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Authors: Kage Baker
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thing about him. It was impossible to tell his age: twenty? Twenty-two? There was a blank innocence to his face that recalled childhood. His eyes were blue-gray, set close together above a long straight nose; his features were even and smooth, his mouth a little pursed. And yet there was a certain grimness to the young man impossible to explain, the gravity and isolation of a granite mountain range.
His little dog had prudently found herself a place under a chair, well out of range. The big boy was a kind master, but to be stepped on by William Randolph Hearst—even by accident—was very, very bad.
Anyway, she hadn’t long to wait; within three minutes the phantoms had begun to fall silent, wink out. News programs weren’t very long in the year 2333.
The big boy slowed in his dance, turning before the last of the images went dark, frowning thoughtfully. Then he paced back along the length of his study to the work console at the far end, by the windows.
Click, click, click
, his snapping fingers punctuated his progress. He seated himself before the console, took up its buttonball and settled down to work.
His buttonball, by the way, was of the old-fashioned variety with alphabet option as well as all modern commands. The big boy could read and write. It was only one of the many things that set him apart from the mortal public he guided, and only one of the reasons he took it upon himself to guide them.
RED PLANET MARS SEQUENCE TOO LONG, HE WROTE. GIVE THE AMERICAN VIEWER A BREAK! DON’T MAKE THEM SIT THROUGH A LECTURE CLASS ON THE HISTORY OF SOCIALISM. FIND SOME MORE SUCCINCT WAY TO MAKE IT REAL TO THEM .
CELTIC FEDERATION CLIP GOOD. MAKE THIS A CONTINUING FEATURE. POSITIVE CLIPS, DANCE, WEAVING (BUT AVOID MENTION OF WOOL), CALLIGRAPHY, AND ABOUT THREE EPISODES INTO IT AN OVERVIEW OF HISTORY. SUGGEST: SIR WALTER RALEIGH INVENTED GENOCIDE, RESPONSIBLE FOR LUNG CANCER? BUT NOT SO BLATANT WE GIVE THE BRITISH CONSUL AN EXCUSE TO SQUAWK AGAIN .
WHAT HAPPENED TO TEXAS-MEXICO TREATY SEQUENCE???? PUNCH UP IMAGES! IF YOU CAN’T GET GOOD FOOTAGE THERE USE STOCK SHOTS AND DOCTOR THEM .
He sent this message and began another. His little dog, having ventured out from under her refuge, trotted across the room and curled up at his feet. She settled her head on her forepaws, ready to nap. Then she lifted her head and stared around suspiciously.
The big boy noticed at once. He looked down at her. “What is it, Helen?” he said. His voice was unnerving too, high and soft. During his mortal lifetime, it had been described as the fragrance of violets made audible.
She whuffed and jumped to her feet. He turned his cold gaze out into the room, following the direction of her attention.
Everything as it ought to be: his room much the same as it had looked for the last four centuries, his Gothic pieces neatly ranged above the surveillance equipment, his fabulously ancient books in their sealed cases, the portrait of his mortal self—somewhat older than he appeared now—staring back at himfrom its accustomed place above the long polished conference table. A mortal man would have been fooled.
And how likely, was it, after all, that anybody could get past his surveillance system up here on La Cuesta Encantada? Even if they made it over the perimeter boundaries and into his high gardens, La Casa Grande itself was well protected from any but invited guests.
But the big boy got to his feet, picking up the little dog and tucking her into the corner of his arm. She snarled at the unseen presence, uttering terrible threats in little-dog language. He touched her muzzle and smiled at her, briefly, before his face resumed its dead implacable expression.
“You may as well take a breath,” he said quietly. There was a gasp from beyond the far doorway as someone followed his advice.
“Damn,” said someone, “I forgot about the dog.”
He dropped into the doorway—apparently from somewhere near the ceiling—a short, dark man in a
His little dog had prudently found herself a place under a chair, well out of range. The big boy was a kind master, but to be stepped on by William Randolph Hearst—even by accident—was very, very bad.
Anyway, she hadn’t long to wait; within three minutes the phantoms had begun to fall silent, wink out. News programs weren’t very long in the year 2333.
The big boy slowed in his dance, turning before the last of the images went dark, frowning thoughtfully. Then he paced back along the length of his study to the work console at the far end, by the windows.
Click, click, click
, his snapping fingers punctuated his progress. He seated himself before the console, took up its buttonball and settled down to work.
His buttonball, by the way, was of the old-fashioned variety with alphabet option as well as all modern commands. The big boy could read and write. It was only one of the many things that set him apart from the mortal public he guided, and only one of the reasons he took it upon himself to guide them.
RED PLANET MARS SEQUENCE TOO LONG, HE WROTE. GIVE THE AMERICAN VIEWER A BREAK! DON’T MAKE THEM SIT THROUGH A LECTURE CLASS ON THE HISTORY OF SOCIALISM. FIND SOME MORE SUCCINCT WAY TO MAKE IT REAL TO THEM .
CELTIC FEDERATION CLIP GOOD. MAKE THIS A CONTINUING FEATURE. POSITIVE CLIPS, DANCE, WEAVING (BUT AVOID MENTION OF WOOL), CALLIGRAPHY, AND ABOUT THREE EPISODES INTO IT AN OVERVIEW OF HISTORY. SUGGEST: SIR WALTER RALEIGH INVENTED GENOCIDE, RESPONSIBLE FOR LUNG CANCER? BUT NOT SO BLATANT WE GIVE THE BRITISH CONSUL AN EXCUSE TO SQUAWK AGAIN .
WHAT HAPPENED TO TEXAS-MEXICO TREATY SEQUENCE???? PUNCH UP IMAGES! IF YOU CAN’T GET GOOD FOOTAGE THERE USE STOCK SHOTS AND DOCTOR THEM .
He sent this message and began another. His little dog, having ventured out from under her refuge, trotted across the room and curled up at his feet. She settled her head on her forepaws, ready to nap. Then she lifted her head and stared around suspiciously.
The big boy noticed at once. He looked down at her. “What is it, Helen?” he said. His voice was unnerving too, high and soft. During his mortal lifetime, it had been described as the fragrance of violets made audible.
She whuffed and jumped to her feet. He turned his cold gaze out into the room, following the direction of her attention.
Everything as it ought to be: his room much the same as it had looked for the last four centuries, his Gothic pieces neatly ranged above the surveillance equipment, his fabulously ancient books in their sealed cases, the portrait of his mortal self—somewhat older than he appeared now—staring back at himfrom its accustomed place above the long polished conference table. A mortal man would have been fooled.
And how likely, was it, after all, that anybody could get past his surveillance system up here on La Cuesta Encantada? Even if they made it over the perimeter boundaries and into his high gardens, La Casa Grande itself was well protected from any but invited guests.
But the big boy got to his feet, picking up the little dog and tucking her into the corner of his arm. She snarled at the unseen presence, uttering terrible threats in little-dog language. He touched her muzzle and smiled at her, briefly, before his face resumed its dead implacable expression.
“You may as well take a breath,” he said quietly. There was a gasp from beyond the far doorway as someone followed his advice.
“Damn,” said someone, “I forgot about the dog.”
He dropped into the doorway—apparently from somewhere near the ceiling—a short, dark man in a
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