Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Reign of the Brown Magician

She looked out through the sparkling-clean glass at the remains of I.S.S. Ruthless, still lying out there in her yard.

She remembered someone saying that some of the machinery aboard was partly made of platinum; maybe she could salvage that and sell it to a jeweler?

Or maybe she could sell the whole thing to an amusement park somewhere-she ought to be able to get at least the cost of hauling it away.

“It’s still there,” Prossie said, as she leaned over Amy’s shoulder.

“A little bit of home, huh?” Amy asked.

Prossie shook her head. “Maybe,” she said, “but it’s not anything I’m nostalgic about.”

“No?”

“No. I miss my family, and I miss my talent, but I don’t miss being in the military. And actually, even though I miss being able to read minds, it’s nice to be alone sometimes, too, to know that my thoughts are my own.” She stepped back, away from Amy. “I don’t suppose that’s anything you’d understand-your thoughts have always been your own.”

“Well, the way you mean, yes,” Amy agreed, “but there were certainly times when I paid too much attention to what other people thought.” She hesitated, and asked, “Have you settled on what you want to do yet?”

“I want to study psychology,” Prossie said, “and probably become a therapist-that’s the right word?”

Amy nodded.

Prossie smiled wryly. “After all, I’m the only person on this planet who’s ever really known what other people are thinking.” She sighed. “But it’s going to be expensive, isn’t it? I’m still not used to worrying about money like this; back home…I mean, back in the Empire, I was government property, and everything I wanted was either provided for me or forbidden.”

“Maybe we can find you a scholarship somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin,” Prossie said. “And after all, I don’t even have a…a diploma?”

“That’s the word,” Amy agreed. “But we can get you a GED easily enough, I’m sure.”

“I hope…”

Prossie stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth falling open.

Amy whirled, guessing even before she looked out the window what had so surprised Prossie.

The ladder that had unrolled out of thin air was still dancing and swinging, not yet settled into place.

* * * *

Pel stared moodily at the two Nancys as they sat talking over their dinner.

He hadn’t bothered to eat lately; somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. All the others had to eat, though.

Usually he didn’t watch, but he had happened along the corridor as the Nancys and Rachel and Susan were dining, and had looked in, and there they were.

He wondered what they talked about. Neither of them showed any interest in talking to him. The simulacrum was always ready and eager to do what he told her, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist, in his experience.

And the revenant-he no longer thought of her as “the real Nancy”-was always polite, but disinterested.

Rachel was listening solemnly to both women. Pel had noticed that she seemed unable to tell them apart, and called them both “Mommy.”

Pel had no trouble distinguishing between them, so long as they were awake-their manner was sufficiently different that he could tell which was which the moment a word was said or an expression displayed.

But he wasn’t sure he cared any shy;more.

He wasn’t sure he cared about anything.

He had planned to go down to the dungeons and find the hostages, something he’d been meaning to do for a couple of days now, but now he reconsidered.

What did he care where they were, or what shape they were in?

What did it matter?

He was the Brown Magician; he could do anything he wanted, could have anything he wanted.

But he didn’t know what he wanted.

* * * *

No one answered at the number Major Johnston had given her; Amy slammed the phone down angrily, then picked it up and dialled again.

It rang and rang, without response.

So much for all his fine assurances!

She turned back to the window, bent down, and looked up.

A space-suited figure was climbing slowly down the ladder, with a white flag clutched in one gauntlet and an immense pack on his back.

That flag was promising; they weren’t coming in with drawn weapons. Amy still wasn’t inclined to trust them.

Major Johnston had told her to flee if any Imperials showed up, but he had also told her to call first, and she hadn’t gotten through. Didn’t the man have phone mail, or an answering machine, or something? It was incredibly inconsiderate of him to have stranded her like this.

She heard a car on the road out front, which was nothing unusual, and she would not ordinarily have even noticed it consciously-except this one stopped. She heard tires on gravel, and then the engine died.

She looked, but couldn’t see anything from her post in the kitchen.

“Here, you watch out back,” she told Prossie, handing her the phone. “If anyone answers the damn phone, tell them what’s happening.”

Prossie silently accepted the phone as if she expected it to explode at any second, and Amy marched through the archway to the living room, where she looked out the front window.

The car out front was dark blue, with “U.S. Air Force” stencilled on the door, and a familiar figure was climbing out.

No wonder she hadn’t been able to reach him at his office! He must have been on his way even before the ladder appeared. Miletti must have delivered a warning.

Why the hell hadn’t Johnston called ahead, to tell her he was coming?

She strode to the front door and flung it open, but before she could say a word, Johnston called, “Ms. Jewell! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she called back.

She started to gesture and say more, but Johnston called, “We saw the ladder as we drove up-is someone coming down?”

“Yes,” she called.

Johnston turned and nodded to the uniformed man who had just climbed out the other side of the car. “Come on,” he said.

Side by side, the two men trotted around the house.

Annoyed, Amy stepped in and closed the door, then marched back through to the kitchen.

“He’s just reaching the ground,” Prossie announced.

She was still holding the phone; Amy took it from her and hung it up. Then she looked out the window over the sink.

Sure enough, the Imperial was on the ground and undogging his helmet, the white flag still in his hand. Johnston and the other man-a lieutenant, was he?-were coming into sight around the corner of the house.

The man lifted his helmet off and said something, but Amy couldn’t hear it.

Johnston answered, and she couldn’t make that out, either.

Damn it, she thought, this was her yard, and if people were going to talk here she wanted to hear what was said. The man looked harmless, and there weren’t any more coming down the ladder, she could see that for herself.

She opened the back door and stepped out before Prossie could say a single word in protest.

The man in the space suit turned to her the moment she emerged and said, “Miss Jewell?”

“Ms. Jewell,” she corrected him.

“You don’t have to talk to him, Ms. Jewell,” Johnston called.

“But I must talk to Mrs. Jewell,” the Imperial said. “That’s my assignment.”

Amy blinked in surprise. “What?” she said.

“You don’t have to be involved, Amy,” Johnston said.

“That’s all right, Major,” she said. “I want to hear this.”

The Imperial smiled, glanced at Major Johnston, then took a step toward Amy and began his explanation.

* * * *

“We could just leave him alone and hope for the best,” Sheffield suggested.