The Wiz Biz II: Cursed & Consulted (18 page)

"And by the Law of Similarity, like things affect each other," Wiz said. "So it began to affect the universe."

"That is—ah—a not incorrect way of putting it. Quite frankly I wondered how you would deal with the problem. It never occurred to me you had not realized what would happen."

"Why didn't the shape have any effect when you showed it to us?"

"What I showed you is powerful enough, believe me, Sparrow. But it was incomplete; only the part between the Bubble World's creation and that moment. I did not attempt to reproduce the entire shape of the key."

"I told you guys it was a hardware bug," Danny said, running his hand through his disheveled hair.

"The question is, how do we fix it?"
Jerry said.

"I know of no way to fix it," Aelric said. "Any spell which can produce that shape must inevitably affect the World in a chaotic fashion."

For a minute no one said anything.

"You know," Jerry said finally. "This thing acts like some kind of quantum effect at a macro level."

"So maybe we need a quantum mechanic," Wiz said. Jerry groaned, Danny scowled and Moira and Bal-Simba looked blank.

"Just trying to lighten the mood a little. Sorry."

"You should be," Jerry told him.

"Sparrow, there are times I think it is a blessing I do not always understand you," Bal-Simba rumbled. "But I take it that this approach is not practical?"

"I guess not," Wiz said. "Damn! And it looked so perfect."

"Just a minute," Jerry said. "You say that it is the
spell
which affects the World?"

Aelric inclined his head. "Just so."

"Well, suppose we did it without using a spell?"

Aelric thought hard. "You mean using no magic at all? Yes, I suppose that would be possible."

"The calculations could be done by hand," Jerry said.

Danny snorted. "Man, there isn't that much time in the universe. What we need is a Cray or something."

"Computers won't work here," Wiz protested. "Nothing high-tech works in this world."

"Craig and Mikey seem to be doing all right."

"Yeah, but they're not in
this
world, they're in that bubble universe."

Danny shrugged. "So we get ourselves a supercomputer and we set it up in our own bubble universe."

"Do you know how to create such a thing?" Bal-Simba asked.

"No," admitted Danny.

"Nor do I," said Bal-Simba.

Everyone turned to look at Aelric.

"It, ah, would not be practical for us to do it either."

"Whoever is helping those two is powerful indeed," Bal-Simba said.

"Well, there's gotta be a way," Danny said a bit sullenly.

"Maybe there is," Jerry said. "Suppose we help ourselves to a corner of their universe?"

Wiz, Moira and Bal-Simba stared hard at Jerry.

"My Lord, how long has it been since you slept?" Moira asked.

"Twenty-eight hours or so, but what's that got to do with it?"

"If you get a good night's sleep, I suspect the connection will occur to you," the hedge witch said tartly.

There was a lull in the conversation while everyone considered.

"Well, it does seem to be a pretty big place," Wiz said at last. "Lots of islands and no one in most of it."

"We've been able to set up scout bases for our dragon patrols," Danny pointed out. "Why can't we just take over one of the deserted islands?"

"You can't be serious!" Moira snapped. "You mean hide like a mouse in the corner while you do your work?"

"Hey, it's there and they're not using all of it," Danny said. "Why not?"

"For a beginning you could all get killed. None of you know what lurks in that place nor how it is guarded."

"I do not believe it is guarded at all," Bal-Simba said. "Our scouts have found no sign of watchers or guardian spells. Indeed, their biggest problem seems to be to keep from straying into that universe unintentionally."

The hedge witch's mouth dropped open. "You are actually serious! My Lord, I cannot believe that you are actually considering this."

"My Lady," Bal-Simba said gravely. "In times like these we must consider many things we would rather not."

She turned to Aelric in mute appeal, but the elf only shrugged. "It does seem to present a solution, Lady."

"There's another little problem," Wiz said. "Where are we going to get a supercomputer?"

"We can't just issue a purchase order, can we?" Jerry said finally.

"I don't think Dun and Bradstreet has a current report on us."

"I take it," Bal-Simba said, "we cannot simply pay for this in gold, as we paid the programmers?"

"Not that simple," Wiz told him. "First, I don't think they'd take gold. Second, these things are built to order and most manufacturers have backlogs. Third, they're still under export controls and there is a lot of paperwork you have to fill out before you can buy
one."

"Well," Jerry said slowly, "the regulations have gotten a lot looser since you left. Anyway, legally we
are
entitled to an export license. We're not on the list of proscribed countries, after all."

Wiz looked at him. "You want to fill out the application? And then explain it to the State Department?"

"Just a thought."

Danny shrugged. "So we swipe one."

"I don't think so. At five million a copy, people would talk."

"So what? The Russians do it all the time."

"We're not . . ." Wiz started and then stopped. "You know, you may have something there, in a backhanded sort of way." He stared off into space for a minute and chewed on his lower lip.

"Assuming we can make our searching demons operate . . . yeah."

"We're gonna swipe one?" Danny asked eagerly.

"If we can find the right one," Wiz told him. "After all, a fair robbery is no exchange—or something like that."

"And then you are just going to walk into this bubble universe and set it up," Moira said disgustedly. She picked up the jug of fruit juice and sniffed it. "Are you sure you did not turn this into something stronger when I was not looking?"

Generals are not known for their sunny dispositions. Just now this general's disposition was as frigid as the Alaskan snowbanks lining the runways outside. His staff didn't look like they were having much fun either.

"Okay, so whatever these things are, we haven't been able to get good radar signatures on them. Are we even sure they are real?"

The other officers in the room shifted uncomfortably. At last the intelligence officer spoke up.

"Sir, we're not sure. But they act like they are."

"Analysis shows there's about an eighty-five percent chance they are real," said the officer responsible for the base's powerful radar chain.

The general glared as if he wanted to kill someone. Now.

"Well, if they're real why the hell can't our pilots find them?"

"By the time we can get there they are always gone," the intelligence officer said. "Besides, that whole area is a fog bank."

"That's unusual in itself, isn't it?"

"No, sir, not exactly," the base weather officer put in. "As you know fog's not unusual in that part of the Bering Sea. More like the normal thing."

"Is it normal for the same patch of ocean to stay fogged in for weeks?"

The weather officer shrugged. "Not quite so far north, no. But it's not unheard of either."

"What's causing that?"

"Cold air moving over warm water. Telemetry shows the water's somewhat warmer there than in the surrounding parts of the ocean."

"Why?"

Again the shrug. "We don't understand the weather patterns in this part of the world that well. An upwelling current, a vortex breaking off one of the regular warm currents, we just don't know."

"And you don't know what's playing hide-and-seek with our radar?"

"Whatever it is, it's not meteorological."

The general turned to his radar officer.

"And you don't know either?"

"No, sir. I can tell you something is showing up intermittently and whatever it is is probably not an artifact of the equipment, but that's all I can say."

"And patrols through that show nothing?"

"Nothing but fog. Sometimes our equipment works perfectly. Sometimes everything goes to hell. Radar, radios. I even had one case where the inertial navigation systems started acting up."

He scowled at the thought. This far north compasses were unreliable. If the INS failed, the pilot was reduced to dead reckoning and quite possibly a very chilly bath.

The general nodded again. In peacetime the base only kept one pair of F-15s sitting as CAP—combat air patrol—and they were not launched except at definite targets. They were well positioned to intercept something coming in to the Alaskan mainland, but not to go chasing things out over the Bering Sea.

He looked over at his intelligence officer, who merely shook his head. "It doesn't match anything we know of."

The general thought hard. "Thank you, gentlemen." The officers rose to go, but the general motioned his intelligence officer back into his chair. "Matt, stay behind for a minute, will you?"

"Now," the general said when the others had filed out and closed the door behind them. "What do you think this thing is?"

The intelligence officer frowned and shook his head.

"I don't have the faintest idea. If it is Soviet, it's stealthed well beyond what we thought they could do and it's carrying one holy hell of an electronic counter-measures suite. I don't know anything that could produce returns like that, or the kind of interference that's coming out of that area." He paused significantly. The northern border was so sensitive that if the intelligence officer at this base didn't know, no one in the Air Force knew.

"I'll tell you something else," he went on at last. "From what I'm hearing, I don't think the spooks know what those things are either. CIA and NSA don't tell us everything, but the reactions I'm getting tell me they're in the dark and they're plenty worried."

It was the general's turn to frown. "Why so?"

"The arms control talks. If the Soviets can produce something that good without our having an inkling of it, then our 'national technical means of verification' aren't worth a damn. If we can't catch them with our satellites and spy planes then we can't make sure they aren't cheating." He made a throw-away gesture. "Poof, no treaty."

The general didn't say anything for a long, long time.

"Would they really blow a treaty over some anomalous returns?"

"It sure as hell wouldn't help."

"But why the hell would the Soviets take something like that out over the ocean? Haven't they got enough places to test it where it would be secure?"

The intelligence officer shrugged. "Ask me another one. But don't be surprised if we get some company before long. Important company."

The general cracked the knuckles in one fist and then the other, like a man preparing for a fight. Then he smacked his right fist into his left palm and stared out into space.

"All right," he said finally, "what you're telling me is that it's vital to the security of the United States that we find out what the hell these things are?"

The IO chewed that over for a minute and then nodded. "Not 'vital' maybe, but damned important. Yessir, that's my assessment."

The general slammed his palm down on the desk. "Then we're by damn going to find out, and soon! I want some F-15s prepared with long-range ferry tanks and recon gear up the wazoo. Damn, I wish I had some EF-111s!" He looked over at his intelligence officer.

"The next time that thing shows its nose we're going to be ready. We're going to find out what this sucker is and we're going to nail him!"

"Behold, the Mousehole!" Wiz Zumwalt said, standing in the lobby of his new secret headquarters and gesturing grandly. Moira, who was standing beside him, only sniffed.

The Mousehole—no one could remember who came up with the name—was a one-story complex of glass and stone raised overnight by magic. It meandered beneath the trees in a small valley like a giant's game of dominoes. In addition to the labs and workshops, the complex included wings of private quarters for the programmers, wizards and their servants and helpers, storerooms and, most importantly of all, a room for their soon-to-be-acquired computer.

Wiz put his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene. With its airy spaces, hidden fluorescent lighting and non-static carpeting, the complex would not have looked out of place in a Silicon Valley industrial park. Of course, it did have a few features most Silicon Valley complexes lacked—such as windows that opened and the smokeless torches in brackets along the walls because the electricity wasn't hooked up yet.

"You know," Wiz said, "the Wizard's Keep has a lot of atmosphere, but this is still pretty neat."

"This is still madness," Moira responded grimly. "I just hope we do not all live to regret this."

"You mean you hope we
do
live to regret it."

"You know perfectly well what I mean!" the hedge witch snapped. "And
here
on this island, of all places!" She growled in frustration, crossed her arms and turned away.

Wiz came up behind her and put his arms around her. "I don't like it either, darling. But we've got to be able to use a computer and that means taking risks."

He felt her stance begin to soften. "And they don't patrol this island regularly. So we're safer here than anywhere else. Besides, we've taken precautions."

In fact the precautions had taken more time than the buildings. Not only was the glass carefully dulled to avoid any hint of reflection and the stone colored to match the surrounding rock, but powerful blocking spells had been erected over the place. From the air the valley appeared as simply another hill. Magical emanations were blocked. Even infrared, UV and radar signatures were tightly controlled.

Moira sighed. "Oh, I know, love. But on the same island as our enemies!"

"It's a big island. We're nearly a hundred miles away from them. As long as we don't have dragons flying in and out of here or something we'll be safe enough."