by Scott Meyer
“Wow,” Martin said. “I did not expect that.”
Phillip snapped himself out of his amazed stupor and said, “I didn’t expect the guard’s name to be Ampyx.”
Martin rounded on Phillip and said, “Yeah, and I certainly didn’t expect you to help him try to cozy up to Gwen.”
“Oh, calm down,” Phillip said. “Acting like you isn’t going to help him get anywhere with Gwen. It doesn’t seem to have helped you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Phillip hoisted his suitcase onto the bed and started unpacking. “No, it’s meant to be the truth. You need to get your mind off of Gwen. We have bigger problems.”
Martin looked around them. “What problems? That this place is beautiful?”
“I know,” Phillip said, “and I don’t like it. Not one bit. I don’t like this city, and I don’t like that Brit the Elder. There’s something wrong there.”
“She certainly seemed to like you,” Martin said.
“Like I said, wrong.”
“Well, like Gwen said, she’s the future version of herself, maybe . . .”
Phillip interrupted him. “No, Martin, she’s not the future version of herself, she’s one current version of herself, from the future, and I know what you were going to say. ‘The two of you must have known each other in her past.’ That is what you were going to say, right?”
“Yeah. So what? So the two of you met and hit it off in her past. That’s nice.”
“No,” Phillip said, “it’s not nice. It won’t be nice, and if it is nice, that’ll make it worse.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Martin said.
“No, reality isn’t making sense. I’m just describing it. By suggesting that we meet and get along, she essentially ordered me to meet her and get along. Now, when I do meet her, I’ll be subconsciously primed to like her even if I don’t, just because it’s supposedly already happened.”
Martin said, “Oh, okay. I get it. You’re back on your ‘free will’ trip.”
“I’m not back on it,” Phillip said, “I’m still on it. I never wasn’t on it. Make no mistake. For as long as you know me, for the rest of my life, I will insist that I have free will.”
“But, if you’re going to insist that you have free will no matter what,” Martin said, “then that’s not free will. Like I keep telling you, that’s not a choice, that’s a program. You might as well be an inanimate wooden sign that says ‘I have free will’ for all that proves.”
Phillip looked at Martin for a moment, then, in an unnaturally calm voice, said, “It’s true. You do always say that. And what do I always say in return?”
“That I should shut up.”
“Indeed.”
“And none of that does anything to prove that either of us has free will. In fact . . .”
“Martin?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
11.
Martin and Phillip arrived at the reception about a half hour before the official start time, and the place was already bustling. It was a large ballroom in one of the ridiculously impressive buildings at the center and bottom of the city. The ballroom was under a large dome that protruded from the roof of one of the buildings. Because all of the buildings in Atlantis were constructed from molecularly engineered crystalline materials, the walls were a milky, opaque white that faded to perfect transparency at their peaks. If one looked up, they were treated to a dizzying view of the city looming over them, and the dark blue Mediterranean twilight looming over the city. As the sky got darker, lights came on. Martin didn’t know if the lights were fires, magical contrivances, or oil lamps, but they illuminated the buildings from the inside, like thousands of huge paper lanterns stacked all around him.
The outer perimeter of the room was populated at regular intervals by large white statues of various important women, depicted in the style of Greek goddesses, which worked well for Wonder Woman, but not so well for Margaret Thatcher.
Phillip and Martin spent several minutes soaking in the spectacle and scanning the room for a familiar face. There were many wizards, shamans, sorcerers, and other assorted magic folk, all of them men. There were many guards, servers, and hosts, also all male. They had given up seeing someone they already knew and were about to start actively mingling when they heard Gwen’s voice. They turned, and saw her poking her head through a small door that was camouflaged by a particularly ornate molding. She motioned for them to come with her.
Philip and Martin went through the door and found themselves in a bustling room full of chefs, expediters, and important-looking behind-the-scenes management types, all female.
“Wow, you boys clean up nice,” Gwen said.
The men thanked her. They had taken her advice and worn their tuxedos, only replacing the jackets with their wizard robes. Martin and Phillip returned the compliment, both feeling silly, because the fact that Gwen looked great that evening was self-evident. She wore a simple black, knee-length cocktail dress, which she had clearly designed herself. The dress had full-length sleeves that flared at the wrists to the standard, shell-specified width for a European wizard’s robe. Where another dress might have been backless, or had a zipper, Gwen’s featured a tapered hood, which pooled slightly around her shoulders and spilled down her back. She held a thin, graceful wooden wand in her hand.
Gwen looked at her own outfit and thanked the men. “I made it myself,” she added. “I wanted to wear something that reflected where I had come from. Speaking of which, I have something for you.” She reached into the hood of her dress, and pulled out two bowties, one sky blue, to match Phillip’s robe, the other silver sequined, to match Martin’s.
“I didn’t have time to make cummerbunds, so you’ll have to keep your robes pulled shut, but for a formal occasion like this, you probably should anyway.”
The men quickly pulled off their black ties, replacing them with the new ties Gwen had made. When they were done, Gwen straightened Phillip’s tie for him.
“Is mine straight?” Martin asked Gwen.
Gwen looked, and said, “Yeah, close enough. Well, guys, the Brits are going to get things started any minute. I’ve gotta run. See you out there.”
Gwen scampered away, through the kitchen staff, around a corner and out of sight. Martin watched her go. Phillip watched Martin, smirking.
“Remember when you and Gwen first met?” Phillip asked.
“Yes, I remember. It was less than three months ago,” Martin said.
“Remember how you would shamelessly try to get her attention?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why don’t you remember how well she responded to it?”
Phillip went back through the door, into the ballroom. Martin stood for a moment before following.
They spent a few minutes sampling hors d’oeuvres and making small talk with a wizard from China who had introduced himself to Phillip. His name was John, and he’d been educated at Cambridge. He knew of Phillip because he was still in contact with Eddie, who had originally time-traveled to ancient China before later moving to Medieval England and getting tangled in Jimmy’s massive web of lies. The conversation seemed pleasant enough, but Martin couldn’t concentrate on it, at first because of his preoccupation with Gwen, then because of the two men staring at him.
The men were standing by the wall at the far side of the room. They sneered and glared at Martin and Phillip as they spoke. They wore stiff black tuxedoes and white shirts with high, starched collars. They held top hats in their white-gloved hands. Martin smiled and waved. The men smiled back, and their white gloves added a hint of elegance when one of the men gave Martin the finger.
Martin considered walking over, asking them what their problem was, and offering to help them fix it, but then the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the room. A large, ornate doo
r at the far end of the ballroom opened, and a long line of women emerged. There were around forty of them. They were all different from one another, yet they were all lovely. The represented every race and ethnicity, and their ages ranged from the late teens to a couple of women in their forties. Some were tiny, some were large, but all seemed healthy. Few were particularly thin, or noticeably not-thin.
Gwen would later explain that in their version of the shell program, which they called “the interface,” they had found a way to set a sorceress’s nutritional intake at an optimized constant, and as such, their weight tended to settle at a natural balance point.
The room was filled with men, and men cannot help themselves. As the Atlantean sorceresses filed into the room, the visitors from other times and places naturally noted how many of them they found attractive before losing count and succumbing to acute option paralysis.
Gwen was toward the back of the line, followed by a tall, slightly built young woman with black hair and a prominent nose. Behind her were two versions of Brit. The Brit at the end of the line stood straight and tall. She smiled brightly, and wore a spectacular evening gown and heels. She seemed completely at ease with herself and her surroundings. The Brit who was second to last slouched slightly, smiled weakly, and wore a blue cocktail dress and a matching pair of canvas high-tops.
The sorceresses lined up, dwarfed by several of the statues that adorned the hall. Together, they formed a dazzling backdrop for Brit the Elder, who walked forward from her place at the end of the line and addressed the room.
“Welcome, gentlemen, to Atlantis. We sorceresses summoned you here for this summit.”
Martin and Gwen shared a smile at this.
“By now,” Brit the Elder continued, “I’m sure most of you know why you’ve been invited. Each of your communities has suffered at the hands of one of our own kind who has abused his or her power. Some of you have been lucky, and your trouble has been slight. Others have had your entire community threatened.”
Martin remembered Jimmy, his attempt to remodel all of England into a smaller, dumber version of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, and kill all opposing wizards in the process. He wondered if any of these other people had a story that could top it.
Brit the Elder continued, “Starting tomorrow, in this very room, we will work together to prevent any such problems in the future. Tonight, our only task is to meet, talk, and get to know one another. We have, in this room, two representatives from each of our communities, which are spread out across the globe and throughout all of recorded human history. If you can’t find an interesting conversation in this room, it’s because you are boring.”
A polite laugh followed, and faded to silence almost instantly when Brit the Elder waved it away. “Before I let you all start getting to know one another, I’d like to make a few introductions. Most of you know at least one of the women behind me, as all of them came here from one of your communities, and of course, it would be terribly time consuming to introduce them all by name now. Besides, who can remember that many names? Instead, I will take this opportunity to introduce my two fellow members of Atlantis’ ruling council of three.”
“I, of course, am Brit. I founded and built Atlantis.” There was another round of applause, which she dismissed after a moment with another wave of her hand. Brit the Elder motioned vaguely to her right, causing a spotlight that seemed to emanate from empty space to wink into existence and focus on the tall, dark-haired woman who stood to Gwen’s right. Brit the Elder said, “This is Ida. She is the duly elected president of Atlantis. She has served a little over three years of her four-year term.” There was another round of polite applause as the president, Ida, stepped forward and bowed slightly to greet the crowd.
When the applause died down, Brit the Elder said, “And of course, this,” pausing to make another, slightly more expansive hand gesture to her right, which caused the spotlight to shift to the second version of Brit, who started to smile and wave as Brit the Elder continued, “is a past version of me.” Brit the Elder clasped her hands in front of her gown, causing the spotlight to cut off abruptly.
“So, that’s it for the preliminaries,” Brit the Elder said. “Please, have a good time tonight, and know that while we are here to do serious work, it’ll be a lot more fun if we’re all friends. Do make an effort to get to know each other, and be sure to fill out and wear your nametags.” There was an awkward pause, followed by one of the women in the line stepping forward and whispering something to Brit the Elder, who turned and addressed Brit the Younger.
“Dear, didn’t you see to the nametags?”
The other Brit replied, “You said you were going to do it.”
“Yes, but I meant that you would. You are me, remember?”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”
“I knew it, so why wouldn’t you?”
Brit the Younger gritted her teeth. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t read your mind.”
Brit the Elder’s smile grew strained. “It’s your mind too, but that’s okay,” Brit the Elder said. “No need to beat yourself up.”
Brit the Younger muttered, “Oh, I dunno.”
Luckily, one of the first tricks every community of magic practitioners figured out was the ability to replicate small objects, so they very quickly had all of the adhesive nametags and felt-tip markers they could possibly need. Everybody wrote his or her name, time of origin, and time and place of residence. The next few hours were spent making small talk and eating small food.
Even with the nametags, Martin was overwhelmed by the sheer number of new names and faces to which he was subjected. Usually, in a situation like this, a few memorable people would emerge from the noise and get firmly cemented in his mind, but the problem was that everyone he met here was memorable. He met Chinese wizards, Hindu fakirs, Arabic sorcerers, and a Navajo medicine man. He met Aztecs, Incas, swamis, and gurus. One guy was wearing a loincloth and a hat made of a wolf’s skull, which he insisted was his dress ensemble. Later, Martin worked up the nerve to ask him a few questions. It turned out his name was Richard, and he was from Portland, Oregon, in the year 2003.
“Yeah, that’s where you’re from originally,” Martin said. “But where do you live?”
Richard said, “Portland, in the year two thousand and three. I own a food truck.”
And then there were the women. To Martin’s chagrin, he still really only had eyes for Gwen, but those eyes were still able to see, and before them trotted a parade of smart, interesting women who knew about the file, knew how to use it, and understood Martin’s situation better than anyone who didn’t know those things possibly could. He tried to remember names, but it was impossible. Lisa, Rebecca, Mallory, Jennifer, Oui, Sabrina, Stacy, Allie, it all washed over him like he was a stone at the bottom of a river.
At one point, Martin found himself standing next to the woman who had been introduced as the president. She was deep in conversation with a particularly tall and muscular man in a net shirt and kilt who Martin suspected was her servant.
Martin had never met a president before. “Madam President,” he said, in his smoothest voice, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He offered her his hand.
She tore her attention away from the muscular man, who was telling a story that was about, as near as Martin could tell, repeatedly punching someone in a novel manner. The president shook Martin’s hand, and while reading his nametag said, “Welcome . . . Martin. Thanks for coming. Atlantis must be a big change from . . . Medieval England—oh!” The president brightened up immediately. “You’re from Gwen’s group. You’re the ones who nearly got beaten to death by orcs.”
“That’s us,” Martin said.
“What are orcs?” the tall man asked, now interested.
“They’re these big creatures with bluish skin and horrible teeth,” Martin explained.
“And you fought these creatures
off?” the servant asked.
“Yes,” Martin said. “Well, in a way. We created an army of demons to scare them off so we could make our escape.”
“Ah,” the servant said. “So, you had someone else fight for you while you fled. Impressive.”
The president made an effort to hide her amusement. Her servant did not. After a moment of mirth at Martin’s expense, the servant continued his story.
“So, it’s a brawl, people fighting everywhere, but I want a challenge, so I decide I’m just going to hit guys on the top of the head, like this.” The servant made an exaggerated swinging motion, wheeling his arms over his head and bringing his fists straight down in front of him. “I just wanted to see if I could knock guys out like that. Turns out I can.”
The president seemed impressed. Martin moved on.
Elsewhere in the same room, Phillip was talking to a man whose nametag said “Goopta” about how their respective communities’ versions of the shell program worked.
“The shell looks for certain details of our wizard robes and staffs to determine who should and shouldn’t be allowed to cast spells,” Phillip said with some difficulty, while eating a piece of fried shrimp.
“Clever,” Goopta said. “We call ours the gateway. It identifies us based entirely on our fingernail length.” Goopta held up his hands, showing Phillip his dark, curved nails, the shortest of which was at least five inches.
“Wow,” Phillip said. “Impressive.”
Phillip felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find himself facing both Brits. He smiled, but inside, he cringed. He considered Brit the Elder to be a walking refutation of everything he believed about free will, and as such, he found even looking at her unpleasant. This was made worse by the fact that on another level, he found looking at her quite enjoyable, which made him angry with himself.
