HERE’S HOW AN UNEMPLOYED COLLEGE GRADUATE BECAME...
A LOGICAL MAGICIAN
HELP WANTED: Logical young man with an open mind and active imagination wanted for highly unusual but financially rewarding career opportunity. Some risk involved. Background in mathematics and fantastic literature advised.
Jack Collins never thought he’d find a job after college. Especially a job that combined his math skills and his love of fantasy.
But then again, Jack Collins never thought that he’d be working for Merlin the Magician---or that he’d be tracking down a savage, ancient demon in the streets of modern Chicago...
Well, the ad did say “some risk involved.”
“Entertaining... lighthearted... a lot of fun.”
---Charles de Lint, Mystery Scene
Now the Logical Magician returns---in an all-out war between ancient mythology and modern mathematics...
A CALCULATED MAGIC
A
CALCULATED
MAGIC
ROBERT
WEINBERG
If you purchased this hook without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen properly. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
To my mother, Dorothy Weinberg, the equal of any mom in this novel...
This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace edition / February 1995
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1995 by Robert Weinberg,
Cover art by Peter Scanlan.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.
ISBN: 0-441-00144-0
ACE®
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks
belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
scientia est potentia
(knowledge is power)
mundus vult decipi
(the world wants to be deceived)
8
Prologue
That no one ever guessed that Boris Bronsky was nothing more than an unimportant member of the Russian State Department was directly attributable to sixty-three red Xs. The marks were engraved next to the names of those who incurred the wrath of the Soviet premier or the secretary of the Communist Party, The imposing list of his victims served as a grim warning to leave Boris Bronsky strictly alone. In a country where spies spied on spies spying on spies, Boris retained astonishing autonomy. He worked independently, without supervision, without interference, without controls.
Thus, on June 6, when Boris entered a dark alley of a disreputable section of Paris, no member of any secret organization followed. Not that Bronsky ever worried about such matters. He was, in fact, incredibly naive about the inner workings of the KGB and the Secret Service. It never once occurred to him that his own organization would monitor his movements. He probably would have been even more astonished to learn of the nine agents who had disappeared without a trace trying to keep pace with him over the years. But Boris was a man with absolutely no imagination. That, and his total lack of ambition, was why he had been chosen for this position in the first place a quarter of a century before.
His predecessor, Nikoli Valda, equally notorious in his time, had chosen Boris as his protégé after reviewing the records of hundreds of civilian employees working for the KGB. Valda never confided to his young assistant how he had made his choice. Many years later, Boris concluded it was because he was a man of simple tastes, not easily bored. Which was actually closer to the truth than he realized. For though he was respected by a few, feared by many, Boris Bronsky lacked ambition. And that, considering the power he wielded, was all-important.
Among his family and friends, Boris was affectionately nicknamed “the Bear,” Standing six feet four inches tall and weighing slightly more than 340 pounds, Boris’s resemblance to the animal was quite apparent. A layer of thick, curly brown hair that covered much of his body helped to further the illusion. As did his small, piercing black eyes. Bronsky looked the part of his namesake.
However, according to those who loved him, the title came from Boris’s gruff but friendly nature. To his fellow Russians, bears were creatures of the circus---huge, powerful animals without the least bit of meanness in their souls. Bears played with huge balls and buffeted clowns and suffered the most outrageous practical jokes with a seemingly unlimited amount of patience. It was Bronsky’s gentleness that earned him the nickname “the Bear.”
It was a measure of Boris’s skill at keeping his personal and professional lives distinct entities that none of his family knew his other nickname, the one whispered behind his back by his lackeys in the Kremlin. It was a title bestowed in fear, never written down, and known only to a very few. To those in power, Boris Bronsky was “the Permanent Solution.”
Elimination of the enemies of the state was Boris’s specialty. He was the final resort, the last protocol. Only after the secret police and the KGB had tried and failed was Boris summoned. His was a talent used sparingly and with great deliberation. For once unleashed, Boris Bronsky was relentless, unyielding, unstoppable. No one escaped “the Permanent Solution.”
He was, in a sense, one of the last Soviet institutions. In a time of one incredible change after another throughout Russia, he remained a solitary, steadfast, unmoving rock. Sixty-three missions of extermination had been assigned to Boris Bronsky. Of them, sixty-three had ended in the termination of the victim or victims. No one could explain his success. Or dared question his methods. They knew only that Boris never failed. Never.
Tonight, he was engaged in mission number sixty-four. At the end of the deserted alley was a single door leading to a basement apartment. As usual, the door was not locked. Opening it, Boris stepped inside. A single light bulb burned above the entrance. It shed just enough radiance to illuminate one end of an old wood table extending into the inky blackness. Set in front of the table was a rickety old chair. As best Boris could tell, it was the same table and chair that had been there on the first of his visits twenty-five years ago.
Boris sat down. His hosts never arrived until a few minutes after he was settled. That, too, was part of the ritual. They came after him and left before him. Never once had he caught a glimpse of them. They moved in absolute silence and remained always in the shadows. Yet he knew immediately when they entered the room. Their smell betrayed them.
Boris’s nose wrinkled in disgust. The most liberal doses of perfume could not hide the stink that announced the arrival of his three hosts. It was a pungent, unforgettable smell that somehow reminded Boris of reptiles.
Ignoring the odor, Boris leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I want a man killed. He betrayed his country, Mother Russia. His death is necessary for the good of the state.”
“You know our price,” said the woman who usually did most of the talking. Her deep, gravelly voice was barely more than a whisper, but it filled the entire chamber. Like her companions, she never offered her real name. Instead, she used a title. “The Retaliator.” It fit.
“The money has already been transferred to your Swiss bank account,” said Boris, fidgeting in his seat. No matter how many times he dealt with these women, he could not shake the feelings of dread that accompanied the visit. Their very presence frightened him. There was something inhuman about them.
“Detail his crimes,” said another woman. Her voice was higher and shriller than her companions’. She took the name “the Rager.” Righteous anger boiled through her every word.
“The traitor’s name is Sergei Karsnov,” began Boris. “He is forty-seven years old, stands one hundred and seventy centimeters, and weighs a little under ninety kilos. He has black eyes and black hair and speaks five foreign languages, including English, perfectly.”
“His crimes,” interrupted the Rager impatiently. “What were his crimes?”
“Sorry,” said Boris, mentally shaking himself. He should have remembered. The three killers didn’t care about their victim’s appearance. They could learn that from the files he provided them at the end of the meeting. However, for some unexplained reason, they preferred hearing aloud their quarry’s transgressions.
“In 1989, working for the Department of Chemical Warfare, Karsnov developed a new strain of the disease anthrax that could be administered by airborne spores. When tested on laboratory animals, the new plague virus proved to be extremely efficient. Unfortunately, Karsnov felt the results were not conclusive without a human sample. So, unbeknownst to his colleagues, he released a tiny sample of the spores in St. Petersburg.”
“He poisoned his fellow countrymen to test the effect of a plague virus?” repeated the Rager, sounding properly outraged. “What happened?”
“Exactly what you would expect,” said Boris. “Anthrax symptoms are very similar to those of pneumonia but the treatment for one and the other are entirely different. The disease is deadly unless handled properly. Nearly a hundred people died before Karsnov’s crime was detected. It took a massive effort by the army and the KGB to stop the spread of the plague. By the time Karsnov was implicated in the crime, the scientist had managed to flee the country.”
“And now you want him dead,” said the Retaliator. “You want justice for those who died.”
“Of course,” said Bronsky, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. The assassins demanded motivation as well as money. In a strange manner, they were highly moral killers. “The blood of their mother, of Mother Russia, demands revenge.”
“The rules of the state must be obeyed,” said the third killer, who had remained silent until now. Her voice was cold and remote. She was called “the Endless.”
“That is the law,” said the Retaliator in agreement.
“That is the law,” repeated the Rager.
Sighing deeply, Boris nodded. By those words, he knew that the three had taken the assignment. Karsnov was as good as dead.
“You said he fled,” continued the Retaliator. “Where did he go?”
“To America, we think,” said Boris. “Karsnov has two passions. A protégé of hard-liners in the Kremlin, he hates the United States with an all-consuming mania. He has spent most of his adult life perfecting weapons to he used against the Americans. With the cold war over and peace between our two nations, we suspect he plans to use the anthrax plague to fulfill his own twisted agenda.”
“His other passion?” asked the Endless.
“Karsnov loves to gamble. He plays cards compulsively, for hours, sometimes days on end. The desire to win at any cost engulfs him and sweeps him away. That is why we think he is in America. My colleagues in the Secret Service believe he is in Las Vegas, Nevada. Gambling,” he added unnecessarily, “is legal there.”
“You have warned the Americans?” asked the Rager.
“Of course not,” said Boris. “They would never believe that Karsnov has turned rogue and is working on his own. Like my superiors, they see a plot under every rock. Comrade Yeltsin is in the midst of delicate negotiations for more aid from the United States. One mention of the anthrax plague would destroy any hopes of that mission.”
“How did the scientist escape your own KGB?” asked the Retaliator. “Usually they are quite capable of dealing with traitors.”
“We are not sure,” said Boris. “According to several reliable though not official sources, Karsnov is being aided by an ultrasecret group of Islamic terrorists based in the United States. The group’s plans are not known to us, but evidently they want revenge against the United States for the humiliation suffered by Iraq in that war of a few years ago. What better way than to unleash a plague virus on the unsuspecting citizens of a major American city?”
“We have dealt with fanatics before,” said the Endless.
“Those same unnamed sources,” said Boris slowly, “reported that members of this group, The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction, wielded seemingly supernatural powers. According to unconfirmed reports, they smuggled Karsnov out of Russia on a magic carpet. I knew it sounded incredible, but I thought it only proper I should mention the story to you.”
“We have dealt with sorcery before as well,” said the Endless, her voice unchanged. “It exists, but it can be stopped. We shall not fail.”
“I’m not worried,” said Boris, thinking of the previous sixty-three assignments. The meeting was drawing to a close. There were only a few things left to be done. He reached into the attaché case at his feet. “I brought along Karsnov’s files for you.”
“And a personal effect?” asked the Rager.
“Of course,” said Boris, reaching again into the case. “Karsnov wore this pocket watch for years. In his haste to escape, he left it behind.”
Boris put the files and the watch onto the table. Carefully, he pushed them forward into the darkness. Someone picked up the file and then the watch. He could hear it being passed around. Bronsky shuddered in anticipation, knowing what came next. His every encounter with the three mysterious hunters ended the same way.
“Labe, labe, labe,” chanted the three assassins in unison, their horrifying voices blending into a monstrous chorus of sound. “Phradzou!”
An instant later, an unseen door opened and closed and they were gone. The hunters were off on their mission to seek and destroy.
Boris rose to his feet, scratching his head in bewilderment. Dull and unimaginative, he still wished he understood the purpose of that final burst of noise.
Years before, he had smuggled into the meeting a compact tape machine and had recorded the mysterious words. A KGB language specialist had identified the phrase as ancient Greek and translated it for him as “Seize him, seize him, seize him; mark him!”
The translation left Boris as much in the dark as before. He had no idea what the statement signified or why the three assassins pronounced it at the end of each meeting.
A plain, simple man, not educated in the classics, Boris had never studied the famous Greek playwrights. He had never heard of Aeschylus or his most famous play. Which, all things considered, was probably for the best.
1
Stretching both arms high over his head. Jack Collins inhaled deeply, pulling lungfuls of fresh air into his chest. He smiled. It felt good lolling in bed with no thoughts of rushing off to an early-morning class. After attending college nine years straight, a little laziness never hurt anyone.
Idly, Jack checked the clock by the side of his bed. It was a few minutes after nine in the morning. Under normal circumstances, he would have shaved, dressed, and breakfasted an hour and a half ago. Right about now, he would be greeting the shuffling, half-asleep zombies who constituted his first mathematics lecture class of the day. But times and circumstances were anything but normal.
Jack Collins, graduate teaching assistant in mathematics and logic at the local university, no longer existed. Vanished along with that persona were his dreams of obtaining his doctoral degree and becoming a full-time professor. Instead, in a dramatic change of fortunes, Jack had joined the investment firm of Ambrose and Associates, Ltd., and become a hero. Through his efforts, aided and abetted by a group of unlikely friends and allies, he had saved the world from the forces of everlasting night. And in the course of his quest, met and romanced the most beautiful girl in the world.
The thought of Megan Ambrose, daughter of his boss, Merlin the Magician, made Jack smile. Extremely bright and visually stunning, Megan was everything any man could ask for. That she cared for him was one of those mysteries Jack was willing to accept with no questions asked. After his adventures dealing with Dietrich von Bern, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, master of the monstrous Gabble Ratchets, Jack felt he deserved a few breaks.
Besides, like himself, Megan was a halfling---a child of a supernatural being and a human parent. As such, they were able to communicate with each other in their dreams. It was a talent that had saved Jack’s life more than once during the past month, and it had forged unbreakable bonds between him and Megan. Bonds that had led to their engagement and plans to be married in the reasonably near future.
Jack rubbed his eyes, banishing the last remnants of sleep from them. He yawned and blinked several times, trying to focus his vision. Even though it was several weeks since his adventures had first begun, he still had not completely adjusted to seeing the world through a pink haze. The rose-colored contact lenses he wore enabled him to distinguish between normal people and supernatural beings. Humans had auras, clearly visible with the magical eyewear. All other beings, which included trolls, faeries, goblins, witches, familiars, vampires, and hundreds of others, did not.
Mankind shared the Earth with the creations of its own collective subconscious. According to Merlin the Magician, who had spent centuries puzzling out the explanation, this cosmic overmind had the power to turn dreams into reality. When enough people believed that a supernatural being or legendary beast truly existed, it physically came into being. The myths and stories about the creature defined it, from its appearance to the way it thought and acted. Once alive, these creations remained, unaffected by the ravages of age, unless disbelieved out of existence. Which rarely ever occurred. By and large, they were merely forgotten.
Immortal and unkillable except by very specific methods, the supernaturals survived long after the belief that brought them into existence had died out. They changed with the times, blending in with their creators, remaining ever true to their original nature. Good continued as good, evil stayed evil, and neutral abided uninvolved and in between.
Thus, Merlin the Magician became a commodities broker, advising the rich and famous. Cassandra Cole, last of the Amazons, turned into a martial-arts teacher and bodyguard. And barrow trolls became neo-Nazi skinheads.
At first, it had been quite confusing to Jack. But not for long. As a voracious reader of fantasy novels, he found Merlin’s explanation of the supernatural astonishing but otherwise quite acceptable. Trained in logical thinking, he found his background in mathematics provided the right answers to supernatural mysteries. It didn’t take Jack long to slip into his role as the Logical Magician.
Grinning, he rose from his bed and headed to the bathroom, three steps away. Living in a trailer, everything was close by. To Jack’s way of thinking, it was one of the few benefits of such a life. One of the very few benefits.
He was staying in the trailer camp more for protection than for lack of funds. Merlin paid him a very generous salary. Moving out of his college apartment a week ago, he had been terribly tempted to rent a fancy place on Chicago’s near north side. Or accept Megan’s offer that he share her expensive condo. But as pointed out by his friends, both choices posed clearly unacceptable risks. Jack’s life was still in deadly danger. And if he was killed, eternal night would engulf the globe.
Though he had defeated Dietrich von Bern, the Huntsman’s mysterious master was still at large. An ancient demigod of incredible powers, it threatened modern civilization. Using his crystal ball, Merlin proclaimed Jack the only one who could stop the entity. It was a duel not yet completed. Until the creature had been found and somehow destroyed, Jack could not afford to relax an instant. Thus, he stayed, surrounded by friendly supernaturals, in a trailer camp in the far western Chicago suburbs.
Megan visited as often as possible, but the cramped trailer provided little room for romance. Nor did their dozens of busybody chaperons, ranging from the Witch Hazel and her familiar, Sylvester, a talking cat, to Simon Goodfellow, a faery changeling who always managed to interrupt at the most inconvenient instant possible. It was enough to try the patience of a saint. And Jack definitely felt anything but saintly concerning Megan.
Wonderfully erotic thoughts about his girlfriend forced Jack to turn the shower water ice cold. Short and slender, with dark hair and sparkling eyes, Megan resembled an elf. Which was probably why Jack originally thought she was entirely supernatural and not merely a halfling. That she was very human and quite passionate, he had discovered only recently. For all of her ethereal charms, Megan could be quite risqué when the time and opportunity presented itself.
After showering and shaving, Jack flung on a shirt, sneakers, and pair of faded blue jeans. A quick glance at the clock told him he had barely enough time to grab a bowl of cereal and milk before meeting Cassandra on the meadow for his self-defense lessons. He grimaced as his muscles mentally groaned in anticipation. These workouts were necessary, but not appreciated. World-saver or not, Jack was a thinker, not a fighter. However, there was no arguing with an Amazon.
Arriving at the tree-lined glade at exactly nine-thirty, Jack was not surprised to find Cassandra there and ready for action. The Amazon was a chronic overachiever. Her back to him, she had started exercising on her own.
Self-discipline was a way of life to the Amazon. She always arrived early and left late. Practice, practice, and more practice filled her life. Cassandra defined dedication---bordering on obsession.
Tall and slender, Cassandra had skin the color of dark chocolate. Her eyes and shoulder-length hair were jet black. High cheekbones and a thin, aquiline nose gave her a fragile, delicate look. Only the whipcord-lean muscles in her arms and shoulders hinted at the true strength she possessed.
In her hands, the Amazon held a thick walking staff. Capped on each end with silver, the stick was covered with exotic markings carved into the wood. Simon had once mentioned in passing something about ancient Greek mottoes. Jack felt sure they dealt with the glory of battle. A mythological warrior woman, Cassandra didn’t fight to live---she lived to fight.
Jack watched, entranced as she wove her staff in an intricate series of maneuvers. The wood moved so fast mat at times the air whistled with its passage. Cassandra twirled on her toes, graceful as a ballet dancer, as she completed routines designed to kill or maim anyone foolish enough to engage her in combat. Cassandra played rough. When necessary, she was deadly.
“About time you arrived, Jack,” declared the Amazon without turning. He was quite positive she had never seen him. But she had known he was there. “You’re three minutes late.”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “How did you identify me?”
“Your breathing, of course,” she said. She spun around and planted her staff six inches into the hard soil. “Once you’ve mastered the fundamentals of self-defense, I’ll teach you some basic survival techniques. You make too much noise walking. And you breathe way too loud.”
Jack sighed. He didn’t recall any of the fantasy novels he enjoyed dwelling on the hero’s tedious and painful training sessions. In books, the protagonist was always in perfect shape and a master fighter. Unfortunately, teaching mathematics didn’t require any such skills. It was going to be another traumatic morning.
The Amazon smiled, as if reading his thoughts. Mentally, Jack grimaced. Cassandra reserved her grins for days when she planned the most demanding physical torments imaginable. He wondered if it was too late to remember another appointment.
Cassandra took one step toward him when her eyes widened in sudden surprise. Something large and black rocketed over their heads. “Assassins!” screeched the bird. “Assassins!”...
allforjesus2001