The Cycle of Axer Carrick
Part V -- Riding the Wave
The Revised Version
by Henry Wyckoff
December 1995
Chapter 12
The tall imperial pint glass was ever-so-slowly filled with
the Guinness. Inch after inch of the foam crept up the
glass until it threatened to overflow. Axer smiled dreamily
as he gazed on it like a lost lover. The foam settled a
fraction, and he filled it the rest of the way.
About half an hour had passed since the blackboxman had been
killed. His body was so horribly burned that everyone
decided to just leave him there and hope that the cleanup
crews, who hadn't quite combed the whole area yet, would
mistake him for another riot-caused death.
It was a crying shame that the man had had to die -- he could
have provided such useful information -- but sometimes life
just rolls that way.
His pursuit of Halscombe had been fruitless -- for a very
embarrassing reason: he'd shot Axer in public, so Axer'd had to
play dead until the good Samaritans trying to "save" him
were occupied with something else. //Never thought I'd have
anything bad to say about Mormons! Why couldn't they just
let me die in peace? I guess it would take a riot like that
to flush 'em out ... baptism by proxy ... what next?//
And so Axer limped back to the Raven, even bloodier than
he had been and cursing in several languages simultaneously.
After seeing what he'd been through, Mulder didn't raise a
fuss about the issue. He was visibly furious about
Halscombe's escape, but he also understood that there's only
so much that even an immortal can do.
"I need a drink," Axer had muttered under his breath, and so
everyone else had decided it was a good time for a drink.
LaCroix looked a bit startled as he did a quick mental
inventory and realized that a significant portion of the
vodka and single malt scotch had vanished. //I'm going to
have to have a talk with Axer...// But he said nothing as
Axer became the bartender, working his own kind of magic as
he -- without taking any orders -- poured just what everyone needed.
Axer held up his imperial pint glass, making a heartfelt
toast, "Here's to a quiet evening in front of the fire, a
warm supper, and no excitement!"
A bit quaint perhaps, but everyone held up their glasses,
echoing, "No excitement!"
The hours of exhaustion flowed away from Axer's face with
the flowing of the Guinness. His expression was much
lighter as he asked, "So tell me, what did I miss?"
The expressions he got said that it was better he not know.
//Look like a bunch of spoiled brats getting back from the fields
after an honest day's work!//
* * *
Powys was sipping coffee at a New Ager coffee shop and book
store. //Hmm... Not bad, but still, nothing like Kenyan
coffee.// Looking at him, nobody would know what he'd been
through or done for the last few days, let alone the last
few weeks. It wasn't that he'd changed clothes or bathed --
he hadn't -- but it was rather some aura that people
subconsciously picked up from him that made it seem so.
In the background, a television was on, and the faint sounds
of Mystery Science Theater 3000 could be heard. A few bored
caffeine addicts were chuckling over the 'Invention
Exchange' segment. {"...And this is my idea for a fun
evening: get an egg blender, a Superman cape..."}
A man approached Powys' table. It was Peter Caine,
Toronto police detective and Powys' former partner, and he was not
amused. His eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, and his
tense body flopped into the chair with an audible thump.
"You're not an easy man to find, Powys."
Powys smiled lightly, "You know my pager number."
The faint sounds of two robots singing in discordant
harmony, {"867-5309..."}
Peter growled, "Don't even start! *I* don't think you're
pretty, so I'll have no qualms about--"
Powys interrupted, "Why would you want to find me in the first place?"
A human voice, this time came from the TV, {"I don't know...
Maybe it's because you're a wanted man?"}
"I want the whole story, and I don't want to hear a single
thing about cats! What's your game?" He rubbed his head
unconsciously, where there was still a bruise.
Powys smiled ruefully, leaning back in his chair, "It seems
everyone wants to know that. Why is it so important to you?
Don't you have any ongoing police investigations right now?"
"*This* is my investigation. You'd better start talking or
you'll find yourself in a cell."
"You wouldn't know how to handle it."
Peter crossed his arms, "Try me."
The robots and human joined together, {"You can't handle the truth!"}
Powys frowned, as if he reassessed Peter and had found something
new and disturbing. "All right. Ask."
"What are you doing here in town?"
"Gambling." After Peter snorted, he elaborated, "Not in
that sense. In fact, I just lost at poker, and I wasn't
even playing for money..." It looked as if he was at a
loss for words, and it took him a few moments to find those
words while Peter impatiently waited. "I'm here to set the
stage for something really big that's about to happen."
The robots sang again, {"It's the end of the world as we
know it..."}
That startled Peter. It rang a bell so deep that a wave
rolled through his nerves. Memories flashed through his
brain, instants seeming like eons.
*
...Powys looked at Duncan, "And yes, you have seen
my face somewhere before. Your eyes and your
instinct don't fool you -- Italy, sometime in the
early 1640s, when you were traveling through Italy
with your friend... Fitzcairn, was it not?"
"But how is it possible?" stammered Duncan. "I
don't sense you! Even an immortal who's taken no
Quickenings can be sensed!"
"If I can walk silently through a dark house with
squeaking boards, does that make me unreal or
impossible?..."
"...Then what are you?"
It took a few moments before Powys whispered,
"Random access memory. I think you understand. I
hope you do..."
*
Peter felt that he was on the edge of something. "Does this
have anything to do with random access memory?"
A dark-skinned man sitting on the other end of the coffee
shop flipped a newspaper page. He kept his hat on, which
did a good job of keeping his face shadowed. But a neatly-
trimmed, greying beard was visible. He looked up at the
two, too absorbed in their own discussion to see his intense
eyes or notice his ears -- straining to hear every word.
Powys drank some more coffee, "So you have a good memory.
What would you say random access memory is?"
The TV got turned up. {"Don't we call that *selective* memory?"}
Peter thought for a moment, "It's a computer term -- it
means the computer randomly writes and reads memory."
Powys nodded somberly. "That sums up my life rather
neatly..." He took another sip of coffee. "...It all
started off in Wales. The Vikings had long since
established the Danelaw, and even though they hadn't really
established a military foothold in the rest of England and
Wales, they had in just about every other sense. Even
though this was supposedly a Christian nation, the ferocity
of the Vikings forced everyone else to look at them, and
their gods, in awe. In those days, skepticism was only
applied towards suspicious-looking horses being sold at the
fair -- and not towards religion.
"I had been around the block for quite a long time -- having
lived for about four centuries. I 'd lived before the
advent of Christianity, and so it was a special thing for me
to see Christianity get a severe blow. History would show
that it was a kick in the chin, but I saw it then as a severe
blow to the groin. I became a priest of Loki, a Viking god
who matched many of my qualities. It didn't matter to me
that Loki was the Viking's equivalent of Satan.
"Perhaps it must have been my thirtieth year as a priest of
Loki when I woke up in the middle of the night. There was
light all around me, and I thought that someone's Quickening
was being released. When I realized that I sensed no
immortals, I knew it had to be something different -- but just
as rare and powerful.
"Before I could even sit up, rough hands took me into the
light. Before I reached the source of the light, I passed out.
"Time would play tricks on me after that. All I remember of
that time is pain, disorientation, and confusion. The only
equivalent I could offer is the sensation caused by being
blind-drunk, spun around until you drop, and then getting
the direct attention of a torturer while you're on an
artificial bronco. Not fun.
"After some time, it ended. I found myself in a deep cave,
and as my senses reasserted themselves, I saw that a tall
and bony monk stood a few feet away. He spoke not in Welsh,
Danish, nor Latin -- but in my native tongue, which had long
since died. 'You have returned.'
"'Who are you?' I demanded, reaching for a sword that wasn't
there. I discovered that I was completely naked. In those
days, peoples' sensibilities were different, so it was more
of an annoyance than anything else.
"'I am Om'g'mlgeb Oulieb.' He was laid back and totally
emotionless. Even Spock had emotions compared to this man.
"I remembered the torture session as one barely remembers a
waking dream, 'What have you done with me?' I think I had
some mad plan to wring his neck.
"'I have... altered you. Is it not a fine joke? You, a
priest of Loki, to be altered thus?'
"'What do you mean?' Oulieb - the name just came to me - got my attention, and that was
enough to hook my curiosity.
"He smiled as me as one would smile at an idiot child, 'We
are the Invisible Ones. We wait and watch, and on occasion,
we experiment. You are our experiment.'
"He didn't say any more, but he didn't need to. Thoughts
were entering my head, and I realized that they weren't just
random thoughts. More like visions. But it wasn't some
mystical thing -- you have to believe me when I say that I
hate New Agers even more than you do, and when they talk
about karma, visions, past lives, and all that garbage, it
makes me positively sick.
"It might not make any sense to you, but the most accurate
thing I can say is that I could see every future possibility
in my head as if I was watching it.
"I saw myself attack Oulieb and kill him, do nothing, kill
myself, and so on... He smiled, knowing that he and his
kind were responsible for this condition. Perhaps he wanted
to see what would become of his experiment on its own.
"What Oulieb couldn't have known is that his mistake was in
putting a lack of restraints on his experiment. He altered
me *too* well. They gave me the potential to see *every*
possibility, including the way to escape from their grasp..."
Powys frowned. "I did escape, but only so far. I became a
free agent, as much as I can be. But with freedom comes
responsibility. Because I can see all the potentials, I
have to make sure that those potentials remain unresolved
until the right moment."
Peter was rubbing at his eyes. "Have you been hanging out
with my father? I don't know how you two do it, but you
have a talent for coming up with the most incomprehensible garbage!"
A robot's voice broke in, {"I know, I know! They both grew
up reading Michael Moorcock!" "Caine is too old for that..." "DUH!"}
Powys' face lightened, "Good. Well, I told you what you
wanted to know, and you can't blame me if it doesn't make
any sense!" He got up to leave, but Peter yanked him by the
arm, slamming him back into the chair.
{"I didn't know you felt that way about me..."}
"Not yet! Since I can't make any sense out of this, I'll
assume you're telling the truth -- but you never explained
what you're doing here, now."
"I thought your memory was better than that. Because I'm
the one who can see all the possibilities, I'm the only one
who can set the stage."
"You're talking in circles..." Before Powys could say
anything else Peter continued, "I can ask you more
about that when you're in custody. Just tell me what all
that has to do with random access memory."
"Isn't it obvious? Shouldn't probability work backwards in
time as well as forward?"
Peter wanted so very desperately to pound his head into the table.
Across the room, the dark-skinned man nodded, as if a great
deal was making sense. He sipped his coffee.
* * * *