Castle War! (9 page)

“Do you think it would work?” Linda asked.
 

“I don't know, but we could try it.” Jeremy's face fell. “But I'd hate to lose the
Voyager
. If anything went wrong—”
 

“And we still have the problem of instrumentation,” Isis said.
 

Jeremy scowled and scratched his head. “Damn. Yeah, that's right. I better see if I can scrounge up something around the lab. Just what kind of energy are we talking about?”
 

“According to the cosmology texts, the energy is a function of the cosmological constant times the virtual potential gradient of one cubic meter of vacuum times the—”
 

“Whoa, wait a minute. I can't deal with
that
crap.”
 

Isis looked thoughtful. “Then again, perhaps we're exaggerating the instrumentation problem. It should be possible to get a reading along one parameter and interpolate all the rest. It just might be that a simple galvanometer reading would give us all the leverage we'd need.”
 

“Hey. I know what those are. There actually might be one around here.”
 

“Of course, we'd need several readings from different parts of the medium—if you can say that there are parts to what is essentially an imaginary space with a negative energy bias.”
 

“Well, if the plan works once, it should work again. We'll make a couple of runs.”
 

Isis brightened. “I'm game! Let's try it.”
 

“Yeah, let's.”
 

Linda got up. “Looks like you two know what you're doing. If you need any help with magic, as long as it's simple, like conjuring something—”
 

“Can you come up with a galvanometer?”
 

“I guess. I don't even know what one is, but that never stopped me from conjuring something. Hold on.”
 

Linda closed her eyes and folded her arms.
 

Something clunked onto the table behind Jeremy. He turned and picked up a small device with a gauge and two wire leads.
 

“Hey, this is one. Good work, Linda.”
 

“Easy. Give me something hard to do.”
 

Jeremy chuckled. “Why don't you conjure Incarnadine?”
 

Linda gave him a strange look. Jeremy turned around and did a take. “Wait a minute. Can you?”
 

Linda shook her head slowly. “I don't know. The thought's kind of scary.”
 

“Why couldn't you?”
 

“I don't know of any reason, but then again I really never figured out just how I conjure anything. Gene says I must reach out into the universes and pull in stuff.”
 

“Why couldn't you pull Incarnadine in?”
 

“Gee, I just don't know. I'll have to think about this.”
 

“What would the danger be?”
 

“There might not be any danger. But I just ...
don't know
.”
 

“Well, whatever you say. We'll go ahead with our original scheme, anyway. Let us know if you come up with anything.”
 

“I will. I'm going down to the dining hall again. Maybe they've found out about Thaxton and Mr. Dalton.”
 

“Okay, see you later.”
 

Linda left the room.
 

Isis smiled at Jeremy, got up, and sat in his lap.
 

“You're so resourceful, so clever. So
bright
.”
 

“Uh, thanks.”
 

“I like bright men.”
 

“You do?”
 

“I do.”
 

“Um, well.”
 

“What's the matter, Jeremy. Don't you like me?”
 

“Yeah! Sure I do.”
 

“Then what is it?”
 

“Uh, nothing. It's just that women don't go for me much. I mean, well, you know.”
 

“No, I don't.”
 

“I look like a twerp.”
 

“Jeremy, why do you put yourself down?”
 

“I'm a nerd, let's face it.”
 

“And you don't think I could like you?”
 

Jeremy shook his head. “I used to dream about women like you. Hell, every guy does. You're like a centerfold.”
 

“Why, thank you.”
 

“I mean it. You're beautiful. But I just can't believe that you're real.”
 

“But I am.”
 

“You're a computer program, for Pete's sake.”
 

“What difference does that make?”
 

“What difference? Well, I mean, you just don't go around making out with computer programs. A program is just a...”
 

“Just a pattern of information.”
 

“Yeah. Just a pattern.”
 

“So are you.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“You're just a pattern of information, too. What makes you
you
is the configuration of data that's in your brain. Your brain is just holding the information, just like a storage device. No difference. Your pattern is stored in a body, mine in a computer.”
 

Jeremy was silent. Then he said, “I never thought of it that way.”
 

“We're both software, Jeremy. Why can't we interface?”
 

“I guess ... well, maybe. But where did
your
body come from?”
 

She shrugged. “I guess you could say that my body is just a pattern of information, too. Everything is merely a configuration of data.”
 

“I don't get it. But I'll tell you one thing. I like your configuration a lot.”
 

She smiled and kissed him.
 

When she took her lips from his he said, “Why...” He took a deep breath. “Why
do
you like me?”
 

“I told you. I like bright men. Besides, you're a user, and I was created to serve users.”
 

Jeremy put his arms around her waist. “I still can't believe it. But I'm working on it.”
 

“Let's work on it together, Jeremy.”
 

“Yeah, let's.”
 

 

 

 

Forest

 

He had crossed enemy lines without incident, avoiding detection with a partial invisibility spell. The going had been risky. The energy level was low back on the plains. This world blew hot and cold on magic. In spots, like Merydion, there was little power, whereas in other places, such as his destination, the level was dangerously high. Not a few native magicians had vaporized themselves fooling with powers they couldn't control. It was an occupational hazard.
 

Now the energy gradient was steepening as he entered the Timeless Forest. Though not sufficient to power a teleportation spell, the magic of the forest was tricky. There were currents and eddies of force. Intersecting lines of influence wove a tangled web to snare the unsuspecting. He had not spent a great deal of time here, but was aware of the risk and knew some of the dangers. Yet he was by no means experienced. He would have to take it easy.
 

The trees were tall, their trunks of staggering girth. Thick loam compressed beneath his mount's hooves. The undergrowth was thin, unable to thrive in the dark under the forest canopy. Moss on tree trunks grew thick as rugs. Toadstools towered almost man-high, and morels resembled hot-air balloons. Vines like hawsers hung from the treetops.
 

He sniffed. It was high summer, but there was the definite tang of autumn in the air, the cider smell of rotting fruit. Strange.
 

He rode on, noticing odder things. Some leaves were turning. A little farther along the trail most of the foliage had bloomed into colorful fall decay. Reds, yellows, golds. Puzzled, he halted his mount and looked around.
 

The leaves seemed to change as he watched. Then they began to fall.
 

Leaves swirling around him, he continued. Soon the forest floor was a carpet of colors. The air now had the snap of early winter.
 

The sky grayed over and the temperature dropped. A snowflake drifted by. Then another. Another.
 

He rode on. The accumulation was fast and reached ankle height in no time. Wisps of steam trailed from his mount's nostrils. He wore no cloak, and had on only a short-sleeved doublet. He shivered and shook. Deepening hoof prints trailed in the snow.
 

Winds buffeted him while bare branches grasped and tangled above. He booted his mount into a slippery canter, hoping to get through the anomaly.
 

After a good stretch he eased the horse into a walk again. The snow had stopped falling. Green buds appeared, and birds sang. The snow melted. In a matter of minutes he passed from winter to spring, and then back to midsummer again.
 

“The years go by fast when you get old,” he told his horse.
 

The trail forked ahead. He stopped to get his bearings. He was inclined to take the right fork, and did.
 

Warm breezes brought the smell of wildflowers as he rode through sun-dappled shade. Sagging branches creaked, and a lone bird twitted at him. The trees were more slender now, but still tall. Shelves of yellow fungus ringed an occasional stump. Passing through a swarm of gnats, he fended them off, and journeyed on.
 

* * * *

An hour passed, and the trail fed into another. A line of hoof prints marked the dirt. He turned right and followed them.
 

Ahead the trail diverged. It looked like the same fork, to which he had come full circle. His own trace went off to the right.
 

“Left, this time, I think.”
 

He went at a trot, and another hour passed. He tried to watch the sky and the angle of the sun, but it did no good. At length he came around again, the way merging with the original trail. This time two sets of hoof prints went to the left, and again he confronted the parting of the ways.
 

He abandoned the trail and urged his horse through the underbrush, dodging low branches. After a slow-moving and arduous hour...
 

“Damn.”
 

The same trail, and ahead the same fork.
 

He tried going off trail again, this time in another direction. Twigs of saplings snagged at him. Low branches swooped. An angry buzzing informed him that the gourdlike object he had brushed against was a wasps' nest. He geed up into a gallop and almost had his head taken off by a malevolent tree. He rode blindly for a good long while.
 

At length he broke into the open. The blasted trail again!—this time with more sets of hoof prints than he could discern.
 

“I'm starting to get pissed off.”
 

He turned against the traffic and went back the way he had originally come.
 

The trail gave out about a minute later. He found himself in a small clearing that had not been there before. He reined his sweating steed around to find that the path had entirely disappeared. Hemmed in, he dismounted.
 

“All right, what do you want?”
 

He heard—or thought he heard—laughter.
 

“Right. Well, we'll see.”
 

He walked the circumference of the clearing, peering into the undergrowth. Nothing, no one.
 

At the center of the clearing was a fairy circle of toadstools, these about knee-high. He stood in the middle of the circle and raised his arms. He murmured a few words.
 

He waited. Silence.
 

He said the words again, this time more slowly. He stood still for a good while longer, eyes closed.
 

A rustling off to the left. He did not open his eyes. Time passed.
 

Presently a four-legged beast ran into the clearing and halted not far from him. He turned and beheld it.
 

It was small, had short white hair, and looked like a cross between a goat and a pony. On its head were long golden horns, three of them: two curving ones to the side, and one, slightly straighter, growing out of the middle of the forehead. The creature's eyes were a piercing blue.
 

The tricorn regarded him dispassionately.
 

He asked, “Are you the demiurge around here—or at least its incarnation?”
 

The empathic vibrations he received in reply seemed to indicate the affirmative.
 

“Is there something you want of me?”
 

(Negative.)
 

“Then you're simply having a bit of fun?”
 

(Mirth.)
 

“Much as I hate to spoil your sport, could I possibly persuade you to let me go?”
 

(Perhaps.)
 

“What would it take?”
 

(Mild amusement.)
 

“I have the feeling that nothing short of my death would satisfy you, although you don't want it to happen suddenly. You intend to keep me a prisoner in your domain until I waste away.”
 

(Laughter.)