Castle War c-4 Read online

  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.…

  Five

  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?

  FINE SO FAR, BUT NEED YOUR HELP ON SOME STUFF. WHERE ARE YOU? AND HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS? THERE’S NO PHONE LINE TO THE COMPUTER.

  USING A VERY BASIC SPELL. ABOUT ALL I CAN GET TO WORK HERE. TRIED TO SEND VIDEO AND AUDIO, BUT FLUBBED IT. I’M IN THE MERYDION ASPECT, STRANDED. THE PORTAL IS BLOCKED AND I CAN’T GET BACK. SOMETHING’S AFOOT, BUT DON’T KNOW WHAT. IS ANYTHING GOING ON AT THE CASTLE?

  Jeremy looked at Osmirik, who shrugged.

  NOTHING SO FAR. WHAT DO YOU THINK COULD HAVE BLOCKED THE PORTAL?

  BEEN WAITING FOR SOME FALLOUT FROM THE DONNYBROOK WE HAD WITH THE HOSTS OF HELL LAST YEAR. WHAT THEY DID DISTURBED THE ETHEREAL FLUX BETWEEN THE UNIVERSES, AND THE WEAPON WE USED AGAINST THEM MAY HAVE DISTURBED IT MORE. NEVER EXPECTED A REACTION THIS LONG DELAYED, BUT LOOKS LIKE IT MIGHT BE HAPPENING. IT’S SURE TO AFFECT THE CASTLE EVENTUALLY.

  “Oh, dear,” Osmirik said. “I spoke too soon.”

  Jeremy’s fingers ticked across the keyboard.

  WHY DON’T I JUST FIRE UP THE INTERUNIVERSAL TRAVELER AND COME PICK YOU UP?

  TOO DANGEROUS. THERE’S NO TELLING WHAT STATE THE INTERUNIVERSAL MEDIUM IS IN. YOU COULD VERY EASILY GET CAUGHT BETWEEN DIMENSIONS AND NEVER GET BACK. I’ll HAVE TO FIND SOME OTHER WAY. MEANWHILE, YOU MIGHT BE IN FOR HEAVY WEATHER.

  WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN?

  COULD BE ANYTHING. ASPECTS SHIFTING. DISAPPEARING. ALSO, YOU MAY SEE SOME STRANGE VARIANT UNIVERSES, ONES WE’VE NEVER SEEN BEFORE. EVEN ANTI-UNIVERSES OF ONES WE KNOW. ALL SORTS OF WEIRD STUFF. NO TELLING WHAT. IT COULD BE DANGEROUS. CAN YOU GET THE COMPUTER UP AND RUNNING SOON BY YOURSELF?

  “Uh-oh,” Jeremy said. “He doesn’t know what he’s asking.”

  NO CAN DO, SIR. IT’S TOO BIG A JOB FOR ME. I NEED YOUR HELP.

  JEREMY, LISTEN. I MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO CONTACT YOU AGAIN. HERE IS WHAT YOU MUST DO. YOU HAVE TO WRITE A SPELL PROGRAM AND RUN IT.

  Jeremy gave Osmirik a baffled look.

  He typed: WHAT KIND OF PROGRAM?

  CALL IT A COSMOLOGY-PROCESSING PROGRAM. AS YOU KNOW, THE CASTLE OCCUPIES A CENTRAL PLACE IN THE MULTIVERSE, THE PLENUM OF THE VARIOUS UNIVERSES. THE FORCE OF ANY MAGIC WORKED THERE IS REINFORCED MANY TIMES AND CAN HAVE FAR-REACHING EFFECTS. WITH OUR NEW MORE POWERFUL COMPUTER, WE CAN REDRESS THE BALANCE AND STABILIZE THE COSMOS.

  “He’s crazy,” Jeremy said.

  HOW? I CAN’T DO IT.

  UNTIL I GET THERE, YOU’LL HAVE TO CARRY THE BALL. IS OSMIRIK WITH YOU?

  HE’S RIGHT HERE.

  GOOD. OZZIE, LISTEN. GET EVERYTHING YOU CAN ON COSMOLOGY, COSMOGONY, AND INTERCONTINUUM METAPHYSICS. ALSO MY MONOGRAPH ON INFLUENCE SPELLS. JEREMY, TAKE ALL THAT DATA AND FEED IT INTO BACKUP STORAGE VIA THAT NEW GIZMO I ORDERED, THE HARD-COPY SCANNER. OZZIE. THAT MEANS YOU’LL HAVE TO CUT OUT THE PAGES SO THAT JEREMY CAN USE THE SHEET FEEDER.

  “My books!” Osmirik wailed. “They’ll be ruined!”

  Incarnadine went on: YOU CAN START ON THAT RIGHT NOW. JEREMY, YOU MUST HAVE THE OPERATING SYSTEM READY FOR A BIG JOB BY THE TIME I GET BACK. WILL YOU TRY?

  Jeremy sighed. “Jesus, he’s not giving me much choice.”

  SURE. I’LL GIVE IT MY BEST SHOT. WHEN CAN YOU GET BACK?

  I KNEW I COULD COUNT ON YOU. DON’T KNOW WHEN OR IF I CAN RETURN. MUST GET TO A PLACE OF POWER HERE WHERE MAGIC WILL WORK BETTER. THAT’S A PROBLEM, THOUGH. IF I DON’T GET BACK, THE COMPUTER CAN HELP YOU TO WRITE THE PROGRAM, IF YOU GET THE O.S. WORKING PROPERLY. BOOT UP A FILE DESIGNATED “ISIS.” IT’S AN A.I. PROGRAM, BUT IT’S NEVER BEEN THOROUGHLY DEBUGGED. COULD BE TRICKY, BUT ALSO POTENTIALLY EFFECTIVE. HAVE YOU GOT ALL THIS?

  GOT IT. ANYTHING ELSE?

  ALL FOR NOW. WILL TRY TO COMMUNICATE AGAIN SOON, BUT CAN’T PROMISE. YOU’RE AN ACE HACKER, KID. AND I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT. MUST RING OFF. GOOD LUCK. INCARNADINE OUT.…

  Osmirik asked, “What is an A.I. program?”

  “Stands for ‘artificial intelligence.’ They really don’t exist, not the real thing, anyway. But who knows what he came up with?”

  Osmirik rolled up his sleeves. “I must get busy. There is no time to waste.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get the sheet feeder ready, and the scanner, which I haven’t even taken out of the box yet.” Jeremy got up and stretched. “Can we get some room service up here? I’m gonna need a crapload of coffee, and food, and a cot to rack out in. Looks like we’re in for a rough couple of days.”

  “I’ll alert the chamberlain. He will see that you get everything you need.”

  “Great. I’m gonna need all the help I can get.”

  “I will fetch the requisite materials from the library.”

  “Right. See you later.”

  Osmirik left and Jeremy sat back down.

  He summoned up the utility file storage area and looked over the file directory. It was there; the file name was ISIS.AI. After not much debate, he loaded the program and executed it.

  The screen came alive with color graphics.

  XXXX
>
  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXX XXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  ISIS™ 2.

  ……………………………………

  Copyright 1950 by John Carney

  ISIS is a registered trademark of Castle Research, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this program may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any computer language, in any form or by any means, without prior written approval of the copyright holder. Nasty events could be the result.

  This means you.

  ……………………………………

  “Jesus, nineteen-fifty! They didn’t even have computers then!”

  Jeremy read what appeared next.

  YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO RUN ME WITHOUT CHECKING OUT THE OPERATING SYSTEM, BUT I’M GLAD YOU DID, ANYWAY. TURN AROUND AND LOOK, DARLING.

  Jeremy jerked his head up and said, “Huh?”

  He wheeled around in his chair and nearly fell off.

  “Hello, Jeremy.”

  She was about five feet seven inches tall and had long shiny black hair. Her eyes were large and blue, her lips full and pouting. She had a straight nose and high cheekbones and wore a slinky cocktail dress of black velvet, slit up the left thigh, with high-heeled black patent-leather shoes. Her legs were long and exquisitely turned, and she had on black net stockings.