Gamer Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  “Accept the existence of beauty, my young friend,” Ernest said. “Accept it, but understand that there is the same beauty in a stained glass window as in rubies and sapphires, and it is always yours as God’s child. Honesty is a greater jewel, and you have that already. Though your life has been hard, you turned neither to theft nor deception. Well done.”

  Bachan absolutely reddened with pleasure.

  Once he had finished with the individual tests, he gave them an exciting problem to solve together, dealing with witches and devils, thugs, and even a dragon. That contest took both men an hour, scratching their heads and shouting at the dice to roll in their favor. They both looked shocked when Ernest called a halt to the action.

  “What is wrong?” Dagen asked.

  “Why, my friend, we have had no dinner, and it is long past midnight.”

  “I hardly felt it at all,” Bachan said. “I have never had so much fun in my life, not since I was a child.”

  “Nor I,” Dagen begged. “Let us go on, Herr Doctor, please.”

  “No, no,” Ernest said, laughing. He rang for his housekeeper. “I am an old man compared with you two. I must have rest. We will have a light meal and I will send you on your way.”

  “Will you let us come back again?” Bachan asked. “We would be happy to, er, help further your studies.”

  “It is a bargain,” Ernest said, holding out his hand to both of them. “We will continue this journey together.”

  He watched them walk away under the gaslights, still talking excitedly to one another. The black dog made no appearance that night.

  Over the next few weeks Doctor Ernest met with Bachan and Dagen every few days. To his delight each of them began to exhibit real progress in dealing with his particular complaint. Bachan showed more interest in the pleasures of the spirit over those of the purse, and Dagen was openly less timorous. He had gotten them to open up and challenge their assumptions about themselves. His research was bearing fruit.

  Proving that his thesis was sound helped to exorcise his own demons. Since that first marvelous evening he had slept soundly and well, with dreams that were a fan tasyland, a joy, instead of the terrible dungeons they had been. And writing down his dreams gave him further material for his adventures, so in all he was content with his life.

  After a few weeks’ further explorations, he wrote up his findings. A field of two subjects was not a statistically significant study as of yet, but he was too excited about the progress of his patients not to want to share it with his colleagues.

  He realized at once when he entered the grand, mahogany paneled room that served as the Science Foundation’s lecture hall that he had made an error. The members were far from receptive to his ideas, let alone his case studies. He looked out at a sea of disapproving faces and felt his heart sink.

  “So they play roles,” scoffed Herr Doctor Marazin, the president. “Boys’ games are no answer for adults.”

  “Both of them are learning how to cope with life far better than they did before we began our meetings, sir,” Doctor Ernest protested, leaning over the podium. “I feel that if they did not learn these lessons in childhood, then why not help them to do so now? It is working, I tell you.”

  Herr Professor Emil Vongstad cleared his throat. He was the eldest and most respected of the foundation’s members and a world-class chemist. “But why introduce the elements of the fantastic? Why not teach them how to behave in the real world? It is where they live.”

  “Because it distracts them from the commonplace and makes them reach for complex and creative solutions,” Ernest insisted. “When they are not thinking of themselves, their minds are cleared to operate in a saner fashion.”

  “But the game itself is insane,” Marazin spat. “Do not create greater freaks than you find.”

  “But I am not,” Ernest said. He looked from one harsh face to another. Even Dromlinn kept shaking his head, certain his old friend was mad. “They will be better men for their experiences, I assure you.”

  “And what if they choose to spread your contagion to others?” Vongstad asked. “Troubled youths, starting to playact among themselves at knight-errant? You shall be accused of demonism in the papers—and then in the courts!”

  “Demonism is a ridiculous accusation and unworthy of this society,” Ernest said, frowning.

  “Yet what else are you doing but bewitching them? You turn them away from sanity, from God. Hypnosis is an acceptable tool of the psychologist, to give simple suggestions to the deep mind against harmful behavior. You are openly persuading grown men to pretend as children do. There is no practical application for your little . . . game.”

  “That is not true! Fighting their monsters gives my patients power! They combat their demons in a real way. Each of my subjects is far less agitated than when we began.”

  But his fellow scientists had all stopped listening. In the silent hall, Ernest gathered up his notes and slunk off the dais.

  “You are fortunate that they did not decide on the spot to take a vote whether to expel you,” Dromlinn said as Doctor Ernest collected his top hat from the cloakroom. “Go home, Gerhard. Set this foolishness aside. Study the mind in some other, more acceptable fashion. You will make other breakthroughs, I know it.”

  But Ernest did not want to put his system aside. He stalked out into the night, as deep in despair as he had ever been. Even though it was raining, he waved off horse-drawn carriages that drew up to offer him a ride. He wanted the exertion of the long walk home to burn off the humiliation that he felt. Why could the foundation not see that he had made a real leap forward?

  But what more could he do without the backing of the foundation? His findings would find no public airing if they repudiated him. Angrily, he kicked at a cobble-stone. Perhaps he should give up all thought of scientific research, become a gentleman of leisure.

  Even as he thought it, he hated the idea. He loved the inner workings of the mind, the glimpses of other worlds in a single thought. But what could he do?

  A fierce howl sounded not far away. Ernest grimaced. The black dog was coming for his soul.This time he would allow it to take him. Let the misery end, he pleaded, turning his face up to the iron-gray sky. The rain was receding, but heaven let a few more cold tears drip on his face. Even the angels wept for him, to no avail.

  “Doctor Ernest! Doctor, is that you?”

  A carriage rattled to a stop beside him. A face surmounted by a topper leaned out to him. It was Herr Dagen.

  “Doctor, we were just coming back from calling at your home! Your housekeeper said we had missed you.”

  The two young men leaped out of the carriage and shook Ernest’s hand vigorously.

  “May I guess from your demeanor that your paper was not well received?” Bachan asked with the penetration that Ernest was coming to expect from him.

  “Ah, no,” Ernest said. “They advised me to burn it and all my notes.”

  Dagen was aghast. “Don’t do that! They have no notion of what you have done for us. I shall speak to them on your behalf.”

  “It will do no good, my young friend,” Ernest said. The black dog’s teeth at his throat constricted his voice to a husky murmur. “But what may I do for you? We do not have an appointment today.”

  Bachan and Dagen exchanged grins. “It seems that our game continues whether or not we are with you, Herr Doctor,” Dagen said. “We have spent a good deal of time talking with one another. Bachan reminds me when I fear to step forward that God is still there in the dark places, and my shield protects him from those worldly urges that threaten him with gloom. We are closer friends than ever; we have become one another’s consciences.”

  Ernest gave them a half bow, feeling his heart lighten a little. “If I have done anything to facilitate that, then I am rewarded.”

  “There’s more besides,” Dagen added. “I have agreed to take the post as my uncle’s agent. Bachan here will accompany me as my secretary and treasurer, for there is no one I ca
n trust more with the keys to the strongbox than he.”

  “I am honored,” Bachan said. “And we will bring our little game with us. It will help to pass the time on the long sail to South America.”

  “Well!” Ernest exclaimed, overwhelmed. No practical application, eh? he thought. Take that, fellows of the foundation! My game is made real! “My congratulations to the both of you. You have worked hard, and now you can assume your full potential.”

  “Thanks to you, Herr Doctor,” Bachan said.

  “Come and join us for a meal, Herr Doctor,” Dagen said. “It would be our pleasure to regale you for a change.”

  Ernest shook his head. “Perhaps another day, my friends. I wish to walk for a time.”

  “Soon, then,” Bachan said. “We sail next week.”

  “Soon,” Ernest promised. They shook hands, and he strode off. The wet cobblestones gleamed like copper in the rays of sunlight that ripped through the remains of the clouds. Ernest let the light kindle in his heart.

  Perhaps, perhaps he wasn’t wrong in his researches, as the fellows suggested. Perhaps he was merely ahead of his time. He shook his head. One day he would be vindicated, if not in this generation, then the next. A descendant of his might find his papers in a dusty box in the attic, and make the announcement that his ancestor was a genius on par with Freud and Jung. Ernest felt a twinge of gloom that recognition might not come in his lifetime.

  He turned into the narrow alley that was a shortcut between the Grunstrasse and his own street. A black shape hurtled toward him. He threw up his hand to protect his face and raised his stick. It was his black dog made real!

  Grrrr! Its red lips rippled back to show gleaming white teeth.

  He raised his walking stick to fend it off. “Back, foul creature!” he shouted. “I wield the Torch of Truth against you!”

  A handful of street children came running up. Two of them threw themselves upon the dog.

  “Don’t hurt her, mein herr,” begged their leader, a round-faced boy with freckles and straight brown hair. “She is protecting her puppies. They are in a box here.” He reached down and scooped up a handful of wriggling black fur. “Perhaps you would like one, mein herr? They are very friendly.”

  Ernest found the blunt-faced muzzle in his face. Two innocent brown eyes regarded him, and a round, pink tongue lapped out to lick his nose. He tucked his leather folder under his arm and took the small creature in his gloved hands. It was a black dog, indeed, but so small as to be more than manageable.

  The puppy writhed for joy to be petted. Ernest smiled. So, too, could his troubles be reduced to such a small package. He had made a breakthrough in the study of psychology, whether it was recognized or not, and he had managed to aid two troubled subjects to improve their lives markedly. Perhaps like the end of the rain, this was a sign that he should not ignore. There were other facets of mind science to be explored, many of which could bring him the joy of discovery as this one had. He should move on to a new life and embrace the change as he urged his patients to do.

  “Very well,” he said. “Very well, then.” He fished in his pocket for a coin and handed it to the eager-faced boy. He nestled the puppy safe in the crook of his arm. “Come along then, my little terror. I shall buy you a collar and call you mine. We will find many games to play together.”

  MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

  Jim C. Hines

  My name’s Isaac Sky. I spend fifty-one weeks a year doing acquisitions for a Chicago-area library.

  The fifty-second week is when things get interesting.

  I crossed the lobby of the Lakeshore Plaza Hotel, heading straight for a table where an alien with a bumpy forehead, long black hair, and futuristic armor was stuffing registration packets. He wore a clip-on convention badge with a picture of a wizard and the words THERE ARE SOME WHO CALL IT . . . TIMCON.

  I traded a twenty for a one-day membership. He handed me a blue badge, which I clipped to my trench coat. His eyes went to the iron cage hanging from my right hip. “Nice spider.”

  I pulled my trench coat closed.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “Don’t let the hotel staff see. They get pretty uptight about pets.”

  “Thanks.” I squinted at his con badge. “Larry, which way is the dealer’s room?”

  He pointed toward the east wing. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “A rip in the space-time continuum.”

  Larry didn’t miss a beat. “Room parties are on the fifteenth floor. Check the pirate party in fifteen-twenty. They’ve got rum. We’ll also be doing homemade ice cream at the pool tonight if you’re interested.”

  The drink was tempting. I hadn’t been to a con in over a decade, and the presence of so many fans made my jaw clench.

  I no longer belonged here, and I knew it. I listened as one group passed by, urgently debating the strengths and weaknesses of Eragon. Not one of them had the slightest idea how powerful, how dangerous those books could be.

  No, that wasn’t true. Someone had an idea. The council hadn’t been able to identify our rogue libriomancer, but they had narrowed the location to this hotel.

  I patted my spider’s cage. “Come on, Smudge. The sooner we fix this, the sooner we can get out of here.”

  The dealer’s room was a maze of tables, displaying everything from brass sculptures to leather brassieres. I made a beeline for the book dealer, a pleasant-looking man with gray hair swept back in a loose ponytail.

  He was in the middle of a sale. Perfect. Stopping at the corner of his display, I unclipped the cage from my belt. I opened the small door, and Smudge hopped onto the stacked books.

  An older fellow wearing a gaming T-shirt yelped and leaped back. A girl with fox ears whispered, “Cool!” I did my best to ignore them all.

  Smudge was roughly the size of my palm. Red spots decorated his dark body. He scurried over the books, knowing exactly what I needed from him.

  I reached into one of the many pockets sewn into my trenchcoat and pulled out a silicone cooking mitt.

  “What’s he doing?” asked the girl.

  Smoke rose from beneath Smudge’s feet. He hopped onto a row of books by Garth Mason. When he reached one with The Crystal Queen embossed in silver foil on the cover, he turned around to look at me.

  The book burst into flames.

  I was already there, scooping Smudge into my mitt and easing him into his cage. The bookseller was shouting, the girl was applauding, and someone else was running for a fire extinguisher.

  I hooked Smudge’s cage shut, then patted out the flames with my mitt. “I’ll take this one,” I said, handing the smoking book to the dealer. I pointed to two other books with singed spider footprints. “Those, too.”

  I set a pair of fifties on the table, which mollified the dealer somewhat.

  Garth Mason. The name sounded familiar. I knew most of the names in the field, of course, but . . . I grabbed the program book Larry had given me and scanned the guest list, spotting Mason’s name halfway down the page. “Oh, hell. Not another author.”

  Few people have the inner strength to pierce the boundary between our world and the written word. We call ourselves libriomancers. The council keeps an eye out for those with potential. The first time one of us uses our power, it tends to be messy. I had vaporized a good chunk of my high school library.

  Bad as a first-timer can be, authors are worse. Egotistical as hell, the whole lot of them. And when they realize how much power they hold in their pens . . . a part of me thought I’d be better off tracking Mason down and vaporizing him on the spot.

  I searched the tables for familiar books. If our libriomancer was also an author, I needed to stock up. “Also this one by Pullman, and the Heinlein back there. The Bujold, too. Keep the change.”

  Out in the hall, I set the books on the floor and grabbed a bag of chocolates from my left breast pocket. I picked a large one to drop into Smudge’s cage.

  Sparks flickered along Smudge�
�s legs as he stalked his prey. He circled the edge of the cage, then pounced. Chocolate dripped down his legs as he stuffed himself.

  While he ate, I bent back the cover of each book, securing them with rubber bands so the pages were exposed before slipping them into various pockets. By the time I finished, I felt like a medieval warrior in full armor.

  According to the program schedule, Garth Mason was currently doing a panel on “How to get Published” in the Ontario Room. I read the back of his book as I walked. I had skimmed it when it came out a few months back, but the books tended to blur together after a while. This was typical fantasy crap, with goblins and dragons and elves and magic. One of these days, J. R. R. Tolkien was going to climb out of his grave and devour the brains of every hack who published a third-rate Xerox of his work.

  I stopped outside of the panel to check on Smudge. His cage was warm to the touch, but not so hot as to burn the skin. Smudge heated up when he got scared, and he’d given me a number of burn scars over the years. He had also saved my life at least twice. I had learned to pay attention to his warnings. Right now he was nervous, but he didn’t seem to think there was any immediate danger.

  That changed the instant I opened the door. I could smell my blue jeans beginning to burn.

  I sat down in the back, then hastily shoved the cooking mitt between the cage and my leg.

  Only a handful of people had shown up to listen to the three authors at the front of the room. A slender, straw-haired man in the middle was saying something about waiting over two years to get a damn form rejection. A copy of The Crystal Queen was propped up in front of him.

  “Is it true you’re doing a fourth book in the trilogy?” someone asked.

  “Daughter of the Queen.” Garth Mason stared at me as he spoke, and he sounded distracted. “Should be out by summer.”

  I took a deep breath and adjusted my jacket. The inner pockets of my trenchcoat were devoted to books. The outer pockets held the essentials: Smudge’s chocolates, my cell phone, and a chrome-and-gold laser pistol with a tiny nuclear-fueled power cell. I rested my left hand on the pistol’s hilt.