Wizard World 1: Changeling

VII

The synthetic caterpillars crisscrossed the streets of the reviving city, removing trash and rubble. Their super-intendant, a short, wide-shouldered mutant with heavy brow-ridges, followed their slow progress, occasionally leaning upon his hooked driving-prod. The skies were sunny today, above the shining spires about which laborers clambered, building. Terraces were spreading under the care of a company of robot attendants. The steady throbbing of the restored factories filled the air as other-styled robots, flying machines, cars and weapons moved down the computerized assembly lines. Far below, a line of passing mutants genuflected as they passed the white-stone monument above the entranceway to the old teaching machine's quarters, which their leader had caused to be erected there and had designated as a shrine. Giant bird-like forms departed from and returned to flat-roofed buildings, moving into and out of their enormous patrol patterns. The superintendent uttered a cry, swung his goad and smiled. Life had been growing steadily better, ever since the arrival of the suncrowned one, with his power over the Old Things. He hoped that the leader fared well on his latest quest. Later, he would visit the shrine to pray for this, and that they might spread the blessings of warmth at night and regular meals across the land. A virtuous feeling he could now afford possessed him as he swung the goad again.

Michael Chain, florid-faced, hair thinning now, sat across from Daniel in the small, quiet restaurant, trying to seem as if he were not studying his reactions. Dan, in turn, uncomfortable in his best suit, poked at his melting dessert and sipped his coffee, trying to seem as if he were not aware of the surreptitious scrutiny. Occasionally, his wrist throbbed and somewhere a dish shattered. Whenever this occurred, he would hastily apply the biofeedback technique he had learned to suppress it.

"The record isn't doing too well, eh?" Michael said.

Dan raised his eyes, shook his head.

"I seem to go over better in person," he replied. Then he shrugged. "Hard to tell what you're doing wrong the first time around, though, I can already see a number of things I should have done differently--"

"It was good," Michael surprised him by saying. "I liked it." He flipped a palm upward and gestured vaguely away. "Even so," he went on."A small outfit, no promotion... Do you have any idea how many songs are recorded each year?"

"Yes, I do. It's--"

"... And you know something about statistics, even with a liberal arts background. It's practically a lottery situation."

"It's rough," Dan acknowledged.

The hand turned over and struck the tabletop.

"It's damn near impossible to make it, that's what it is."

A sound of breaking crockery emerged from the kitchen. Dan sighed.

"I suppose you're right, but I'm not ready to give it up yet."

The elder Chain called for an after dinner drink. Dan declined one.

"Still seeing that Lewis girl?"

"Yes."

"She strikes me as kind of cheap."

"We've had some good times together."

Michael shrugged.

"It's your life."

Dan finished his coffee. When he looked up, Michael was staring at him, smiling.

"It is," the older man said. He reached out and touched Dan's hand. "I'm glad your mind's your own. I know I sometimes push hard. But listen. Even without the degree, there'll always be a place for you in the firm. If you should ever change your mind, you can learn what you need on the job--pick up some night courses... No sales pitch. I'm just telling you. There'll still be a place."

"Thanks, Dad."

Michael finished his drink and looked about.

"Waiter!" he called. "The check!"

The chandelier began to quiver, but Dan recognized the feeling and quelled it in time.

Mor stood, leaning against the bedpost for support. He inserted a knuckle into an eye-socket and nibbed vigorously. It seemed that all he did these days was sleep. And his ankles, swollen again...

He raised the water bottle from the bedside table and took a long drink. He coughed, then swallowed a potion he had left ready, washing it down with another gulp of water.

Crossing the chamber, he drew back the long, dark drape and opened a shutter. Stars sparkled in a pale sky. Was it morning or evening? He was not certain.

Stroking his white beard, he stared out across the hushed land, realizing that something other than physiology had troubled his slumber. He waited for the dream, the message, the feeling to recur, but it did not.

After a long while, he let the drape fall, not bothering to close the shutter. Perhaps if he returned to bed, it might come back to him... Yes, that seemed a good idea.

Shaking his head slowly, he retraced his steps across the room. Human bodies are so much trouble, he reflected.

An owl hooted several times. The mice scurried within the walls.

Deep beneath the ruin of Castle Rondoval, weighted by the heavy spell of sleep that filled the cavern, Moonbird, mightiest of the dragons, assumed a stiff, heraldic pose upon the floor and relaxed it with equal suddenness, his sigh moving like a warm wind across the forms of his mates. His spirit fled ghostly across the skies, passing the forms of giant, dark birds with bodies like sword metal at heights only his kind had once held. Invisible, he threatened, then attacked. The creatures passed along their ways, unaffected.

Raging in his impotence, Moonbird retreated to the dark places of sleep, narrowly missing a smaller form nearby as he tossed, his claws raking furrows along a stony ledge.