Space Magic by David D. Levine, Sara A. Mueller Page A

the protective daemon was hard at work.
    The sun raised wisps of steam from the sodden ground and glinted from the puddles that lay everywhere. A hungry winter lay ahead, but there might be time for one small harvest before the snows and there was the promise of an early, daemon-driven spring.
    As they approached the village square they saw that a celebration was already in progress. People danced in circles, joyous at the sun’s warmth on their upturned faces.
    “Ulrich,” Agnes said, “it has been twelve years since Lannesdorf had a wizard of its own. Will you consider staying here with us?”
    Ulrich stopped walking. He stared at the shiny red seal on the spell-book. At last he spoke. “I will consider it. If I can find a wizard to complete my instruction. If my journeymen have not destroyed the shop in my absence. And if the village will build a proper house for me. One with wood floors.”
    “I do not know if these things can be arranged,” she said. “But we will see. Come, now, let us enjoy the fine weather.”
    Agnes took Ulrich’s arm, and together they joined the celebration in the village square.

Rewind

    A flash outside the Venetian blinds sent a crazy striped parallelogram of flickering orange light splashing across the wall of Clark Thatcher’s room. The plastic IV bag hanging at the head of his bed caught some of the light and reflected it onto his legs, a bright orange amoeba that danced and jiggled for a moment until the crash of the explosion frightened it away. Then he heard sirens, and shouting.
    Thatcher craned his neck, straining against the straps that held him to the bed, but all he could see outside was a pale yellow flicker and moving shadows. Through the small window in his door, nothing but the same hospital-sterile light he’d seen since he’d been here.
    How long was that? Hours. Maybe a day. Ironic, for a Knight not to know the time. But something soft filled his mouth, and no matter how hard he bit down his system would not activate.
    He heard gunshots. More shouting. Was it getting closer? Hard to concentrate. The cold fluid seeping into his arm turned his muscles to putty and his brain to jelly. He pulled again against the straps. If he could get loose, maybe he could escape in the chaos of—whatever was happening out there.
    If he couldn’t get loose, this was the end of the line. They would cut him open, take out the central stabilizer and a few other expensive and delicate parts, and let him die on the table. They probably wouldn’t even bother sewing him up again.
    Knowing Duke—knowing what he knew now about Duke—they might not even put him under first.
    Duke, you bastard , he thought, you used to be my hero .
    Movement outside the door. Voices. Thatcher held his breath, listened with his whole body.
    “Halt!” A pause, then: “This area’s restricted, ma’am.”
    “Thank God I found someone!” A woman’s voice, torn with panic. “They came through the window! They’re in the staff lounge on the third floor!”
    “Shit! Preston, stay here with the nurse.”
    Thudding of boots down the hallway.
    “Preston, was it?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Mister Preston, I... oh my God! Behind you!” Then a gunshot—astonishingly loud in the enclosed space, though it sounded like something small-caliber.
    The doorknob rattled. A face in the window, briefly. Voices again: the woman, and others. Talking too softly for Thatcher to make out over the rapid thudding of his heart. Another shot, even louder, and the door shattered open. The hard fluorescent light cut solid slices in the dusty air. Sharp sting of gunpowder in Thatcher’s nose.
    Three people entered the room: a nurse, and two men in fatigues, with blackened faces. The nurse and one of the men dragged a body in with them—one of the door guards. “Is that Thatcher?” said the other man, low and hard. He had a beard.
    “Yeah,” said the first man. “Thatcher, we’re from the CLU. We’re getting you out of