What would happen to our society if magic suddenly worked? Who buys a car when a magic carpet is cheap and doesn't need fueling? Who needs a doctor when a simple amulet protects against geting sick, or hurt?
But, who's supplying the magic?
The ad said:“Wanted, honest, dedicated man or woman, to work for the good of humanity.Must be willing to accept total responsibility for their actions.Must be willing to work hard, study hard, and never lie.”Who but a fool would respond to such an ad?Would you?Donald Tyson did, and he said yes when they offered him the job.Now Don's a wizard, and sells magic, retail, over the counter like toothpaste.All over the Earth magic shops are opening and selling amulets that will give the wearer invulnerability and cure disease.Everyone wants one, of course.Everyone wants to become a wizard, too, for the power and prestige that comes with the title.
But, soon, half the world is unemployed.Who buys a car when a magic carpet is cheap and doesn't need fueling?Who needs a doctor when no one gets sick, or hurt?On the other hand, not all the news is bad.Can you oppress people who can jump on their carpet and fly away?
Miles Grant, Presidential Science Advisor doesn’t believe in magic.As far as he’s concerned it’s all a plot to conquer the Earth.As more types of amulets are introduced, and replace technology, that technology will be lost, leaving the Earth defenseless when, and if, the amulets are turned off.For him it’s a race against time.How could Miles guess that the future of humanity depends on a single question, one that Donald Tyson, alone, must answer.
Excerpt
The Judge was finishing lunch when he saw them coming. Through the open front window, he watched the procession move toward the house. The townsmen were gathered in a tight angry knot around the prisoner, limiting his chance of escape. From the way the man's head was darting from side to side though, the Judge thought it an even chance that he would bolt before they arrived at his door.
Donner The Blacksmith had seen his intention too, and put a callused hand on the man's shoulder. At the touch, the man sagged in defeat, stumbling. Then, taking a strengthening breath, he straightened and stuck out his chin in a show of bravado.
They filed into the front room quietly, not wanting to be here at all, but having little choice. They were curious too, for there had been no judgings in this place in any living man's memory.
Donner, hat in hand, was the one who was to speak for the townsmen, but the Judge waved him away. "I know the charges," he said, tiredly. Donner looked relieved, and backed as far away as he could.
The Judge studied the man before him with interest. Santos was ragged and dirty, two years away from the comforts of civilization. His untownlike beard was carelessly knifecut, and stained with the remains of past meals. His clothing was ragged, but tolerably clean, a mark in his favor. There were insect bites welting his arms and face, and the scar of some past encounter with trouble crossed one cheek. His had not been an easy life.
The Judge sighed, reflecting that nothing could be gained by prolonging this. The townsmen didn't need the lesson, and the prisoner wouldn't listen, so he moved to stand behind his desk, distancing himself from the townspeople and assuming the mantle of his office.
"Santos," he said, allowing his voice to harden, "This is the second time I've seen you like this. You never seem to learn, do you?" The man just glared, so he continued.
"The first time, it was just the two of us." He gestured at the townsmen. "This time we have company.... There will be no next time." He studied at the man for a moment, then shook his head and continued in more formal tones. "You are charged with shoplifting, and out-and-out thievery. What do you have to say for yourself?" The judge already knew how it would go, but there were the forms to be observed, and those forms said the question had to be asked. No one showed surprise that he already knew the charges being brought against the man.
Santos drew himself to his full height, and with his eyes, dared the Judge to contradict him as he said, "I did nothing. I-- Ahhh!" His face twisted in pain for a moment, then became a mask of fury. "Damn you!" The hate in his eyes was almost a visible glare.
The Judge shook his head, unmoved by the man's reaction. "You of all people should know better than to try to lie to me, Santos. You've tried it before." Once more he shook his head at the stubborn foolishness of the man, then, with a sigh, returned to the business at hand.
"Let me tell you what's going to happen," he said, as he reached into a drawer, searching for a moment. Finally, finding what he was seeking, he straightened and held out both hands to display the contents. "One of these is for you."
The man blanched, and tried to draw back. He was stopped by the hand of one of the townsmen, then shoved roughly forward, almost falling.
The Judge gave the man time to compose himself, then went on. "Here in my hands lies your future, Santos. The choice is yours. You've demonstrated that you cannot live in the company of people and willingly play by society's rules. That has already cost you a great deal." He gestured at the stigma of Santos' bare arm and neck. "Now it will cost you more. In my right hand is the key to your acceptance into polite society, and in my left is our protection from you. The choice of which you wear is yours, but you will be wearing one of them when you leave."
The man was pale, and there was a visible tremble to his finger as he pointed at the left hand. "What.... What is it?"
The judge looked down at the dark ovoid, its chain draped carelessly across his hand. Then he looked into the eyes of the accused man once more, wondering which choice the man would make. He nodded toward his left hand. "This will make sure that you never enter a human settlement again. The other will allow you to live where you like--if you're willing to pay the price. You rejected it at our last meeting."
The man twisted his hands together in an agony of indecision. Several times he reached out for the left hand. Each time he drew back without having made a choice. Sweat sprang out on his forehead, to mingle with the dirt there, though in truth it was a cool day.
"Choose or I choose for you!" The Judge allowed anger to enter his voice. "I have no time for fools, and this has gone on long enough."
The man was in obvious distress. He tried, several times, before he was able to say, "But I don't want either! Please, let me go, I'll keep straight. I promise!" His hands clutched at his head in horror as his own words betrayed him.
"I can't, I can't," he said in a tortured whisper. "Please... you choose."
The Judge shook his head and sighed. "You know how I chose," he said, dropping the left hand amulet back into the drawer. "I always choose truth." Closing the drawer, he straightened and stepped out from behind the battered old desk, dropping the chain over the bowed head of the man in front of him, muttering an incantation as he did so. "You're free to go now, Santos," he said, stepping back out of the man's way. "It's over."
Santos looked up at the Judge, his eyes unreadable, then he turned and walked towards the door, his steps quick and controlled. Halfway there he stopped, sagging, his face locked in a grimace of unbearable pain. Holding his hands to his head and moaning, he staggered as though deep in his cups, dealing himself a sharp but unnoticed blow to the shins from a nearby chair. Finally, he sank to the floor, whimpering, still clutching his hands to his head.
The townsmen watched for a few moments in unhappy silence. Finally Donner asked the question that must have been on everyone's mind. "Pardon sir, but... will he die? I wouldn't want to have him die over a shirt and a few trifles."
The Judge reflected that he was getting too old for this and sighed. "No Donner, he won't die, but for some people, I'm afraid the truth hurts."
* * *
The sound of the telephone was just about the last thing Miles Grant wanted to hear. Lying warm and sleepy next to Mina, in the afterglow of their loving, the outside world was a most highly unwanted intrusion. Mina sighed irritably at the sound and snuggled her back a little closer to his chest, her muttered annoyance a mirror of his own. She was soft, and bed-warm, and awfully sweet to be next to. Miles pulled her close and yawned, as he fought down the urge to ignore the summons. It would be easy to do, but was a luxury he didn't have.
Half-asleep, Mina reached back and pulled his arm tightly around her. "Don't answer it Miles. I'm much too comfortable."
He sighed, then kissed the back of her neck. Sighing again, he began to free his arm and move away. With reluctance, he let the world come crashing back, and there was unhappiness in his voice, when he said, "You know I don't want to, my love, but I have to. It might be Him."
Reluctantly, Miles picked up the phone, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice. "Miles Grant here." He was almost successful.
"Miles, this is Jack." President Postem liked to be on a first name basis with his people. They of course called him Mr. President. "I need a reading from you on a rather strange issue."
Miles perked up and drew himself into a sitting position against the headboard. No matter how he felt about being annoyed, or about the frustrations of the job, it was a great feeling to be called by the President of the United States for advice. Mina put her head on his leg. He absently stroked the nape of her neck and threw her a wink. "Shoot, Mr. President."
There was a pause, and he heard the President take a deep breath. When he finally spoke, there was almost a note of apology. "Miles, I know this must sound a bit silly, but... is real magic possible? I mean wave a wand; puff of smoke; things appearing from the air... that sort of thing?"
Miles frowned, wondering. What the hell was going on at the White House? Another of the famous all night card games? The President had sounded deadly serious, though.
"No, Mr. President," he said, keeping his voice professionally neutral, as befit the Presidential Science Advisor. "It's not. Sure, you could have the appearance of magic, but somewhere backstage is the gimmick, the hardware, and the prop-man. It's always there."
"That's what I thought. Thanks Miles." There was a click, and the quiet hiss of a dead line.
Miles put the phone back in its cradle and settled his chin firmly in his hand, his eyes momentarily unfocused, and his head shaking in negation. "Now, what in the hell was that all about?"
Mina drew herself up into a sitting position, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, her chin cupped in both hands. Her long black hair swung forward to frame her face and Miles couldn't help smiling at the sight. She was lovely like that, and he never tired of watching her.
She shook her head and laughed. "Miles, you should have seen your face. You looked worse than a pickle-taster on a bad day. If you don't mind my repeating your question, what was that all about?"
"Well," he said, with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders. "I don't know for sure, but I think old 'Roast-em Postem has finally gone 'round the bend. He asked me if there was such a thing as magic. Can you believe it? I get this really strange vision of the White House staff gathered around a pentagram trying to make a deal with the Devil. Or maybe interviewing for the position of White House Witch."
Mina thoughtfully chewed on her lip. "I'd like to be a witch, and be able to do magic," she said, thoughtfully. She apparently saw his expression, and beat his comment, slapping him playfully on the leg. "No, not like Snow White's stepmother, you smart ass."
Miles chuckled, and returned to important things, like rubbing her foot to get her in the proper frame of mind, lost when the call interrupted their cuddling. In response, she hummed in pleasure for a moment, her eyes half closing. Then, apparently remembering what she had started to say, she frowned in mock anger and trapped his hand in both of hers, saying "Stop for a minute."
"Mmm?"
"I would like to be a witch, and I'd be a good witch, and wear beautiful gowns like Glinda the good witch from the Oz books." Her eyes turned dreamy, and she held his hand softly to her cheek before kissing the palm and saying, "I'd like to be able to really help people, instead of just putting band-aids on their problems the way I do now."
* * *
Mina Scotia was a city social worker who believed deeply in her work. She tried her best to help those trapped in the endless cycle of poverty, but she knew that in the end, the programs she administered were of little lasting help. They were just "Band-aids" as she liked to call them.
Miles met her one rainy, cold night, as she was struggling to change a flat tire on the Capitol Beltway. She was determined to do the job herself, and was both frustrated and angry because she was not strong enough to free the frozen lug nuts. Miles struggled vainly with them for a time, himself, with no more success than she had been having. She finally had to use his phone to call for help. In the warmth of the car, with the windows slowly fogging them out of the night, Miles wiped his hands on a towel and smiled, as she graphically listed the attributes of the mechanic who had over-tightened the lug nuts. She spent a great deal of time, in several languages, describing his sexual habits and parentage. Miles was impressed that she was able to do this at length, without getting obscene, or even very coarse. Eventually, though, she ran out of languages and inspiration, finally cooling down enough to apologize, and to thank Miles for his help. He was pleased to discover that she had a blinding smile to complement and offset her fierce temper.
Miles was initially taken by her dark beauty and endlessly deep eyes, with their pitch-black irises. Later, over coffee, he found that she was as dedicated to her calling as he was to his. To his intense pleasure, he also found that she had a mind as curious and active as his own.
She was small, only five foot three, to Miles' six two, and looked like the kind of girl you wanted to take home and cuddle, but no one was going to push this lady around. Lean and active, she was a brown belt in a style of self-defense originally designed for Israeli combat soldiers. In her occupation, she often went into neighborhoods that were bad for a beautiful woman alone. More than once, she claimed, she had been forced to convince a macho Romeo that she was not up for grabs. As she told Miles, "I'm dedicated, not stupid." Inside though, when she relaxed, was a warm and witty human being.
Neither of them was of a mind to become emotionally entangled at this point in their lives, but they were so completely compatible that both vowed to themselves to at least become friends. For a time they were, until they noticed that they each spent most of their time apart waiting to be together again.
One snowy Washington morning, as dawn brightened the windows, Miles found himself relaxing in her living room, sipping coffee, and arguing over the best way to solve the world's problems. He favored technology as the primary answer to the problems, and she believed that a better way of living together could remove the stress that helped produce the problems. They had agreement on many points, but both of them knew that the discussion could go on for months. In fact, it had been going on for three months so far. They both knew they would never resolve the problem, or even agree on the answer, but it was fun to try. Mina argued that there was a good middle ground, and that Miles should write his next book on how to achieve it.
She had been leaning against him for some time, with his arm pulled down comfortably around her waist, half-awake. When she blinked her eyes, she found that the room was cloaked in shadowed dimness. The snow outside had deepened, stopping most of the traffic and muffling the outside noises in the special silence unique to a fresh snowfall. She floated softly in a quiet gray world, totally at peace, listening to Miles quietly breathing in his sleep. She smiled at the thought that at least he didn't snore. Then she glanced at the clock on the end table, and noted that it read 4:30 PM. They had spent the day in shared sleep. Mina mused over the idea that she had just slept with a man she had yet to kiss properly.
She turned her head and looked at his sleeping face for a long time. There was strength there, and a vulnerability that seldom showed when he was awake. He was handsome, in a rugged masculine way, but it wouldn't have mattered if the world had thought him ugly. It was the sum of what he was that she saw when she looked at him, and that was beautiful. Never before had she felt so secure and comfortable. Finally, she whispered in surprise and wonder, "Dear God, how I do love this man."
It was that simple. She shook him, gently, and said "Miles, wake up.... I love you."
He stirred. "Mmm... what?" He stretched, his joints crackling and popping with disuse, flexing a cramp out of the arm that had been around her. Then, he settled her back against him, yawning. "Mmm?"
"Pay attention Miles," she told him. "I said, wake up.... I love you."
He blinked, then smiled and held her tightly against him for a time before saying, "How nice." He kissed her gently. Then with more than friendship for the first time, and that was nice too. Eventually, she suggested they move into her bedroom.
* * *
That was eighteen months ago. Mina moved in with him the next day. Miles knew that he would one day marry her, but neither had yet gotten around to mentioning a date.
"Why can't there be magic?" she said, beating her fists on his leg. "There's so much I want to do!"
Miles frowned and leaned back against the headboard. "You mean you'd wave your magic wand and conjure a pile of gold for each of your clients?"
She beat on his leg again, her expression serious. His teasing had apparently struck a sensitive spot. "No, you big dummy! Not a free lunch. That won't help them any more than it's helping now. I'd conjure skills into their heads, and give them the tools to get themselves out of the bind they live in. I'd conjure up jobs that needed doing." She softened, almost whispering. "And most of all, I'd give them self-respect." She came into his arms then, a little girl needing cuddling and love, her voice a tickle in his ear. "Why can't there be magic, Miles? Wouldn't you like it, too?"
Miles thought for a moment, then just savored the feel of her in his arms for a time before pulling back, to gaze sadly into her eyes. "No, Mina, I wish I could answer differently, but I don't think I want there to be magic. I could never accept it at face value." He sighed. "You, of all people, should know that I could never believe in something for nothing. If you had a pet demon who could pop things into existence, I'd want to study him, to find out about the laws that governed his operation." He shook his head gently. "I'd love to be able to give you what you want, Mina my love, if for no other reason but that you want it. But, as for me... no, I could never accept it." He smiled then, and stroked her hair. "There's only one magic thing that I can accept without question or thought, and that's you." He slid himself down next to her and held her cheeks softly in the palms of his hands, while he looked into her eyes. "For your sake, Mina, I almost wish there were such things. But, there aren't."
"No." She smiled, "There aren't. But, you are my wizard and my magic, Miles, and I do love you."
They were both wrong. At 4:15 PM Eastern Standard time, in the city of Salem, Massachusetts, the first Wizard arrived.
Evil Seed: Mother Earth vs. the Human Race; Who Will Survive?
Launched onto a surreal odyssey by a desperate call for help, a heroine reluctant to save her own unworthy species, coupled with her closest friends and a band of otherworldly allies,
