Revisionary Page 9

  She returned my badge. “Welcome back, Mr. Vainio. How was Washington?”

  “One more day and I’d have turned a U.S. senator into an earthworm and fed him to Smudge.”

  Marion smiled and peeked in at Smudge. “Aside from the fire-spider, do you have anything magical with you?”

  “Half a vial of healing potion. Catalog number CSL1950-8.”

  She typed a quick note on the computer. “Weren’t they fixing your niece’s leg this morning?”

  I wondered if her partner could sense my frustration. “That’s right.”

  “Well, you tell that little angel I said hello!”

  The gate slid open a moment later. I pulled through and followed the winding blacktop to the left. In the week I’d been away, they had erected a second security booth inside the wall. Another armed guard, a human this time, nodded at me as I passed.

  Most of the grounds were landscaped with orange and gray stone. Cacti and palm trees bordered walking paths between the four towers and various smaller buildings. Silver and black road signs guided visitors to housing, a small food court and general store, supply warehouses, and of course the ten-story towers spread out at the corners of a rough square: Medical, Admin, Research, and Library.

  The Johannes Gutenberg Memorial Library Tower was the real treasure. The building housed the contents of six former Porter archives along with an additional twenty thousand titles, including some from Gutenberg’s private collection. Given the choice, I would have happily abandoned my studio apartment in the eastern housing building to live full-time in Gutenberg Tower.

  Instead, I drove past the library to the small parking lot behind the eastern residential building. I didn’t spend much time here, and couldn’t bring myself to think of the empty apartment as home. It felt like a larger version of the place I’d had during grad school, only without the Escher prints or the Renaissance festival swords hanging on the walls. Once inside, I started up the coffee machine, turned the television on for Smudge, and headed for the shower.

  Between the cold water and the hot coffee, I got my brain jump-started enough to sit down and log on to my computer. I ignored several interview requests from the media and used my access as Research Director to pull up Alexis Vainio’s medical folder.

  The patient summary described the results of the accident in clinical terms, but I could never read it without hearing my father’s voice. He had been the one to call me that night. I’d just gotten back from dinner, and it was raining outside, a hard-core Michigan storm with raindrops big enough to bruise.

  I remembered him spitting profanity like bullets, as if he could ward off the grief with anger. “God damned drunk ran the fucking stop sign. Angie and Lex are both in the hospital. Your brother’s with them. Your mom and I are driving down tonight. The doctors say Angie should be all right. They don’t . . . they don’t fucking know if Lex . . .”

  It was the only time I could recall hearing him cry.

  I’d flown down as soon as I could. I stayed with them, brought Toby food at the hospital, took care of the house and their pet lizard, and did everything I could to help . . . except to use magic.

  Magic would have triggered a visit from Gutenberg and his automatons. The accident was public knowledge, as were the injuries Lex had suffered. If I healed her, there was no way to explain her sudden and miraculous recovery. My magic would have put myself and the Porters at risk of exposure, and Gutenberg was enough of a bastard to do whatever it took to preserve his secrets.

  I could restore my niece’s amputated leg, and Gutenberg would simply remove it again. There was nothing I could do.

  At least, that was what I told myself.

  I closed my eyes, remembering the letter Toby had written last year after learning what I was.

  Do you know what it’s like trying to explain to your five-year-old daughter that if we don’t let the doctors cut off her leg, the infection will kill her? Or to know that even the amputation might not save her?

  She’s had four surgeries to try to repair the damage from the crash. To pin her pelvis back together. To ease the pressure on her brain. Depending on the results of her next MRI, we may have to go back for number five before the end of the summer.

  I never said how much it meant to us that you flew out here after the accident. That you watched Lexi’s brother and brought us badly cooked meals and did everything you could to help.

  Only you didn’t, did you? You didn’t do everything.

  Maybe you had good reasons. Maybe your precious secret was more important than your niece. Well, the secret’s out now, and Lexi deserves better. She deserves the chance to be a kid . . .

  I pushed the memories aside and skimmed Lex’s record. The background was fourteen pages long, detailing multiple surgeries, medications, and chronic pain. Pain I could have spared her.

  New Millennium had spent months on tests, working under the direction of NIH doctors to ensure that all non-magical options had been exhausted. There were memorandums of agreement with Toby’s insurance company, piles of waivers and disclaimers, and even a court challenge to Toby and Angie’s fitness as parents. That bullshit had come closer than anything else to making me openly break the laws against magical assault and battery.

  I clicked through to the most recent entry, dated today at 8:38 a.m.

  A longer report would come later. For now, I wiped my eyes and focused on the photograph of Lex standing in front of a hospital bed. Each of her parents held one of her hands, holding her steady as she tested her balance.

  She wore a hospital gown, and her feet were bare. Her new leg was several shades paler than the other. It was skinnier, too. She’d be in rehab and physical therapy for weeks to come. Months, probably.

  I checked the doctor’s notes. Lex had spent the next hour getting X-rays, MRIs, and other scans of her new leg. They’d also completed a long list of tests on her brain. The physical damage had disappeared, but we would continue to monitor her for seizures and other side effects for at least a year.

  A two-tone whistle filled the apartment. I’d programmed the door chime with the boatswain’s whistle sound from the original Star Trek. I cleared the computer screen, wiped my face, and headed for the door.

  Russell Potts, the Department of Homeland Security’s representative on the New Millennium Board of Directors, shoved a trade paperback into my hands. “Right now, every man, woman, and child in North Korea is reading this book. Do you know why?”

  I glanced at the cover, which showed an idealized painting of North Korea’s supreme leader. There was no title, not that I could have read it anyway. Nor did I need to. I did my best to sound bored. “Because it describes various weapons the North Korean military could use to guarantee the supremacy of their nation, including a kind of supersoldier serum, long-range assassination drones with cloaking technology, and an implantable spy chip for monitoring their own people and anyone else they feel like snooping on. One of our libriomancers intercepted a South Korean spy, a gwisin, who filled us in. How do you think your boss at DHS found out about it?”

  Potts was a tall, narrow-faced man with a thick brown mustache who always wore suits and ties, even in the desert heat. He pursed his lips, clearly reevaluating what he’d been intending to say. “A gwisin?”

  “A kind of ghost.”

  “What is your team doing about it?”

  “Charles is monitoring their progress. North Korea has a population of twenty-five million. Not all those people are literate, of course. He’s estimating an upper limit of ten million who are actually reading the novel as ordered. We’re trying to chart how quickly they can empower a book for libriomancy, and comparing it to the data for other novels. Charles believes since the population knows this book was deliberately crafted not for story, but for the weaponization of magic, that this will reduce the effectiveness of reader belief. It’s also just flat-out bad prose, but that could be problems with the translation, or our cultural filters affecting how—”
<
br />   “That’s it? You’re standing around watching while North Korea builds magical superweapons?”

  “You want me to fly to North Korea and tell them to stop reading? I’m a librarian, Mister Potts. I don’t believe in banning books.”

  “Do you believe in letting a madman terrorize the international community?” He started to say more, then caught himself. He pressed his lips together and looked me up and down. “You’re baiting me.”

  “A little.” I made a show of checking the time on the wall clock behind me. “I’ll fill you in next week. Right now, I’m late for another meeting.”

  “With your niece, I know.” He folded his arms and waited, knowing perfectly well I wouldn’t use magic to evict him from my doorway. I could try to physically shove him aside, but Potts had spent fifteen years in the Army, and he’d played college football before that. I’d have better luck climbing out a window and flying away, and from the smirk on his face, he knew it.

  “First of all, North Korea can’t do anything without a libriomancer,” I said. “The Porters number around five hundred people, very few of whom would be interested in helping North Korea develop a superweapon. Given their population, the odds of them having an undiscovered libriomancer on hand are slim.”

  “Would you risk this planet for ‘slim’?”

  I ignored him and kept talking. “Second, like I said before, we’re tracking their progress. The moment the book approaches any real magical potential, I intend to lock it.”

  He ran a thumb over his mustache while he studied me. “That’s the equivalent of wiping the hard drive, right? I thought Gutenberg was the only one who knew how to do that.”

  “Close enough, and yes. He was.” I shrugged. “He’s been teaching me. Ponce de Leon might be able to do it, too, I’m not sure. I’ll ask if I ever talk to him again.”

  Potts’ face had been growing gradually redder throughout our conversation, and that last comment started him on the path to purple. He glared at me, like he was trying to discern whether or not I was playing with him. Which I was . . . but I was also telling the truth. “We were informed that Johannes Gutenberg was dead.”

  “That’s right.” I returned the book, then folded my arms and waited for his response.

  “I see.” He took a slow breath. “I expect you to keep me informed of North Korea’s progress. I’m holding you personally responsible for making sure that book is locked before it becomes a danger. You might prefer to hide away with your books and your animals and your magic portals, but there are a lot of very bad people beyond these walls. People who see magic as an opportunity to kill you, me, and everyone else in this country. Maybe they’re not as impressive as rogue libriomancers and ghosts and whatever else you’ve fought, but we cannot underestimate them. You might think yourself invincible, but what about everyone else? Think of your niece. You brought her here to heal her with magic, but all it takes is one radicalized magic-user, one creature with a grudge, and she’s another corpse. Just like the ones in Lansing.”

  I stepped away to grab Smudge and return him to his cage. It was either that or punch a high-level DHS official in the mouth, and there was no way that would have ended well. I slung a bookbag over my shoulder and turned back to face him. “They’ll have to get past me, first.”

  From: cbrice@newmillennium.org

  To: npallas@newmillennium.org

  Cc: tpolk@newmillennium.org; vhambrecht@newmillennium.org

  Subject: Speaking Tour

  Ms. Pallas,

  You may not be aware, but several weeks ago I requested New Millennium send me and my wife on a speaking tour to promote our work. Mr. Vainio denied this request.

  I’ve been a libriomancer and a member of the Porters for longer than Isaac Vainio has been alive. As you know, I am also a bestselling and award-winning author. I’ve been a featured speaker and guest of honor at countless conventions. I was part of a science advisory panel for President Clinton.

  In the old days, the Porters held storytellers in high esteem. Maybe that’s changed. Maybe the new council wants us to keep our heads down and follow orders like good little drones.

  Setting aside false modesty, New Millennium needs the positive publicity I can provide. I’m sure Isaac is doing the best he can, but this is just one more instance of his inexperience and lack of judgment as a manager. I suppose it’s normal for someone his age to become enamored of the spotlight, and to try to keep the attention to himself. But allowing a fresh-faced libriomancer barely out of college to go to Washington D.C. to speak on behalf of New Millennium? Ye gods and little fishes, what was the council thinking?

  I’ve attached a proposed tour schedule that would begin next month. I look forward to your prompt response.

  Best,

  Charles

  —

  Charles L. Brice, Science Fiction Author

  http://www.clbrice.net

  Coming Next Month: Dark Wanderer, the newest book in the bestselling Dark Star Chronicles. Available for pre-order at Amazon and other retailers.

  From: vhambrecht@newmillennium.org

  To: tpolk@newmillennium.org

  Subject: Re: Speaking Tour

  Wow. What a tool!

  -V

  “History says you broke a contract to be married.”

  “History is the world’s most egotistical gossip.”

  “You worked so hard to preserve yourself, but you never mention anything about family. Were you protecting their privacy, or is it that you never had time?”

  “Revolutionizing literature and magic leaves little time for anything more. Particularly for those of us who are so different. I’m practically another species. I had dalliances over the years, naturally, but none that survived more than a few weeks or months.”

  “What about Ponce de Leon?”

  “Every relationship is unique. Juan and I were colleagues first, then rivals. But as time passed, and we watched our friends and family grow old and die . . . our priorities shifted. Humanity struggles with change, and we were so very human back then. We each provided an anchor, a stable fixture in the other’s life. We needed one another far more than either of us would ever admit.”

  “You kicked him out of the Porters. You banished him.”

  “Lovers clash. Relationships evolve. I have no doubt we would have found one another again in time, as we started to do . . .”

  “Did you ever consider leaving the Porters to be with him?”

  “Oh, yes. Many times.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Responsibility. Fear. Love.”

  “Love stopped you from running off with Ponce de Leon?”

  “I’ve had two great loves in my lifetime, Isaac. Juan Ponce de Leon is one. The Porters—magic—is the other. Perhaps you’ll have better luck than I did when it comes to balancing those relationships.”

  WE HAD PLANNED the New Millennium complex with an eye toward long-term growth. Thanks to legal hurdles and red tape that multiplied like tribbles at a buffet, the majority of our facilities remained vacant. Of the ten floors in the Metrodora Medical Tower, seven were sealed off and gathering dust while we waited for the day we could bring in more patients and healers.

  Lex and her parents were in room 318 in the pediatric wing. Silhouettes of children, all painted in primary colors on the walls, played beneath large rainbows and cheerful white clouds. Shooting stars marked different trails along the floor: blue stars led to the main desk, green to the elevator and stairs, purple to the snack machine and play area, and so on.

  I offered nods and greetings to several nurses, each of whom glanced at my badge before letting me pass. I found myself dragging my feet as I approached room 318. I’d faced any number of monsters and murderers in recent years, but in each of those battles, I’d known how to fight.

  With Toby, I didn’t know how to end the fight. Truth be told, there would always be a part of me that believed my big brother was invincible, and that if I said the wrong thing,
he’d put me in a headlock, bloody my nose, and shut me in the closet. Or shave off one of my eyebrows while I was sleeping, like he did after I accidentally scratched his car.

  The door to Lex’s room was shut. The whiteboard outside noted that she’d eaten lunch and was scheduled for physical therapy at three thirty. I glanced at Smudge as if he could tell me what to expect, but Smudge was better at sensing threats to life and limb than he was the anger and bitterness of family.

  I heard several voices inside: doctors and libriomancers taking turn asking Lex questions. She answered each one calmly and methodically, with her parents occasionally jumping in to offer additional details about her medical history.

  I straightened my shoulders and knocked.

  “Be right there,” Toby called. I heard slippers shuffling over the tile floor, and then the door swung inward.

  Toby Vainio was taller, broader, and stronger than me. On the other hand, I still had all my hair.

  His thinning blond fuzz was shaved to half an inch in length, a habit he’d kept up for close to a decade, ever since joining the National Guard. It made it easy to see the jagged scar above his left ear from falling through a rotten dock board when we were kids. He wore an old Detroit Lions T-shirt and loose sweatpants.

  “Isaac.” We stared at one another for several awkward seconds. He stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.

  “I’m sorry, Toby. I wanted to be here. I had to go to Lansing last night, and then—”

  “We heard about the attacks.” He leaned his back against the door and folded his arms. “Was that all?”

  “No, it’s not all,” I snapped. “I wanted to see how Lex was doing.”

  “Lex is fine. We all are.”

  “You know, maybe instead of being all pissed off at me, you could try being happy for your daughter.”

  “Turns out I can do both.”

  “Well, aren’t you the efficient little multitasker.”

  “Mom and Dad called this morning before the procedure. And afterward. They’ve been watching Nick and getting him to school every day so we could be here with his little sister. They all video chatted with Lex last night. They’d have been here if New Millennium allowed it. They sent flowers. Angie’s dad mailed a new pair of roller blades. He’s called four times this week.”