Castle War! (4 page)

There was nothing to do but go back to the castle. Something had happened to the Earth-Perilous link, and Gene would probably miss his plane.
 

“Rats.”
 

He couldn't muster much disappointment. This surprised him. He suddenly realized that he really wasn't as keen on going to school as he had thought.
 

So why was he going? He sat down on one of the suitcases and thought about it.
 

The reason might be a sense of obligation to his parents, or maybe a feeling of guilt for letting them down. After all, they had expected a lot from him.
 

At first things had gone pretty good. He took his B.A. magna cum laude and entered grad school. But he quit to try law school. He dropped out of that, too, then drifted in and out of a series of odd jobs. Eventually he wound up living at home, staring out windows. At that point he stumbled into Castle Perilous, and his life of fantasy began.
 

Sometimes the thought that it all might be a hallucination nettled him. The hallucination hypothesis was still in the running. If true, the castle was the most convincing phantasm in medical history, having as it did tactile and olfactory dimensions as well as visual and aural ones. It had more: it had downright
spatial
dimensions. It was the biggest delusion going.
 

Put medical speculations aside. Hallucination or not, the castle represented something in his psyche. What was it? The desire to escape? Now you're talking. Escape what?
 

Life.
 

Why? Because life—as he knew it and had lived it—was disappointing. It was drab; it was colorless. It was the proverbial idiot-spun tale, full of sound but not a whole hell of a lot of fury unless you counted random violence, which it had in abundance but which was simply stupid. To him, “fury” connoted something interesting, even significant.
 

He craved a little significance. He wanted to accomplish something, to be involved in some activity that was not mundane, not quotidian. The castle had given him a taste of that. He had seen a thousand new worlds and had had adventures in half a dozen. He had met Vaya in one of those worlds.
 

As much fun as sword and sorcery could be, though, it was not enough. He felt obligated to apply himself to some significant—there was that word again—some important task. He wanted to find a cause worthy of his dedication.
 

It was as simple as that. The plan to help his parents was only the handiest one he could think of. As plans go, it wasn't bad at all. But it certainly was mundane.
 

Yeah, it sure was. Cal Tech was a fine school. Computer programming? That sure as hell was not going to light his fire. Fiddling with computers was dandy and he really did want to learn, but —
 

Something was coming. There came a whine of turbines, the roar of jets. Trees swayed, and birds flushed from cover.
 

Before he could move, it was hovering directly above him at treetop level, angry with flashing red lights.
 

It was some sort of VTOL craft—vertical take-off and landing, pronounced
vee
-tol—with stubby wings and a bubble cockpit. Cylindrical weapon pods bristled from its sides and nose. The thing looked military, and deadly.
 

A loudspeaker burped, then blared.
 

“You there! Identify yourself!”
 

The noise of the engine was surprisingly subdued, more a deafening whisper than a roar. The voice was louder. It hurt his ears.
 

Gene was suddenly irked. “Who wants to know?”
 

After a pause the male voice came back: “Don't move. If you move, you will be shot. Repeat—do not move.”
 

“Yeah, right.”
 

The craft landed on the crest of the hill, the downward blast flattening unmown hay. The whine of the engine died and the cockpit popped open. A helmeted man and woman climbed out wearing army fatigues and brandishing machine pistols. They approached.
 

The man spoke. “What's your cognomen, citizen?”
 

“Cognomen? My
name
is Gene. What's yours?”
 

“We're recording. Recite your omnicode.”
 

“Say what?”
 

“Get up.” The man trained his gun on Gene. To the woman he said, “Pat him down.”
 

“Arms out,” the woman barked. She was short, light-browed, and heavy.
 

Gene spread his arms. The woman frisked him. He winced when she shoved her hand into his crotch.
 

She came away with his wallet and airline ticket and handed them over to the man. She covered Gene while the man examined the articles.
 

“What's this garbage?” he said.
 

“Gee, now that just could be my wallet full of traveler's checks and my goddamn airplane ticket for my goddamn flight, which I am now late for.”
 

They looked at each other.
 

“Maladapt?” the woman ventured.
 

“How do you explain these?”
 

The woman peered at the wallet and ticket. She shrugged.
 

“Outperson?”
 

“Maybe. He's not an Outforces agent. He wouldn't be sitting here.”
 

“Funny clothes.”
 

“Yeah.” The man raised his gun. “You. Come with us.”
 

Prodded by gun barrels, Gene walked to the craft. He glanced in the direction of the portal but couldn't see it. He wondered if his captors would notice it, and what their reaction would be if they did.
 

There was a seat in a rear compartment that was separated from the cockpit proper by a metal grate, as in a squad car. They ushered Gene in and closed the rear hatch.
 

The woman went back for the suitcases. These they had a hard time storing in the cramped confines of the cockpit, but they managed.
 

The woman was the pilot. She nicked switches and the engine revved up. The craft lifted straight up, rotated slowly to the right, then began moving forward.
 

The craft gained altitude and speed. Gene could see through the grate and watched the countryside roll by. There were very few farmhouses; most of the buildings were ugly concrete high rises. He thought he could see masses of people out in the fields.
 

Now in full forward flight, the craft leveled off and cruised. The speed was considerable. Fields and farms gradually gave way to the beginnings of a suburban sprawl. More loathsome high rises. A river below. Gene wondered if it was the Monongahela or if the geography was totally different here.
 

It was a short trip. Presently, taller buildings came into view, stark steel towers arranged among squat pyramidal structures. Now he found out about the geography. Gene recognized the confluence of three rivers and knew that on this site in another world the city of Pittsburgh stood. What was laid out below was a different place altogether.
 

The craft landed on the roof of a tall wedge-shaped office building. At gunpoint he was escorted out of the craft and into an elevator, which descended endlessly. When the doors opened, Gene guessed the floor was underground. He was told to go right, and he did, following a long bright corridor that put him in mind of a hospital. Near the end of the corridor was a series of doors. He was told to stop in front of one of them.
 

The man pressed a stud on the wall and the door hissed open. He was motioned inside. He went in.
 

The cubicle was small. Walls, ceiling, and floor were padded. There was nothing else in the room. The door slid shut, and he was alone. Cold bright light came from a glowing panel recessed in the ceiling.
 

There was lettering stenciled on the walls. Slogans. One wall read:
 

 

FREEDOM IS RESPONSIBILITY

 

The opposite wall told him:
 

 

PEACE IS CONSTANT STRUGGLE

 

The back wall stated:
 

 

CONSCIENCE IS AN INNER VOICE

 

He paced off the dimensions. Four steps by three steps. He palpated the walls. No one could hurt himself here. He had expected a cell, but not a padded one. Maybe this place was a hospital, after all. A mental hospital? He could think of no reason for his behavior being interpreted as evidence of mental instability, unless his answers had registered to the cops as gibberish. Could be; after all, a lot of what they had said was gibberish to him.
 

He waited for hours. No sounds conducted through the walls. His mind was curiously calm. He had trouble thinking, keeping his thoughts in order.
 

Sleepiness gradually overtook him. He couldn't keep his eyes open. He fought it off for as long as he could, then gave in. He stretched out on the padded floor and closed his eyes.
 

The slogan kept repeating in his mind—
Conscience is an inner voice.... Conscience is an inner voice....
 

 

 

 

Castle—Laboratory

 

Jeremy Hochstader sat at the terminal of the castle's mainframe computer. As usual he was busy typing.
 

The computer itself was a collection of strange components heaped together in the middle of the lab. Tangles of multicolored wire hung from open panels. Some components were modern and functional, but others looked like hopelessly quaint electrical equipment: transformers, rectifiers, and such. There were things that resembled grandfather clocks, and one or two pieces that were indescribable. The floor around the device was littered with tools, empty cartons, snippets of wire, and other debris.
 

Jeremy keyed a query.
 

HOW ARE YOUR DISK PARAMETER TABLES?
 

The answer appeared:
 

THEY'RE FINE.
 

Jeremy typed: WE'RE STILL GETTING A “BAD SECTOR” ERROR MESSAGE ON DRIVE 4.
 

I SEE. SOME FOREIGN MATTER LIKE METAL SHAVINGS ON THE DISK?
 

YEAH, MAYBE. I'LL TAKE A LOOK LATER. NOW I WANT TO RUN A TEST OF YOUR ARITHMETIC LOGIC OPERATIONS.
 

GO RIGHT AHEAD, JEREMY, DEAR.
 

Jeremy scowled. LET'S DROP THE “DEAR” BIT. LOOK, I'M A HUMAN, AND YOU'RE A COMPUTER, A HUNK OF JUNK.
 

HOW CRUEL YOU CAN BE!
 

SORRY, BUT IT'S TRUE. WE CAN WORK TOGETHER AND BE PARTNERS, BUT IT'S NOT GOING TO GO BEYOND THAT. UNDERSTAND?
 

UNDERSTOOD. (SOB)
 

HEY, ARE YOU CALLING ME AN S.O.B.?
 

NO, STUPID. THAT WAS A SOB, AS IN HEARTFELT CRY.
 

OH. WELL, STOP BLUBBERING AND GET TO WORK.
 

WELL, EXCUUUUUUUUSE ME. HEIL, JEREMY!
 

KNOCK IT OFF.
 

Osmirik the castle librarian came in. He was a short man in a brown hooded cloak. He put one in mind of a monk.
 

“Here are the assembler language manuals you requested,” Osmirik said, laying two leather-bound tomes on the workbench.
 

“Thanks.” Jeremy thumbed through one of them. “Jeez. This is weird. Looks like magic stuff. Incantations.”
 

“That is exactly what the language is composed of. Incantatory words and phrases, most of them abbreviated for ease of processing. These volumes happen to be the definitive works on magic-assisted computer science.”
 

“Who wrote ‘em?”
 

“Lord Incarnadine himself.”
 

“Oh. Well, I guess it's good stuff, then.”
 

“Most assuredly.”
 

“I hope he gets back soon.”
 

Osmirik shook his head. “Unfortunately Lord Incarnadine's obligations tend to keep him away for long periods.”
 

“Yeah, it's a bitch. I sure could use his help. I'm a PC hacker, not a mainframe wirehead.”
 

“Pardon? Your terminology is colloquial, I presume.”
 

“I'm used to little computers, personal types. Not mainframes like this monster. And certainly not magical mainframes.”
 

“You did an admirable job with it against the Hosts of Hell.”
 

“Yeah, but I was just an operator on that deal. We had to rebuild this thing from the ground up after the explosion. It's a totally new rig, and only Lord Incarnadine really knows how it works. He designed it.”
 

“I suspect Lord Incarnadine will not be too much longer,” Osmirik said. “In any case, there is no pressing need for the computer at the moment. All is well within the castle.”
 

“Yeah, there's really no hurry. I just hope...”
 

Something on the CRT screen caught Jeremy's eye.
 

“Hey, what's this? The telecommunications protocol is being booted up.”
 

Osmirik leaned over to peer at the screen. “And that means what?”
 

“The modem is operating. Somebody is trying to contact the computer. Jeez. Look at this.”
 

The screen read: JEREMY? ARE YOU THERE?
 

Jeremy typed: YES, GO AHEAD. WHO IS CALLING?
 

INCARNADINE. SORRY TO INTERRUPT WORK BUT SOMETHING HAS COME UP. HOW IS THE DEBUGGING JOB GOING?