Fantastic Schools: Volume 2

by Nuttall, Christopher G.

  “Get on it,” a strange voice said.

  Then she heard red sergeant. “Constance! Ground floor, now.”

  She began climbing down the stairs, cautiously. She heard over the radio that the bad guys had set the curtains on fire.

  She reached the ground floor and found red sergeant, standing outside a cupboard. “What was that shooting?”

  “Blowing the locks off the doors to see if anyone’s hiding inside.” He was impatient. “I’ve found the ambassador’s wife. She was hiding here—.” he indicated the cupboard. But now she refuses to leave. I think she’s been hiding there since this started.”

  Constance stared down. The disheveled woman was sitting with her hands 'round her knees. She stared up at them.

  “Hiding was probably the smartest thing to do,” Constance said.

  “Yeah, but now the building’s on fire, and she refuses to budge.”

  Constance wondered why he didn’t just drag her out. He could apologise later. The woman was crying. So, Constance took her respirator off and shook out her hair. “D’you want my respirator?”

  The woman stared, wild-eyed. “But you’re one of them. I can’t trust anyone.” She had an east-coast accent.

  Constance was annoyed. “I’m just a messenger.” She switched to her most refined British accent. “I haven’t got any weapons. You’re safe.”

  “You’re a fraud. You’re just a child.”

  “Stop insulting me. I’m a qualified signaler.”

  “The army wouldn’t use children, not in an elite unit.”

  The sergeant intervened. “We use specialist support staff.”

  Constance attempted a Glamour. “You’re the one acting like a child. Let’s get out of here.” The woman blinked and got to her feet.

  Constance turned to the woman. “Which way is the garden?”

  The woman led the way.

  Red sergeant spoke into his microphone. “The last hostage is out of the building.”

  “Clear the building,” another voice said.

  They met another sergeant, who explained that they had rescued the ambassador. Five of the aggressors had been apprehended and lay face down on the lawn. One had second-degree burns.

  “We think he spilled petrol on himself,” the sergeant said. Over the radio, Constance heard somebody say that the house was clear. “All the perps have been disarmed.”

  The man with the burns babbled about magic. Constance felt a moment’s fear, but everyone ignored him.

  A team of paramedics arrived at the double. “Are you all right? Any injuries? Are you in shock?”

  “I’m just tired.”

  The soldiers, their job done, made their way round the residence and back to the ‘Police command centre’. Dawn was breaking. They stood back as a fire engine roared past.

  The soldiers handed their weapons over to a team of police officers. Red sergeant explained that Constance and the other guys in camouflage were signalers and did not have any firearms. She did not contradict him.

  The men were jubilant, but Constance just felt tired. They found that the vehicles at the ‘command centre’ had been joined by a catering truck. Niall was waiting. “They want to send me to the hospital. But I wanted to see you were safe.” Constance nodded.

  Red sergeant pushed a large mug of builder’s tea into her hands. “You deserve it.”

  As they gossiped, a large American sedan drew up, and an officer stepped out. Two other men climbed out and followed him. The leader flashed an ID card at the policeman and strolled across to the catering truck. Constance noted that he was not wearing any rank or unit badges.

  “Are you soldiers?” His tone was belligerent. “I am from the US mid-Atlantic Command. I have been sent by our government to take control of the hostage situation.”

  “Take over?” Red sergeant said.

  “We must attack at once. I want to see your commanding officer so I can give him his orders.”

  Niall grinned. “You’re too late, colonel. It’s all over.”

  “I demand to speak with your commanding officer.”

  Constance was annoyed. She could not help herself. She spoke in her most refined accent. “Good heavens! It’s Delta Force. Better late than never, I suppose.”

  The colonel glared.

  Constance put her mug on the counter. “I think I’d better take you to the ambassador.”

  “But he’s being held hostage.”

  Red sergeant intervened. “Weren’t you listening to the lady? We rescued him.”

  Constance was at her most haughty. “You’d better come this way.” She ignored the ‘no entry’ sign.

  A fire engine stood on the carriage drive. An ambulance was parked outside the residence doorway. She recognised the ambassador and his wife, sitting on the back step of the ambulance, holding cups in their hands. The SAS captain turned to stare. Good.

  Constance introduced the colonel. She thought that the ambassador looked frail and disheveled.

  The colonel looked down. “Are you the US ambassador?”

  Constance could understand the officer’s doubt. but she was appalled at his ignorance.

  The ambassador’s wife interrupted. “Dear girl, you can leave this to me.” She turned to the colonel. “George, you always were impulsive. Don’t do something that might cause a diplomatic incident.”

  The Colonel was annoyed. “I’ve been authorised by the president to apprehend these terrorists—.”

  “I doubt that,” the ambassador said. “People forget that the president is head of the State Department. I report directly to her. So, I can pick up the phone and ask if you’re bullshitting me.”

  Constance felt once again that she shouldn’t be listening in.

  The captain turned to her. “You are dismissed, trooper.”

  “Yes, sir.” She was glad to go.

  Epilogue: The Palace

  Constance and Niall scrambled into the limousine. The ambassador and the captain were waiting. The captain was dressed in his formal ‘number two’ uniform. Constance was wearing a formal day dress with a high collar.

  The ambassador had asked the school how he could thank them and Beguid had suggested this.

  “Why did you volunteer?” the captain asked.

  Niall grinned. “Mr. Beguid twisted my arm. He said somebody had to represent the school. And my father said that if I wanted a career in the Diplomatic Service, this would help.”

  “I volunteered for the basest of motives,” Constance said. “I want to gloat. My grandmother said I was a graceless tomboy, and I would never account to anything. Now I have a chance to show off, in terms she understands.” As long as she didn’t screw up.

  She was getting more and more nervous. She told herself that she had volunteered for this.

  “I hope you understand, this isn’t a real garden party,” the ambassador said. “There are only three official ones every year.”

  Constance shrugged. “I’ve been invited here. I’m not a tourist who’s paid to get in. That’s all that matters.”

  “I had to carry out your security checks,” the captain said.

  “Oh dear,” Constance said.

  “I’m sure our little Constance isn’t a terrorist,” the ambassador said.

  “No, but she is known to the police,” the captain said.

  Constance turned to Niall. “The person standing next to me was attacked, and I defended them.” Using magic, she meant.

  They drove along Birdcage Walk and past the barracks. “We won’t go onto the forecourt. That’s too public. Instead, there’s a side entrance with a carriage drive.”

  They showed their documents to security. He waved them on, so they drove onto the carriage drive and joined the queue.

  Their car reached the doorway at last and they climbed out. Constance had found her dress at Camden Market. Niall was still using a stick and, on this occasion, wearing a hired morning suit. She adjusted her absurd hat, so the brim came down over her righ
t eye.

  A footman escorted them through the building. The centre of the west suite was the Bow Room. They walked across and passed through the French windows. The garden, at the rear of the palace, was large and park-like.

  The ambassador led them across the grass towards the personage. They joined a short queue. Constance noticed an official photographer standing by to make a record of each introduction. She summoned up her courage. If she slipped up, all the girls in the school would laugh at her.

  It was her turn. The ambassador performed the introduction. She stepped forward and bobbed a shallow curtsey.

  “I hear that you could call yourself princess,” the personage said.

  “I don’t really qualify, ma’am,” Constance said. “Well—in theory, I could. But I would rather be remembered for something I’ve achieved myself.”

  “You seem to have achieved something already,” the royal personage said.

  They moved aside so the next in line could step forward.

  “You achieved something as a Cadet Talker,” the captain asked.

  “Yes. That’s something I can build on.”

  James Odell has been writing for many years. He has written seven Steampunk novels, which have been published on Amazon. For his employer, he writes technical guidance.

  * * *

  In the past, he has gone sailing in the Mediterranean and gained a Yachtmaster certificate. He learned to fly sailplanes and qualified to fly solo. More recently, he has gone cross-country skiing in the Adirondacks and has gone hiking in the Alps and in Britain. All of these experiences have gone into his novels.

  Lab Day

  Misha Burnett

  Commercial magi need qualified assistants and Leeshore Technical College provides training in both the theory and practice of magical conjuration. Students will receive hands-on training by licensed magi in all aspects of industrial magic, qualifying them for a number of laboratory support positions. After the successful completion of the three-year certification program, students will be fully qualified to sit for the Dacoheim magical workers board exams.

  For more information call LS55-2020 and ask to be connected to the department of admissions. Your future could start today!

  Lab Day

  Magus Leonid Vetch only taught one class on Sixdays.

  Conjuration 204: Theory And Practice Of Major Workings was a practical lab, 1300 to 1600. Leonid had a demonstration planned and so unlocked the lecture hall at noon to set up the equipment. He flipped on the overhead lights and cranked open the windows a crack to get some of the fresh sea breeze coming from the harbor that could be glimpsed between the buildings across the street.

  The conductive plate was a permanent installation in the concrete floor, an eight-foot circular sheet of copper mounted over a thick rubber mat. Leonid checked to see it was clean and the attachment points around the outside edge weren’t corroded. Then he unlocked the storage closet and wheeled out the heavy calculating engine and made sure it had a fresh tape. Next came the accumulators, six of them, sturdy wooden bases supporting four-foot poles, wrapped with alternating layers of copper and cloth insulation, the glass accumulators on top looking like oversized light bulbs. He arranged them in a circle around the outside of the plate.

  “Need a hand, Magus?”

  Leonid looked up. His first students were already coming in. Shotwell and Kent, their bookbags slung over their shoulders, dark blue school uniforms clean and starched.

  Leonid glanced at the clock. 12:27. “Did you boys skip lunch?” he asked.

  “Slept in and then had a late breakfast at the Dolphin,” Shotwell said.

  As third-year students, they had the privilege of taking meals off campus. Leonid nodded. “Well, if you feel ambitious you could get some number four cables and link the accumulators.”

  The young men stowed their bags under a lab table and came down to the equipment locker where the heavy cables were stored. While they were doing that Leonid connected the calculating engine, first to the conductive plate and then to the connection to the school’s power supplied by generators in the basement. He verified that the connection was locked out, unable to be energized until he used his key to turn on the power.

  He double-checked the connections that the boys had made from the accumulators to the attachment points at the edges of the conductive sheet. They were tight, the brass connectors locked into place, so he waved them back to their seats.

  Satisfied that the preparations were all in order he sat at the small desk in the front of the room and lit a cigarette. He reviewed his notes, although he could probably have given this lecture from memory. He’d taught this class for eleven years.

  The rest of the class arrived in ones and twos. At five minutes before the hour, Leonid looked up from his notes and quickly counted heads. Twenty-four. All present.

  He ground out his cigarette and stood. “Good afternoon, boys,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, Magus Vetch,” they chorused back.

  Leonid walked to windows and looked out. “It’s a beautiful Sixday, and I’m sure most of you young men have dates tonight, so I’ll try to let you out a little early. I mentioned on Fourday that we were doing a demonstration today—does anyone remember what I said I was going to show you?”

  “Apportation, sir,” someone spoke up.

  Leonid nodded. He didn’t bother with raising hands and calling of names; his students were free to speak up, so long as they were polite about it. He ran an informal class. This was not, after all, the Dracoheim Academy for Thaumaturgical Studies, it was Leeshore Technical College.

  “Apportation, exactly right.”

  He gestured at the apparatus set up at the front of the room, then walked to the chalkboard and began writing a complex equation. “Apportation is the act of translating physical objects from one realm to another. It is achieved by establishing an etheric equipotential between the two realms. Remember, it is the frequency of the etheric vibrations that determines the metaphysical constants of a realm’s architecture. A containment grid allows us to synchronize a small portion of our universe with another realm. If within this grid we impose a frequency of, say, 9.9 megacycles, which is the native frequency of Ventose, the affected area becomes, in effect, a part of Ventose.”

  He looked over the equation he had written, nodded to himself. “And so, you just walk across from here to there. Leeshore to the Malignium in three steps.”

  He turned back to the class. They all had their notebooks out and were dutifully copying down his work on the board. He leaned back against the chalkboard and lit another cigarette.

  “Now,” he said, “who can tell me the purpose of all those ships out there in the harbor?”

  The class was silent, confused at his change of subject.

  Leonid smiled, and gestured at the window. “I’ve just told you that objects can be apported directly into Nightmare by magic. There’s the basic equation on the board. Right here, I’ve got everything you need to dash across to another universe, pick up whatever you want, and bring it back here.”

  He paused to take a drag on his cigarette, enjoying the moment. “So why all the cargo ships? Why do we sail out onto the dreamsea? Why do the oneiroi come here by ship? Why don’t we just apport all the trade between Nightmare and the Midworld?”

  “The Navigator’s Guild wouldn’t allow it.” The voice came from the back of the room.

  Leonid grinned and nodded, acknowledging the point. “True enough,” he said, “but not the answer I was looking for.”

  He turned back the board and added an equal sign at the end of the equation, then a dollar sign. “Money,” he explained. “Apportation is expensive.”

  He quickly circled one part of the equation. “This term right here is what keeps the Navigator’s Guild in business. Delta T—the time element.”

  He ground out his cigarette. “It takes energy to maintain the equipotential, determined by the size of the containment area and the innate distan
ce between the native architecture of the realms. Nivose is our closest neighbor, metaphysically speaking; the frequency is only a few megacycles different from the Midworld. Bascose is on the far end of the spectrum—which is why it’s called the Kingdom of Uncertainty. Things are very different there.

  “No matter where you have an apport field set to go, however, it’s has to be stabilized by a standing wave signal generated by the containment grid; or it will collapse, and the native etheric rhythm will reestablish itself. That, in itself, is not so bad, until you get to the kicker, which is that the instability increases with the cube of the duration.”

  He paused to let that sink in. “Open an apportation link for a minute, and you’re looking at a couple of hundred talents to keep it synced, depending on the destination. For two minutes, it’s eight times that. For ten minutes, it’s a thousand times that.

  “Now, I know some of you have worked as longshoremen. How long does it take to unload a ship? A couple of hours? Let’s say two hours. If we plug 120 minutes into this term we end up with a delta-T multiplier of one million, seven hundred twenty-eight thousand.” He punctuated his words by chalking the number on the board and circling it.

  He held up a hand. “Ah, you say, don’t keep the link active for two hours straight. Just open it for one minute, a hundred and twenty times in a row.”

  He turned back the board and picked up the chalk. “Nice try, but sadly, it doesn’t work like that. Who can tell me why?”

  “Samuel’s Law?” ventured a voice from the back.

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “Samuel’s Law, Magus,” the boy repeated more confidently. “Diminishing efficiency.”

  Leonid wrote SAMUEL’S LAW on the board. “Curse that Ivor Samuel,” he said with a grin. “That man ruins everything.”

  He turned back to the class and continued. “The math gets a little complicated at this point, but the bottom line is that apportation is a terrible way to move cargo. Trade with Nightmare didn’t become possible on any large scale until the Lady Chuzz’s envoy ships made contact with us and sold humans the secret of navigating the dreamsea, back in 228.”