied. "They sold it to Blackrune 4 and they were afraid to say anything about it, for fear of what you might do to them."
"But they hadn't even met me then, and they had no way of knowing what it was," said Brewster. "Why couldn't they have simply come to me and explained what happened? I would have understood."
"Perhaps," the chamberpot replied, "but 'tis doubtful that Black Shannon would."
"What does she have to do with it?" asked Brewster.
"She has everything to do with it," the chamberpot replied. "Knowing how devious these brigands are, they probably cheated her out of her cut. They mos
t likely sold your magic chariot and kept all the profits to themselves."
"I'll have to have a word with them," said Brewster.
"Let Shannon have a word with them," the chamberpot replied. "That ought to be interesting to watch."
"Well, the question now is where can we find this wizard... what was his name again?" asked Brewster.
"Blackrune 4," said Rachel. "He's not much of a wizard, really. Strictly second-rate. He lives by himself in a small cottage, with only one apprentice, about four days travel north."
"Or at least he did," said Rory.
They glanced at him and saw several fairies buzzing around his head.
"These fairies tell me Blackrune 4 has disappeared," said Rory. "There has been no sign of him around his cottage and some time ago, his young apprentice was seen leaving in a loaded cart, heading down the road toward Pittsburgh."
"Pittsburgh?" Brewster said.
"Aye," said the chamberpot. " 'Tis the capital of the Kingdom of Pitt, ruled by Bonnie King Billy. One of the largest cities in the twenty-seven kingdoms. And if Blackrune has vanished and his apprentice has departed, then it sounds as if the old wizard may have taken a journey in your magic chariot."
Brewster sighed with resignation. "Then I guess that's it," he said in a dull voice. "It means I'm stuck here for the rest of my life."
Shannon and MacGregor lay in bed, with their arms around each other, holding each other close. It was past noon, but they had slept late and then spent the late morning doing much the same thing that they'd done all through the night before, and now they lay basking in the afterglow of passion, simply staring into one another's eyes.
"I love you, Shannon," said MacGregor.
She smiled. "You needn't say that," she replied.
" Tis true," he said.
"You barely even know me," she said. "All you remember is a thin ragamuffin of a street urchin that your father took in, and you see the woman I've become, but you know nothing of all the years that passed between."
"Well, that is not entirely true," replied MacGregor with a smile. "You have quite a reputation, you know."
"As do you," she said. "As for my own reputation, 'tis not one that most women would be proud of. I know what they say about me."
"Doubtless 'tis much exaggerated, as are many of the things they say of me," replied MacGregor.
"I fear not, Mac," said Shannon. "Everything they say of me is true. I am a wanton, lustful woman."
"Aye, I know," said MacGregor with a grin.
"Nor are you the first man I have been wanton and lustful with," Shannon added. "Nor the second, nor the third, nor even the one hundredth."
MacGregor raised his eyebrows. "That many?"
"Aye, and more," she said. "More than I could count, I fear. I would not wish to deceive you about my past. 'Tis quite a scarlet one."
"Well, I am no monk, myself," MacGregor said with a shrug. He chuckled. "My, aren't we a pair? An assassin and a brigand queen. 'Tis the stuff that songs are made of."
"Hardly songs that one would sing in polite company," said Shannon.
"Those are the best kind," replied Mac with a grin. "I have never met a woman like you. You handle a blade like a demon. By the gods, you would have made my father proud! And in bed, you are the very essence of a woman, a sweet and gentle lover..."
"At times not quite so sweet and gentle," she reminded him.
"Aye, 'tis true," admitted Mac. "I shall require some salve to apply upon by back." He shifted slightly and grunted with discomfort.
"Oh, forgive me!" she said. "I did not mean to hurt you."
"Ah, but it was such delicious pain!"
"I will go and fetch some salve from Mary for you," she said, and started to get out of bed, but Mac grabbed her and pulled her back.
"Oh, no, you don't! You stay right here by me. I've been hurt far worse, you know."
"I know," she said, running her fingertips across his scars. "So many times, too."
"You've never been scarred yourself, though."
She shrugged. " Tis merely skill," she said.
"Skill that I am lacking in, I take it?" said MacGregor.
She shrugged again. " Twas not I who lost the fight."
"You needn't rub it in. Aye, I lost the fight," he replied, "but then I gained a wench."
"Did you, indeed? Am I some prize to be possessed?"
"A rare and wondrous prize," he said. "But not one to be possessed by any man, no. Tis a prize valued all the more highly because 'twas given freely."
"Even if the prize was given out so many times before?" she asked.
MacGregor shook his head. "Nay, not like this, my love. You never gave, you took. As did I, myself. With us, 'twas different, and you know it. We each gave of each other, willingly, and joyfully, and with no reservations. We were meant for one another, you and I. We are two of a kind."
"Your speech is pretty," she said, "and it falls sweetly on my ears, yet it smacks uneasily of permanence."
"And would that be so bad a thing?"
" 'Tis not whether 'twould be bad or good," she said, "but whether 'twould be possible. I will not change, Mac. I cannot change. I am who I am and what I am. 'Tis the brigand's life for me, Mac. 'Tis the life I know and love, a life of freedom, where I can be the equal, nay, more than equal of any man. And I shall not alter it for anyone, not even for you."
"I did not ask that you change," he said.
"And what of yourself?" she asked. "You have made a life for yourself as an assassin, the most accomplished assassin of them all. Men step aside for you, and you step aside for no one. Your trade is plied in the thriving cities of the twenty-seven kingdoms, where your name is known and feared and people treat you with respect. The tavern keepers set aside their finest tables for you, and you drink their finest wine, and women vie for your attention."
MacGregor shrugged. "It's a living," he said.
"Look around you, Mac," she said. "Look at this room. 'Tis old and dusty and the floorboards creak from looseness. Spiders build their webs in the corners at the ceiling and mice scuttle in the walls. The bedclothes are threadbare and the walls are drafty. And these are the finest accommodations this little hovel of a village has to offer. Yet this is where I live, Mac, and for all its shabbiness, I love it. This is where I belong, here with my brigand band. 'Twould be a paltry living here for the famous Mac the Knife."
"Oh, I don't know," said Mac. "There is much to be said for the simple life of a small village. 'Tis true that a city offers many comforts and interesting diversions, and yet life in a large city has its drawbacks, too. There is the expense, for one thing. One has to pay for the best accommodations, and for dining in the finest taverns, and the costs of such things as weapons and supplies are greater. It does cut into one's profits."
"True," said Shannon hopefully.
"And then there are all the people," Mac continued. "One of the disadvantages of fame is that one's face is often recognized, and far more people know you than you can know yourself. At all times, a man in my position has to watch his back. There is never any shortage of young hellions who would try to make a name for themselves by sneaking up behind me and planting a knife between my shoulder blades. In a place such as Brigand's Roost, 'twould not take very long before I knew each and every person in the village, and within a short time, I would no longer be merely a famous man among a horde of strangers, but a friend among friends. And friends watch one another's backs."
"Aye, the people here look out for one another," Shannon said.
"If a stranger were to come to town," continued Mac, "why, I would hear of it at once, and no potential foe could enjoy the advantage of surprise. And if some wealthy client wished to employ my services, they could send some emissary to seek me out in Brigand's Roost and we could conduct negotiations in the security of a place I could feel safe in. Nor would my presence here be entirely without benefit to Brigand's Roost, I think. There are always those who like to brush up against fa
me, to meet someone whose life might seem more fascinating than their own, in the hope that some of that special magic might rub off on them. People would come to Brigand's Roost in the hope of meeting Mac the Knife, and perhaps buying him a drink at One-Eyed Jack's, and listening to his tales. And there are always those who seek me out in the hope that I might take them on as my apprentices and train them. I am always being sought out by young and eager aspirants to the Footpads and Assassins Guild. Some of them are fools, of course, but there are also those who have potential. I have had to turn down many of them, simply because I did not have the time. However, I am not getting any younger, and I am growing weary of stalking victims throughout the twenty-seven kingdoms. Of late, I have been thinking that it might be nice to start a school. An academy to train fighters and assassins. 'Twould be the first of its kind, you know. And there is much to be said for retiring at the peak of one's profession."
Shannon stared at him, her eyes shining. "You would do all that for me?" she said with disbelief.
"Nay, for us," said Mac. "I have known many a wench, my lass. Some I have known for but one night, while others I have known for years, and yet the very moment I crossed swords with you, I knew you were the one for me. I said to myself, MacGregor, if this girl doesn't kill you, you'd damn well better marry her."
Shannon caught her breath. "Mac! Do you know what you're saying?"
"Aye, my love, I do. I've nary a doubt in my mind, nor in my heart. What say you? Will you join your fate to mine?"
The expression on Shannon's face was a mixture of concern and happiness. "Think, Mac," she said. "Are you quite certain 'tis not the passion of the moment speaking? I am no little wife to stay at home to sweep the floors and scrub the pots. And I have never given any thought to having children. For all I know, I may be barren. I have had many lovers, and yet I have never been with child. And my men depend upon me. 'Tis not only my own welfare I must think of, but theirs, too. I also have a price upon my head. I should think that I would be the last woman you would consider taking for a wife."