"So, what's the deal?" Hansum asked. "The story?" He knew there was always a story.
"All you have to know is this. You're illiterate peasants. Hansum and Lincoln are apprentices to a spectacle maker. Shamira, you're a kitchen girl."
"What's a spectacle maker?" Lincoln enquired.
"He makes eyeglasses."
"What are eyeglasses?" he persisted.
"You'll find out," Elder Barnes answered.
"What's a kitchen girl?" Shamira asked.
"You'll clean house and cook."
"Clean? And cook? In here?" she asked, looking at the rustic surroundings.
"I'm hungry," Lincoln said. "When do we eat?"
"You apparently refused to eat before you left home, didn't you, Lincoln? Now you'll have to wait." Lincoln stuck out his lower lip and scowled.
Elder Barnes looked at Hansum sitting quietly, a quirky smile on his face.
"Have you nothing to add?" she asked.
"Nope," Hansum answered lightly.
"All right then. See you in a month or so." And with that, Elder Cynthia walked out of the house.
"Wait!" Lincoln shouted, jumping to his feet, but the door slammed shut. The teenagers were alone. They looked at each other.
"Hey," Hansum said in way of a greeting.
"Hey," Shamira answered.
"This is stupid," Lincoln added, putting a hand to his stomach.
They all looked around, expecting something to happen.
Shamira said, "I say we just refuse to do anything."
"Yeah," Lincoln agreed angrily. "What can they do? Nothin'!"
"Probably," Hansum said. "But that's not very creative. Why don't we have some fun with them?"
"How?" Shamira asked.
"Well," Hansum began, and then he smiled and motioned for the others to come close to him. Every child in the twenty-fourth century knew when a friend did this, he or she wanted to say something that an A.I. shouldn't hear. Hansum cupped his hand and whispered to the others' ears, "My mother's a History Camp elder. I know how these places work. The best way to screw with their heads is to make believe you're cooperating. Then, when you know what their game is, you figure a way to disrupt."
"Yeah," Lincoln said, his attitude brightening.
"But how?" Shamira asked.
"Like I said, we'll just play along till we know enough to screw with them."
"Yeah, screw with them," Lincoln repeated.
"Too bad they took my encyclopedia slate board on the ride here," Shamira said. "It could tell us everything we wanted to know about fourteenth-century Verona."
Hansum chuckled. "Fear not, my friends. Help is at hand." Hansum looked around and then took something from the little coin pouch on his belt. He put his hand within their secret circle and opened his fingers. In his hand lay the tiny brass lamp.
"Whoa, my new friend, Hansum!" Lincoln said. "Good work!"
"A genie!" Shamira exclaimed in whispered excitement.
"Is that a new G4000?" Lincoln asked. "I heard they're super nuts."
"I don't know how crazy this genie is yet," Hansum said. "I got him from a friend this morning. Haven't had time to call him out."
Genies were better than encyclopedia slate boards, which were just repositories of universal information. A genie was an artificial intelligence which possessed universal knowledge, but enjoyed making trouble too. They were made by blackers, secretive and rebellious youths who still believed in raging against the machine. While not strictly illegal and mostly harmless, genies were frowned upon. And unlike Charlene, who was a solid entity, a genie appeared as a colorful holographic character projected from its lamp. These mechanistic rascals told their young possessors rude jokes, helped them cheat on school tests, aided in the playing of pranks and, in general, endorsed and promoted bad behavior. What more could healthy, rebellious kids ask for?
If one were to bypass a genie's holographic projection and delve into the gelbrain substance within the brass lamp, one would find reference files on every topic in the world. All text books, scientific papers, treatises, newspapers, magazines, memoirs, letters, censuses, phone books, warehouse inventories, catalogs, movies, videos, newscasts, shopping lists, match book covers, everything, absolutely everything ever recorded, scribbled, scratched and saved by homo sapiens. All this information was then put into a memory gel the size of a grain of rice. Added to this was a powerful twenty-fourth-century heuristical-cross-inference engine/personality.
"You don't know what this guy is all about?" Shamira asked.
"No, I've had A.I. solids on my keister all day."
"Well, call him out," Lincoln said.
"Hey, genie, you in there?" Hansum whispered. "C'mon out. All clear." Nothing happened.
"Maybe he's a dud," Lincoln suggested, frowning.
Suddenly the brass lamp vibrated in Hansum's hand, and a tiny voice, raspy yet lyrical, emitted from the charm.
"Spin around, my new master, so I may scan the area for prying eyes. We don't want the game over before it's begun."
Hansum looked at Lincoln and Shamira, and all looked cautiously around the room. Hansum was aware of the ever-contradictory History Camp rules of balancing privacy and safety. Since the "game" had not begun yet, students couldn't, or shouldn't be spied upon. Hansum held the charm just at his scapula, pretending to show it off as a necklace.
"What do you think if I wore it like this?" he said to the others.
"Nifty," Lincoln said, playing along.
"Spin around, like at a fashion show," Shamira said.
"Okay," Hansum agreed, impressed with the quick thinking of both his new comrades in trouble. The genie would be scanning the room in its entirety. Hansum stopped spinning and said, seemingly to the other teens, "So, what do you think?"
"All clear," the gravelly voice said.
Hansum smiled and put the small brass oil lamp onto the table. Immediately a wisp of holographic smoke curled out of the lamp's tiny spout, then poof, an image about twenty-five centimeters stood in front of them. It was a little satyr. He had the hind legs and hooves of a goat, a dwarfish human body and head, pointed ears, bushy eyebrows, short dreadlocks, and an impish smile.
"Wow," Hansum said.
"Greetings, interestingly costumed youth," the gnarly image said. "My name is Pan, the god of Arcadia and anarchy, at your service." Pan gave a salutary bow then looked up. "And you must be Hansum. Mistress Rosalind told me all about you. She thinks you're hot stuff," he said, winking.
"You don't look so crazy," Lincoln said.
"Looks can be deceiving," the hairy image replied as his slit eyes glowed a hot yellow.
"Great!" Lincoln said, gleefully.
Shamira was peering at the little image intensely. "I've looked at lots of artwork from the Greek period," she said. "I love to draw all the gods. Pan is one of my favorites."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, dear lady," he said, bowing again. "So, I now have, not one, but two masters and a charming mistress. Oh, blessings upon me, it is my joy to serve. Did I hear correctly while seconded within Master Hansum's coin pouch that your names are Shamira and Lincoln?"
"Yes," Shamira answered, still looking at him as if she were getting ready to draw. "Are you always that tiny?"
"No, my default size is actually a grand meter in height, but I can be any size — or shape."
"Listen, you guys," Hansum said, "we better get crackin'. Whatever they have planned is going to get going soon. They won't let us cool our heels long."
"What's the situation?" the little imp asked. "Does it have anything to do with those costumes you're wearing?"
"Yeah, we're at a History Camp," Shamira said.
"A hard-time History Camp," Lincoln added. "And they're not feeding us!"
"Ah, so the scene is set and all the actors assembled. I shall join the fray as gadfly to a picnic and we shall make jolly upon the heads of your oppressors. Tell me, do we know at least what year this is supposed to be?
&nb
sp; "Thirteen-forty seven, Italy," Hansum said.
"Holy Hades, God of the underworld," Pan said, looking shocked. "The year of the Black Death. They really do want to scare you."
"The black what?"
"Never mind that now," Pan said. "Is there more to tell?"
"Well, Lincoln and I are supposed to be apprentices to a spectacle maker," Hansum said.
"And I don't even know what a spectacle is," Lincoln added.
"I'm supposed to be a kitchen girl. Here! Yuck!"
"Not much to go on, but interesting, interesting," Pan said, stroking his chin. "Well, time is on our side, as it always is with youth. Let's see, let's see, how to begin?" he said, looking around thoughtfully. "Aha! Hansum, upon your tunic I perceive a fold of cloth where the shoulder meets the sleeve. There is a bit of loose thread there. Shamira, as an artist, deft must be your fingers. Slip my lamp into yon fold and secure it, hidden from sight, with the thread. Make sure that the top of the lamp is facing out of a tiny opening which you must leave. From this aperture I shall not only be able to view the scene of our actions, but also direct a sonic beam toward each of your ears. This way only you three will be able to hear any instructions I may give. Hansum, I must rely on you to move your shoulder and point where I say." The teenagers grinned, enjoying the idea of another voice being back in their heads.
"Excellent," Hansum commented.
"Zippy!" Lincoln laughed.
Less than a minute later, Shamira was tightening the thread that hid Pan from view. Lincoln had his nose close to the tiny opening for the A.I. to look out of.
"Can you really see out of that little thing and send us secret messages?"
"Yes, Master Lincoln," Pan said. "When I whisper thus, I can direct a sonic beam, and even bend it slightly, compressed so only those ears into which I choose can hear it."
"Hey, that tickles," all three teens said at once. The sonic beam caused an echoing whisper in their inner ears.
"And you even can bend the beam so Hansum can hear you. Zippy," Lincoln said.
"I shall be your wiser advisor," Pan whispered again. "Your teacher of trouble. Your maven of mischief."
Just then, the door to the house swung open again.
Chapter 6
Hansum and the others turned. A very large man stood before them. He wore a collarless blouse under a heavily stained wool sweater. Even his coarse leggings were grimy. But the oddest part of his appearance was the heavy, bone-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. The magnifying properties of the lenses made his eyes look like an owl's. The man stared at them for a moment and then he smiled broadly.
"So here you are!" he said gleefully. "I went to the church to meet you, but they said the priest brought you to my house already. Benvenuto, my a-new apprentices! Welcome." The teenagers just stood and stared back at him. The big man furrowed his brow. "Hey, what's-a matter?" he continued. "Cat got all your tongues? Why you just stand there? Madonna mia!" While the man was talking in Earth Common, he spoke with a heavy Italian accent and added in the occasional Italian word or phrase. Hansum knew that since visitors to History Camps couldn't be expected to know every language ever spoken, the enactors had to talk in the common language and simulate the feel of a foreign or ancient dialect. The man accented his speech by waving his meaty hands, which were stained a deep red.
"What?" Shamira asked.
"What? What?" the man repeated. "You ask what? What are you, stupida? Maybe I should send you and your brother back to your papa?"
"My brother? I don't have a brother," Shamira said. In the twenty-fourth century two words seldom heard were brother and sister; or, for that matter, cousins, nephews or nieces. For centuries the one-child family had been a strict law. Now that the planet's population had reached the agreed human target level of three hundred million, laws were changing. People could win the right to a second child through a lottery.
Lincoln looked closely at the enactor and laughed. "Jesus, this guy's pretty zippy!"
In a blink, the man was over to Lincoln and slapped him across the back of his head. "No cursin'! No takin' God's name in vain! Not in my house! Not ever!"
Lincoln froze with shock. He had never in his whole life been hit. "Jesus . . ." he blurted again. A fresh slap landed on his skull. Not hard, but hard enough.
"I said no use the Lord's name in a curse!" he shouted. The man raised a red-stained hand over his head. Lincoln looked up at a face so contorted the eyebrows came together.
"Okay, okay, that's enough," Hansum said, stepping between them.
The door of the house opened again and a tall, buxomly woman entered.
"Giuseppe, why do you shout so?" she asked. Then she saw the teenagers and became excited. "They're here. Oh, they're here!" she cried emotionally. "Thanks be to Cristo, you are all safe! Benvenuto. Thanks be to Cristo!" She came over and grabbed the children in turn, kissing each one on both cheeks. "Benvenuto, benvenuto. Oh, you must be Carmella. Thanks be to Cristo, you are safe. Thanks be to Cristo," she kept repeating. Then she stepped back. "Oh Giuseppe, look at them. Such beautiful children," she said dabbing her eyes with her veil.
"They're not children. They're my apprentices and your kitchen girl."
"Yes, but thanks be to Cristo they're safe. Father Lura arranged with your parents to come to us from the country. This bigga city must be so scary to you. It was to me when I was a girl. But you get used to it. Where's Father Lura?"
"He just dropped them off and left," the enactor named Giuseppe said.
Hansum smiled again. He knew how things worked at History Camp. The enactors were giving the newcomers a back story, continually feeding them information about their new selves. If a stubborn child refused to play along, denying his or her new identity, they would be ignored till they relented. It could take a few hours or a few days. Hansum decided to play along, to see what was up.
"That's it, Giuseppe. The priest just left us here," Hansum said. "Yes, Signora. We're supposed to tell you he was busy and had to go." He could see something in the woman's eyes, surprise that a new recruit was playing along so quickly. But as fast as it showed, it passed. Then Hansum felt a swat on the back of his head.
"You talk to a lady without a proper introduction?" the big man bellowed. "And you call me by my Christian name? I am your master. You call me Master! Master Cagliari!" Hansum took a half step backward as the large enactor made like he was going to swat him again, daring the teenager to say something. But Hansum smiled and bowed a little, thinking what a good actor this man was. The enactor calmed down and said, "This is my wife, Signora Cagliari."
"Buon giorno, la Signora Cagliari," Hansum said in Italian, offering another half bow.
"Oh, you see, Giuseppe, such nice manners," the Signora gushed. She came forward and offered her hand. "You so tall. You must be Romero. And the priest said you even have a last name. Monticelli? Yes, that's it. Romero Monticelli." Hansum took her hand gently and bowed again, accepting his new name. "And you must be Carmella," the woman said to Shamira. "Such a beautiful face. Bella."
"He's not-a Romero. He's-a Hansum," Lincoln said, speaking in a silly Italian accent.
"Yes, he's very handsome," the Signora said without skipping a beat. "And you're cute too, Maruccio. That's your name, eh? I am Signora Cagliari, Maruccio." She repeated his new name, saying it slowly.
Lincoln made a face and replied in his affected accent, "I'm not no Mericutie or whatever. I'm-a Lincoln. And he's not-a Romero. His name is-a Hansum. And she's Shamira."
The Master reached toward Lincoln and grabbed the top of his liripipe, pulling on it so it uncovered his head and lay across his back. Lincoln's hair popped up in every direction, giving him a comical look.
"You take off your hat when you talk to my wife," the Master said. "This is the lady who feeds you. Show respect!"
"Feeds me? Finally. Hey, I'm starving!"
"Sure, Maruccio," the Signora said. "Don't you worry. Carmella and I will make you a nice meal. It will be ready
in a few hours."
"Hours? My stomach is goin' nuts now!" Lincoln complained.
"HEY! Watch your mouth!" the Master shouted.
Hansum laughed loudly, to get Lincoln's attention. "Hey, Maruccio," he said. When Lincoln looked, Hansum scratched his shoulder, pointing with one finger where Pan was hidden.
"Oh, yeah," Lincoln said, a devilish smile coming to his lips. Then he said with an unsubtle tone that indicated he intended to get even with these people, "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Mericutie. Call me that. That'll be just zippy!"
"Don't we have last names?" Shamira asked the Signora, seeming to get in the game.
"I don't know," Signora Cagliari said. "Do you and your brother have a last name?"
Shamira and Lincoln looked puzzled at each other. They shrugged. The Signora added, "Then I guess you don't. It's common enough."
"Okay," the Master said, clapping his hands together. "Boys, you come with me to the shop. It's time to start learning your new trade." The teens looked at each other, apprehensive about being separated. "I said, let's go! Andiamo!" And with that, he whacked Hansum on the back and pulled Lincoln by the shoulder.
"Keep your tights on, man!" Lincoln complained as he was marched toward the door.
"Watch your mouth," the Master said, opening the door and pulling Lincoln through. "Or it will be more than your stomach hurting."
"Keep the faith . . . Carmella," Hansum said, winking at Shamira as he exited. The door closed and Shamira was alone with the female enactor.
"When will they be back?" Shamira asked apprehensively.
"Do not worry, my dear," the Signora said. "Dinner is nine o'clock. They'll be back for then."
"Nine tonight? That's a long time."
"No, no. Morning, dear. Dinner."
"Where I come from dinner is at night."
"How strange. We have dinner at nine in morning and supper at five at night."
"We do breakfast at eight in the morning, lunch at noon and dinner, some call it supper, at six or seven."
"Really? Three meals in one day? How you get any work done? Well, you're in the big city now. When in a Rome, do as Romans do. When in Verona . . ."
Shamira looked deeply into the eyes of the enactor Signora, who was looking back at her with bright, friendly eyes.
"Man, everything is strange here," Shamira said offhandedly.
"Yes, you come from a farm to a big city. Of course things seem odd. But you get used to it."