Wild Card

by Mary Ruth Pursselley -

Robin Corpsman had been told that the Steakhouse Arjentina was the best place to have dinner in Zirconia, so he headed there. This was his last night in town, and he planned to enjoy it.

The restaurant doors swung inwards, injecting him into a U-shaped room glowing with neon blues and greens. Wait staff dressed in black moved among the tables, their steps matching the beat of rhythmic music flowing from hidden speakers.

Robin made his way to the obsidian-top bar and pulled a stool out for himself. The waiter behind the counter offered him a good evening.

“What can I get you?”

“Dinner and a drink,” Robin said, “whatever’s best here.”

“Coming right up.” The waiter smiled, a look that promised an excellent meal, but with an exorbitant ticket attached.

Robin didn’t mind. Why not splurge on his last night in town and the school’s tab? Tomorrow morning he’d be heading landside, back to bland food, gritty water, ash, earthquakes, and lava. Back to his quest.

He’d have to spend enough time at one of the already-established digs to keep Trinity’s archaeology department directors happy, but as long as they had something new to brag about and display in the museum, they didn’t usually complain about the time Robin spent chasing legends. His quest, should he ever succeed, would benefit them too.

The waiter brought a glass flute of something that sparkled silvery-green. Robin lifted the flute and took a sip; the taste was exquisite, like nothing he’d had before.

Seeing the waiter watching him, he nodded his approval and raised the flute as if in a toast. The waiter smiled and nodded as he walked back into the kitchens.

Robin took another sip and swirled the drink slowly in the glass. If he ever succeeded in his quest, the whole of Trinity University, the entire Christchurch community, and even the high-ups on the Avenir would be toasting him. His discoveries would be the greatest in Eclectian history. He would be guaranteed a relatively easy life and substantial income for as long as he lived.

If he failed, he’d likely keep working as an archaeologist until age or ash lung disabled him. Then Trinity’s darling poster child would be left to fend for himself on a planet that was far from merciful to the weak.

The two potential futures were always standing over him, taunting him with suspense about which one would become reality. Reality hinged on the chances of him drawing the wildcard from a deck shuffled by fate and volcanoes.

The wildcard was Empathia.

Academic Question: Rising Expectation

by Walt Staples -

“Pomphee, one would begin to think you like me.” Doctor Professor Erschreckendmann—aka: “Doctor E”—smiled his special smile at the department head.

The other shuddered. “Perish the thought. I only associate with you when I must.”

The little man almost purred as he preened the huge mustache that hid most of his lower face. “Excellent. Good, honest hatred I can work with. Now, to what do I owe your rather dubious attentions?”

The department head placed the tips of his fingers together on the large desk he kept between himself and the alchemy instructor. “We have a small problem.”

“You mean you have a small problem,” Doctor E cut in.

“No, we. The matter in question is an embarrassment to the school—you, me, and especially the instructor involved.”

“And which instructor might this be?”

“Hortel.”

Doctor E furrowed his brow. “Hortel? That tall broom straw in Advanced Conjurment?”

“The same.”

The little man drew his abundant eyebrows down. A glint of green played in their shadows. “And what, pray tell, could anyone that innocent do that would embarrass so august a body as this?”

“He rises.”

One eyebrow rose slightly. “So? You are afraid he will supplant you? I don’t buy it. You have your very own form of fecklessness. Pomphee, you’re irreplaceable.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” the department head replied drily. “No, the problem is that young Hortel actually rises. He levitates. And at the wrong time.”

“And there is a ‘right’ time?”

Pomphee sighed. “Must you?” He continued, “If he could control it, fine and good. But he tends to cause a distraction. There we are at the interfaith breakfast this morning and he just lifts-off.”

Doctor E leaned back in his chair. “So what’s your real interest? He’s not in the Materials Department.”

The other was silent for a moment, looking down at his interlaced fingers. Continuing to look down, he spoke haltingly, “I like him. He has no ax to grind, he takes no sides, stabs no one in the back, and is interested only in training the students. I don’t want to see him destroyed.”

The little man across the table gazed off into space. “His nickname through the wards was ‘Little Friend of all the World…’”

“What?”

“Hmm? Oh. Kipling. Before your time.” He leaned forward, the green lights glowing beneath his eyebrows. “What precisely has set the cat among your pigeons, Pomphee?”

“Bishop Guash is coming for the dedication of the chapel annex and I’m afraid Hortel will cause a scene.”

The alchemy instructor nodded. “A large and rather fat cat indeed—or perhaps tiger would be closer. All right, I’ll see to it.”

Pomphee looked at him suspiciously. “That’s all? No stalk to the door? No cutting remark? Why?”

Doctor E grunted as he rose to his feet. “Because cats protect their hunting territories.” The guard gnome opened the office door at his approach. “And I allow no one to abuse you but me,” he cast over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

#

Professor Hortel, all two meters and 30 kilos of him, perched upon a tall stool beside a caldron, a screwdriver hanging in his hand. He regarded the caldron sadly. “I’ve torn that heating element down three times so far, and I can’t find the glitch.” He blew out his cheeks. “I suppose I’ll have to call maintenance. Who knows, someone may show up before the end of the term.” He turned back to Doctor E. “I’m sorry; that’s not what you’re here for, is it?”

“No,“ he rumbled. “More the matter of your little fantasy of flights.”

Hortel blushed and looked sadder. “Yes, that has been a problem. Unfortunately, I have no control of them. I hear a piece of liturgical music and I’m aloft. The Archbishop found it very disconcerting back when I was at Whales’ View.”

The other nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed that the higher the clergyman, the more likely the startlement at the manifestation of something whose existence he preaches on.” He fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “No other music sets you off then? Say, classical, for instance?”

The Conjurment instructor shook his head. “No, Doctor E, only when it was written with a religious purpose in mind.”

Doctor E abruptly began to whistle “A Mighty Fortress.” Hortel rose into the air. The whistler quickly switched to “Die Gedanken Sind Frei” and he settled back on the stool. “Hail Holy Queen” and into the air. Doctor E brought him is for a landing with “My Old Man’s a Dustman.”

“You see what I mean,” the stork-like man said.

His erstwhile flight controller smiled. “I think this might be a matter for the Athletics Department.”

#

Sunday, noon, all were present at the dedication, including Professor Hortel seated between two burly members of the mootsball team. Bishop Guash sprinkled holy water over the altar of the new side chapel, the choir broke into Mozart’s “Hallelujah” chorus, and the tall, thin Conjurment instructor appeared lifted into the air by the mootsball player on each side grasping an ankle. After a moment, they drew him back to earth.

After the ceremony, his Excellency took Axgrinnder, the Chancellor, aside. “Frederick, I really must compliment you on the turnout and spirit. Though some of the latter was a bit irregular. I mean the athletes picking up that one instructor and lifting him up. I don’t think I have ever seen the like.” He smiled. “But I do appreciate the spirit. Now, where is the luncheon to be served?”

A Spirit of Fun

by Walt Staples -

In his idle moments, Pomphee, the department’s head, wondered whether it was prescience on the part of an ancestor that led to picking the name or whether, possessing that name, the man before him felt at some level required to live up to it. Doctor Professor Erschreckendmann or, more simply Doctor E, hulked in the armchair across the desk from him, if a man of 60 kilos can be said to “hulk.” Perhaps it was it was his way of holding his head tilted forward and regarding the subject of his interest from beneath thick, bushy brown eyebrows, a gleam of green glimmering in the shadows. In combination with the ferocious mustache, one was given the uncomfortable impression they were being observed through a sniper’s sights from ambush.

The other spoke, “And that’s your problem? One freshman prankster?”

Pomphee nodded. “Precisely, Doctor.”

Doctor E lowered his right eyebrow. “What makes him special?”

The department head sighed. “The last stroke was the neutron particle spectrum analyzer.”

“Richardson’s new toy?”

“Yes. Well, it seems young Hacket found a way to view questionable artworks on it.”

Doctor E half smiled. “Something neither the League nor the chaplains would approve of, no doubt. So? Take them off.”

“That was the first half. The second became apparent when those, in a moment of weakness…indulged, shall we say. It seems anyone who does comes away with a red face.”

The professor chuckled. “That shocking, are they?”

“No,” Pomphee shook his head, “literally red. Hacket linked a cantrip to the instrument. If one uses it for its proper purpose, there is no problem, but if used to view…” he let the rest hang and reached for the cigar box on his desk.

Doctor E gave a great gust of a laugh. “Ah. That’s why Richardson and half his grad students are nowhere to be seen. And the mice of the department want me to bell this young cat.”

The other nodded. “Just so.” He pushed the cigar box across the desk and raised his eyebrows.

Doctor E put up a hand in negation. “No. A wise alchemist doesn’t smoke. There are far too many things in my laboratory that are much too fond of fire.”

The department head choose a dark Cabyo and touched it into ignition. “Will you handle the matter?”

The smaller man rose, turned, and with his hands clasped behind him, strode to the door. As the guard gnome held the door, he stopped, turned, and with hands still clasped, answered, “I’ll think on it.”

*

Hacket peeped around the corner of the sub-hallway. Though designated only for maintenance robots and gnomes and other such creatures running errands, the students often used it as a shortcut between their cells and the library. The string was almost invisible and stretched across the hall neck-high on a human. He snickered. The next student though would receive a very wet surprise. He glanced again at the buckets; their color merging them into the walls and ceiling.

Footsteps! He crouched so as to peer around the corner from a lower vantage. The freshman’s freckled face broke into a big toothy grin as he recognized his victim, the sawed-off little runt with the huge mustache from the Materials Department. This was going to be so good!

His quarry approached the string oblivious to its presence. Hacket put a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. The little man touched the string—his head flew from his body! Hacket froze in horror and the bottom dropped out of his stomach as the headless body fell forward, hit the floor, and flew into hundreds of fragments.

As he stood transfixed, a hand dropped on his shoulder and a voice rumbled, “You might consider breathing again.”

Hacket slowly turned his head. The hand on his shoulder belonged to the little man and it was attached to the rest of him.

The redhead found his tongue. “How?”

Doctor E twitched his mustache with amusement. A green fire burned behind his eyes. “A simple matter of bi-location and atomization, my boy.”

“How the devil—?”

“No,” the professor cut him off, “in my case, they’re from the other side. An inheritance, one might say.

“Now, if you can control your clownish impulses until the end of the semester, I’ll take you on as a lab assistant. Come along.”

As he followed, Hacket asked, “Inheritance? Is it elven blood then?”

The old man snorted. “Elves? Of course not--Heinzelmännchen.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Look it up, boy,” Doctor E threw over his shoulder, “That’s the way you learn.”