Laughing Wolf (5 page)

Things were as his father had left them, the books, the pens and paper (who else wrote with a pen?), the Latin dictionary, the magnifying glass, the leather-bound armchair, the old Roman coins. And … oh. A glass of wine was resting on his desk. Was this the source of that penetrating odour?

Felix drew closer. He ran his hand along the desk's smooth surface and installed himself in its throne-like chair. The room was thick with his father's presence and Felix half expected him to walk in at that moment. Being careful not to disturb anything, he leaned forward and sniffed the contents of the glass.

It
was
the source of the smell. Over time, the wine had turned to vinegar, hence the sour, pungent aroma. Felix smiled. “Vinegary,” Aceticus, was the author of the book that his father had been reading …

His smile faded. He recalled his father's statement, how the book had something to say about the plague. “It's all in there,” he'd murmured, motioning to the tome. At the time Felix had been too scared to pay attention, but he wondered now what his father had meant. He exited the study with a purposeful step.

“Would you like a game of chess?”

“Not now, Mentor. I'm looking for a book.”

“What book would that be?”

“Aceticus's
Historiae
. It's thin and bound in dark blue leather.”

“It is on the table next to the entrance.”

“Thank you, Mentor. That's very helpful.”

Felix ran to the front door and, yes, the book was there. Caressing it, he remembered with a pang how he'd seen it last in his father's hands. He opened it slowly to a page with a bookmark — the paper was yellow and dusty with age.

A paragraph jumped out at him.

The book almost slipped from his fingers. Stumbling to the couch on legs as weak as jelly, he fumbled with the book and read the passage over.

He shook his head in disbelief. Turning back three pages, he read their contents, too, studying every sentence with painstaking care. At one point he consulted a Latin lexicon, to check the exact meaning of a couple of words.

An hour passed. Mentor suggested that he eat something but Felix replied he wasn't a bit hungry. An hour later Mentor spoke again, but Felix shrugged him off.

When the old clock in the dining room struck six, Felix put the book away. He'd read the Latin ten times over and still couldn't believe the story it told. No wonder the text had absorbed his father. “
Lupus ridens
,” he murmured to himself.

He considered his options. The facts he'd discovered were of vital importance and had to be brought to someone's attention but … how? It would take days to contact the Information Bureau, and even if he did get through, the auto-clerks weren't programmed to forward his call.

But the information was crucial and he had to do something.

“You seem pensive,” Mentor stated, breaking in on his thoughts.

“I have a problem,” Felix answered. “I've found some information that the authorities should hear.”

“It will take four days and sixteen hours to reach the Information Bureau ….”

“Yes,” Felix snapped. “That's why I'm debating what my next step should be.”

“On the other hand,” Mentor went on, ignoring Felix's burst of temper, “you can inform the authorities by communicating with a talk-show host.”

“Like whom?” Felix asked, his interest piqued.

“Monitoring,” Mentor said, initiating a search of the broadcast network. “At present there are 17573 talk shows worldwide.”

“I need one with a wide viewing audience ….”

“
The Angstrom Show
has ten million viewers. It is running currently on channel 213. Shall I engage the Entertainment Complex?”

“My dad hated that machine,” Felix gulped.

“If your information is crucial, I am sure your father would understand.”

“All right,” Felix relented. “Please screen
The Angstrom Show
.”

No sooner had he reached this decision than a bright light appeared above the EC console and, like clay being shaped upon a potter's wheel, assumed the form of two men sitting before a globe of the world. The blonde-haired giant in a Klytex suit was Siegfried Angstrom, the talk show's host. On his right was Dr. Lee — or so a banner proclaimed — chief director of the Science Institute.

“Let's cut to the chase,” Angstrom was saying. “When will we have a cure for the plague?”

“I really can't say,” Dr. Lee replied.

“Not even a rough estimate? A week? Two weeks? A month? A year?”

“As I explained, we haven't determined the virus's structure. Until we do, we can't replicate —”

The EC was starting to beep — Mentor was processing a request for connection. Felix started breathing hard. The thought suddenly struck him that, if he appeared on the show, millions would be watching. The idea made him nervous.

“… But we're running out of time,” Angstrom said. “Half the population has been hit with the virus. They're getting by on life support, but that won't help if the plague keeps spreading.”

“I agree. The problem is that a cure continues to elude us.”

The pair kept talking. Angstrom kept hinting that the scientists were lazy, while the doctor kept repeating that his centre was doing the best it could. Every two minutes, Angstrom would let a caller speak. These people, too, were angry with the doctor and kept blaming the scientists for dragging their feet.

After watching the show for nearly an hour, Felix started thinking he was wasting his time. People were calling from all over the globe, and the chances of connection were maybe one in a million. But no sooner had this thought registered than the EC started flashing red. Moments later a 3D image of Felix was visible beside Siegfried Angstrom and the doctor.

Shocked, Felix realized he was on the air.

“Felix Taylor from Toronto is on the line,” Angstrom said. “Good evening, Felix. What's on your mind?”

“Pardon me?” Felix asked, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.

“Don't tell me you're nervous,” Angstrom jeered. “Or maybe your ERR implants have failed?”

“I've never undergone ERR,” Felix gulped, trying hard to focus his thoughts.

“You've got to be kidding!” Angstrom growled. “In that case, call back when you've undergone treatment or have a grip on your nerves.”

“No, I'm fine,” Felix spoke, swallowing his terror.

“Okay.” Angstrom smiled. “Have you a question for our guest?”

“Actually,” Felix said, inhaling deeply, “I'd like to report a discovery I've made.”

“How exciting!” Angstrom grinned. “Please share it with our viewers.”

Aware that the host was poking fun at him, Felix described his father's routines, how he'd worked in the Depository, brought home piles of books and taught his son both Latin and Greek. The point was, Felix added, as Angstrom shifted restlessly, that he'd stumbled on an ancient text that cast some light on the plague.

“Let me get this straight,” Angstrom interrupted. “You're saying a book that was written in the past has something to say about the disaster we're facing?

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“Then I've heard enough,” Angstrom smirked, leaning forward to press the disconnect button.

“You don't understand!” Felix said sternly. “I'm saying this same plague struck two thousand years ago!”

At this news Angstrom flinched, while the doctor sat up straight in his chair.

“It will become clearer if I read to you,” Felix explained, opening the
Historiae
to the page with the bookmark. Angstrom and the doctor leaned forward in their seats.

“‘Two days after the death of Spartacus,” he read, “a plague broke out near the town of Panarium, a small but prosperous farming centre. Without warning, people in the town fell ill. Spots erupted on their faces, their necks grew swollen, and their fingertips turned red, as if they'd been immersed in blood. Its victims also lapsed into a sleep so deep that no amount of shaking would possibly rouse them.'” Felix paused for breath and addressed Angstrom directly. “Notice the symptoms. Facial spots, red fingertips, coma …”

“Are you a doctor?” Angstrom asked.

“No.”

“Then you have no right to jump to conclusions. In fact —”

“‘For a month,” Felix went on reading, to prevent himself from being cut off, “the plague rampaged like a conquering army. Rich and poor fell ill, Roman and non-Roman, slave and master, honest folk and criminals. Offerings were delivered to the gods, but still the plague continued, drawing strength from every victim it claimed. Hearing of this sickness, officials in Rome grew worried. If the plague reached the capital, it would kill people by the tens of thousands. Rome's foes might attack it in its weakened state, and slaves might remember Spartacus and continue his rebellion. The fate of the empire seemed to hang in the balance.'”

“Slaves, war, invasion!” Angstrom growled, his 3D image recoiling in horror. “I think you've tried our patience enough!”

“I'm getting to the important part —”

“Finish quickly,” the doctor broke in. “This talk of the past is most unpleasant.”

“‘In the third week of the crisis,'” Felix pressed on, “‘The plague struck the capital. Within days three thousand Romans lay dying. As officials struggled to halt the disease, and citizens prepared to flee the city, a farmer from Panarium made the strangest claim. Some months before the plague had started, his entire crop had failed. His fields had produced, not wheat and barley, but an ungainly flower called
lupus ridens
, so named because its petals resembled a laughing wolf. His neighbours had assumed he had offended the gods and refused to provide his household with grain. In desperation, the farmer had fed his family this flower, whose bulb, though bitter, was highly nutritious. The results were startling. Whereas every neighbour had fallen ill, the farmer was in perfect health. Far from being a curse, the
lupus ridens
was a blessing.'”

“What barbarians!” Angstrom snorted, “To believe in gods …!”

“‘Hearing this tale,'” Felix concluded, “‘the senator Gaius Julius Caesar bought the flowers from the farmer and distributed bulbs throughout Italy. Within weeks of eating the
lupus ridens
, citizens were delivered from the brink of death: they awoke from their sleep, their spots disappeared and their red fingertips regained their normal colour. And thus it was that a simple flower saved the empire in its hour of need.'”

Felix closed the book. “So you see,” he concluded, “this plague does have a cure. We only have to find this
lupus ridens
and —”

“Enough!” Angstrom cried. “How dare you mention … fairy tales! If you'd undergone ERR, you'd be thinking with your head and not your emotions!”

“This is no fairy tale!” Felix said hotly. “Just because it was written —”

“At a time when people thought the sun was a god,” Angstrom sneered. “And when slavery and war were everyday occurrences.”

“But the story tells us something,” Felix cried. “Don't you think so, Doctor?”

“I think,” the doctor mused, “that we've heard enough superstition for one day.”

“My feelings exactly,” Angstrom agreed. “Now if you don't mind, Felix, there are other callers on the line.”

Felix was about to protest, but Angstrom pressed a button and his holographic image popped like a bubble.

As he sat on the couch without moving a muscle, other guests connected and ridiculed his tale about the
lupus ridens
. A few suggested that Mr. Taylor should be jailed for having taught his son such absolute nonsense and that all ancient texts should be thrown into a furnace. Felix asked Mentor to turn the EC off.

The sun was setting. Shadows were gathering in the room. His loneliness a crushing weight on his shoulders, Felix curled into a ball and slowly drifted off.

Chapter Five

H
e was standing in a desert. Around him was a crowd of legionnaires, who looked tired and … apprehensive. They were staring in front of them, with such concentration that they failed to notice Felix. Curious, he moved through their ranks, and still they continued to direct their gaze forward. What WERE they looking at?

Wait! The troops were suddenly changing: their faces were spotted, their fingertips were reddening and many were collapsing! He sprinted toward the foremost ranks where a figure was surveying the plain before him. Felix knew this was Marcus Crassus and that the battle of Carrhae was about to begin, one of Rome's more troubling defeats. Even now the Parthians were approaching, with their fifteen-foot pikes. What was on the end of each? It couldn't be! Hoisted on high, beneath the blinding desert sun, his father's head stared lifelessly at Felix.…

Felix awoke with a cry. He'd been napping on the couch and, with the night's onset, the unit was steeped in shadow. Wait, no. A flashing light intruded from outside, and an angry buzzing was making his ears ring — as if a hive of bees had broken into their dwelling.

“Mentor? What's happening?”

The flashing light grew brighter. The buzzing, too, rose in volume, until Felix could feel his insides tingle. He struggled off the couch and studied the room. His instincts told him something was wrong.

“Mentor! Answer me! What's going on?”

Wait. Mentor's light ports weren't blinking; a sign his power had been cut. But how? The system was linked to three separate generators, and a short like this was out of the question — unless it had been engineered.

Felix's hair stood on end. Somehow someone had …
murdered
Mentor!

“Felix Taylor!” a voice hailed him from outside, “This is Medevac 125037. We are here to transport you to a health facility.”