Fata Morgana

by Steven R. Boyett

  “Captain Farley,” she said. She nodded at Broben. “Lieutenant.”

  “Broben,” said Broben.

  “Yes.”

  Broben smirked and Farley dug him in the ribs as Wennda pulled what looked like a wad of cellophane from a pocket. She snapped it like a washrag and it went stiff. She tapped it and it glowed to life. “I thought you’d want to talk with our doctor about your injured crewman,” she told Farley.

  “Very much, yes,” said Farley, a bit perplexed.

  Wennda touched the glowing panel a few more times. A red light flashed and a faint tone sounded. A moment later Wennda was holding a miniature and apparently solid bust of a fine-featured black woman in the palm of her hand.

  The woman smiled. “Wennda,” she said. “Good morning.”

  Wennda shifted her hand so that the miniature woman faced Farley. “Hi, Dr. Manday,” said Wennda. “This is Captain Farley. You’re treating one of his crew.”

  “I certainly am,” said the lifelike image. “Hello, captain.”

  Farley glanced uncertainly at Wennda. Her expression said What are you waiting for?

  He leaned closer to the woman on Wennda’s hand. “Hello, doctor!” he said, feeling as if he were falling for some prank.

  Wennda looked amused. “You don’t have to shout. And she can see you fine, too.” She made a little pushing motion and Farley stepped back, feeling his face go hot.

  “Could you give us a status report?” Wennda asked the doctor.

  “Of course.”

  Farley felt a sudden dread. “I’d like—” he started to tell Wennda. He stopped and looked at Dr. Manday. “Doctor, I’d like for my men to hear this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  Farley nodded at Broben, whose expression said You sure about this? Farley rolled a finger, and Broben gave a piercing taxi whistle. The crew quickly gathered around, making a terrific fuss about the lifelike image on the nearly invisible device in Wennda’s hand. The doctor blinked and smiled patiently.

  “All right, simmer down,” Farley ordered. “This is Dr. Manday. She’s about to give us the news on Francis, so keep it quiet. Go ahead, doctor.”

  Dr. Manday’s gaze shifted back to Farley. “All right,” she said.

  “Holy moly,” said Shorty.

  “Pipe down!” Broben growled.

  Dr. Manday was now looking at her own miniature version of the transparent device in Wennda’s hand. “Your man was brought in with a punctured left lung,” she said, “a fractured upper rib, severed ligaments in the left shoulder, shrapnel and lacerations along the left side of the head and upper left torso, shattered zygomatic arch and sclerotic puncture resulting in loss of vision in the left eye, critical exsanguination—”

  “Can you do anything for him?” Farley asked quickly. He didn’t think the crew needed to hear the gory details.

  “He’s in a regen tank right now,” said Manday. “Vitals are stable, tissue’s taking, hemo and O2 are up. I sampled his lung tissue and I’m printing up some more for him, should be ready in about an hour. I won’t know about the eye until later tonight. I pulled metal fragments from every wound site. Was he near some kind of explosion?”

  Farley’s mouth pressed tight. He hated this more than any other facet of the war. Human bodies weren’t made to be thrown into that chaos like bugs in a woodchipper. “Yes, ma’am, he was,” he said. “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can for him.”

  “I can’t do more and I wouldn’t do less,” she nearly chanted. “It will still be a few days before I can discharge him, though.”

  Farley blinked. “A few days?”

  “Well, there is that eye,” Manday said, a bit defensively.

  Wennda glanced at Farley. “Would you like to know anything else?” she asked.

  Farley shook his head numbly.

  “Thanks, doc,” Wennda said. Farley added his thanks, but the image had already gone dark.

  “He’s gonna make it?” Everett blurted. “St. Francis is gonna make it?”

  “You heard the lady,” said Farley, not quite believing it himself. “He’ll be out in a couple of days.”

  The crew cheered. If any of them had a problem with Francis’ bacon being saved by a doctor who was a woman who also wasn’t white, it wasn’t evident.

  Wennda did something to the thin clear panel and then crumpled it again.

  Shorty gaped outright. “A cellophane telephone!” he said.

  “Cellophone,” said Boney.

  “Where can I get one?” Shorty demanded.

  Wennda raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. She smiled at Farley. “I told you we’d take care of him.”

  “I’m a believer,” said Farley. “Thank you.”

  She looked faintly embarrassed. “The commander wants to see you,” she said. “And I’d like to discuss a few things while we go.” She glanced up at the sun and frowned.

  “Sure,” said Farley. “I wanted to talk to you, too.”

  “I think that’s our cue, fellas,” said Plavitz. “We better fade.”

  “Dismissed!” Everett agreed.

  The men went back to their stickball recruits.

  “These idiots couldn’t organize a two-car funeral,” Broben told Farley. “I better take charge before someone gets an eye poked out.” He nodded at Wennda and left to join the wildly gesturing fray.

  “What are they trying to do?” Wennda asked.

  “They want to teach your people how to play stickball so they can get a game together.”

  “Why are they only teaching men?”

  Farley opened his mouth. Shut it. Shrugged. “No reason I can think of,” he said. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey,” he called. “Let some girls play, too.”

  He missed the look Wennda shot him. “We should go,” she said. “It’s not good to make the commander wait.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Shorty glanced at his watch and then squinted up at the artificial sun. He grinned and called, “Hey, captain! Want to see a trick?”

  Farley saw the others grinning, too. Garrett nudged Everett and jutted his chin.

  “Sure,” said Farley.

  Shorty looked at his watch and raised a hand. His lips moved as he counted down, moving his hand in time, and then he snapped his fingers.

  The sun went out.

  fifteen

  Farley’s first thought when everything went dark was, Air raid! But no one was running or panicked, there were no shouts or alerts. Lights in many buildings were already on. Floodlights lit at the top corners of the courtyard.

  “I knew I should’ve paid that power bill,” Shorty said in Jack Benny’s voice.

  Some of the crew laughed. With the stickball game on hold, most of them were already lighting cigarettes.

  “Cute,” said Farley. “What now?”

  “Now we wait an hour for the next panel to come on,” said Wennda. She pointed at the dim sky. “Sixteen panels along the meridian are artificial sunlight. They get brighter from horizon to zenith. But the eleven o’clock panel doesn’t work anymore.”

  Farley craned his head. With the sun panel unlit the dome above them reflected enough light from the buildings below to reveal itself for what it was—a pale gray bowl covering a thousand people like a cake tray. Starless, moonless, cloudless, and unnerving.

  Farley shook his head. “So how long’s this been going on?”

  “Eleven o’clock has been out for the last eight years.”

  “Why not just jump from the ten o’clock panel to the noon one? Or keep ten o’clock lit for two hours?”

  She looked impressed. “Good for you,” she said.

  “I’m a barbarian, not an idiot. So why won’t it work?”

  “It will work. In fact, that was the solution for a few weeks. But it turns out that the longer a panel stays lit, the more likely it is to fail. And we’d much rather deal with the dark for an hour than lose another panel.” She shrugge
d. “We’re very good at improvising. But sometimes things just wear out, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “Maybe my guys can think of something.”

  “We would name a yearly holiday after them.”

  “Don’t be silly. A statue would be plenty.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

  Farley grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind. So what does your father want to see me about?”

  “The commander would like to discuss a plan for recovering your aircraft.”

  “He’ll help us?” Farley was elated but surprised. “What’s his angle?”

  “I think he wants to explore different options.”

  “Fine by me. Long as we don’t just keep exploring them till those aquarium jokers come knocking here in my ship.”

  “If I understand you correctly, I don’t think he wants that, either. Nobody does.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” said Farley. He grinned. “We’re burning daylight.”

  *

  He told Broben he was headed for a meeting with the CO and set out with Wennda, the midday night continuing around them as they walked beside each other on the amber-lighted path.

  “No more armed escort?” Farley asked.

  “What makes you think I’m not armed?”

  Farley studied her. “Now I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Farley laughed. “Touché.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It just means good point.”

  They walked toward the low administration building where Farley had been taken the night before. Farley saw dim shapes of people moving in the distance, but he and Wennda were essentially alone.

  “So the CO’s your pop,” he said.

  “If that means father, yes, he is.”

  Farley shook his head. “Boy, that must put a crimp in your social calendar.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I just mean you probably don’t get asked out a lot.”

  “Asked out. You mean asked to leave?”

  “Just the opposite, really. When you take someone out, you go somewhere together. So you can get to know each other better.” Farley shrugged. “Heck, I’d ask you out even with old Iron Eyes to answer to, if there was any out to go to around here.”

  She looked puzzled. “Are you talking about genetic compatibility assay?”

  Farley laughed but felt his face get hot. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All I meant was that it must be hard for guys to, uh, take an interest, because your father’s kind of a hard—kind of stern,” he amended.

  “Stern.” She laughed bitterly. “You could say that. Stern.”

  “What kind of heat did you end up drawing for your little unofficial outing?”

  “What punishment did I receive for my unauthorized reconnaissance?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I was put in charge of you.”

  “No kidding. Of me, personally?” Farley rubbed his palms. “This could be fun.”

  “I’m responsible for your crew.”

  “Good god. I wouldn’t wish that on a lion tamer.”

  She looked at him. “Could two different languages have all the same words in them, really?”

  “Search me.”

  She laughed. “I’ll have to take that as a yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to tone it down.”

  “Please don’t. I’m enjoying translating it into regular speech.”

  Farley laughed. “Look, I’m not asking you to tell tales out of school, but I can’t quite get a reading on your—on the CO.”

  “Do you mean you can’t tell what he’s thinking?”

  “I mean that exactly.”

  “And you think I can.”

  “Well, I figure if anyone can get a fix on him, it’s you. We’re in a bit of a jam here, and I’ll take what edge I can get.”

  “And here I thought you were interested in me personally.”

  “How could I not be? You’re painted on my bomber.”

  “I’d be flattered if it weren’t so disturbing.”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Even more disturbing.”

  “I’d probably feel the same way in your position.”

  “It’s there for luck?” she asked. “A decoration?”

  Farley frowned. “Sort of. It gives an aircraft a personality. Not that they don’t already have them.”

  She looked alarmed. “The aircraft is an AI?”

  “Tell me what that stands for and I’ll tell you if it is.”

  “Artificial Intelligence.”

  Farley’s brows knitted.

  “Inferential heuristics.”

  He spread his hands. “Like you said: Same words, different language.”

  “Idiosyncratic multipermutational correlatability?”

  He cocked his head. “Are you having some kind of fit?”

  “Tell me if your aircraft is an AI and I’ll tell you if I’m about to have a fit.”

  “Well, aircraft starts with AI. Does that help?”

  “It’s a machine with a brain of its own. Like the Typhon.”

  “She’s got a personality,” said Farley, “but she doesn’t have a brain.”

  “Well, no wonder you painted my picture on it.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “You think I don’t have a personality, either?”

  “I think anything more complicated than a paper clip has a personality. And you seem more complicated than a paper clip.”

  “Talk like that just makes me want to dispense with genetic compatibility testing altogether and get right to it.”

  Farley scratched beneath his crush cap. “Look, I’ll level with you, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Whatever leveling with me means.”

  “It means I’ll be honest.”

  “Have you not been?”

  “No, I’ve been straight with you.”

  “Is that the same as being level?”

  “You’re making my head hurt.”

  “Well. What do you want to level me with?”

  “About the artwork,” he said. “I don’t believe in magic, or elves, or, or—”

  “Inter-multiverse gateways?”

  “—or whatever it is you just said,” Farley agreed. “But I can’t buy that it’s just a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence either,” she said. “But I’ll bet that both of us are willing to believe more things than we would have a few days ago.”

  “I don’t have to believe in them. They’re right in front of me.”

  “I believe that it’s foolish to ignore what the universe puts right in front of you.”

  “The universe put you right in front of me, so I guess it’d be foolish to ignore you.”

  She stopped walking and looked at him. Her smile was pure inscrutability. “And who are you to ignore the universe?” she said.

  Farley stared at her. She really was quite tall.

  The sun came on again.

  “Twelve o’clock,” Wennda said brightly. “We’re late.”

  *

  Two hours later Farley walked back alone—amazingly alone—so engrossed in his thoughts that he was barely aware of his surroundings. Commander Vanden had grilled him meticulously about logistics. How would you go about retrieving your warplane with just your crew? What if I gave you weapons? What if I sent a team with you? If the aircraft is operational, how will you return to your own world? If it isn’t operational, or if you can’t recover it, are you willing to destroy it? Have you considered what would happen to you and your crew after that? Even if you make it back to the Dome, to live here you would have to be productive members of our society. You would have to offset your calorie intake. Could you do that? What are your men’s skills?

  Farley had also been grilled by a man and a
woman who seemed to be some kind of scientists. The commander had said they were going to work on the problem of getting Farley back to his own world. They asked long technical questions he didn’t understand a word of. They wanted to know about the vortex Farley had flown into, what had it looked like, what happened inside it, how fast had he been going, how high had he been, what instruments were and weren’t affected, what other details could he remember? Farley told them everything that had happened, from the radio static hours before they encountered the thing, to the electrical shutdown after they came out the other side. They found all of this fascinating, but had nothing useful to tell him in return.

  Now Farley’s head was humming with possibility, with intrigue, with doubt. He wanted the CO’s help very badly, but he just didn’t know how much to trust him. There was no denying the help the Dome dwellers had provided, but there also was no denying it had been in their interest to provide it. Vanden might even want the bomber himself. Use it to blow up the Redoubt, get rid of the Typhon, gain access to the power source in the crater. Invade the castle, kill the dragon, steal the magic jewel from its hoard. He might send a team to help Farley retrieve the bomber, or he might send them to be sure that the bomber was destroyed if they couldn’t, and that Farley’s men would not be captured and interrogated about the bomber or the Dome. Given the narrow margins everybody here had to live within, it was even possible the old man wanted the bomber himself and wanted Farley and his crew out of the picture.

  Farley couldn’t really blame him. Strangers in a powerful war machine had crash-landed on one side of a scale that had been precariously balanced for two hundred years. If he were in the old man’s position, he’d cover all his bases, too. But Farley’s chances of getting the Morgana back were a hell of a lot better with more troops and advanced weapons. Even if he couldn’t get a team to go with him, Farley wanted the gear. What would it do for the Allies if he could bring that chameleon armor back?

  I need to make that hardnosed bastard trust us. Make him want to help us.

  Farley realized he was back at the barracks. There weren’t all that many buildings here—hell, Stanford had been a lot bigger—and Farley had a pilot’s sense of direction.

  The stickball game was still under way in the courtyard. Farley hung back and watched for a minute. Men and women from the barracks were on both teams, along with the Morgana crew. Yone was pitching, Broben was catching, a woman was playing third base. A small crowd watched from the courtyard perimeter and second-floor railing. That smartass, Lang, was taking a lead off the first-base cushion and grinning at Yone. Everyone looked like they were having a good time.