A
LOGICAL
MAGICIAN
Robert Weinberg
ACE Books
Copyright © 1994 by Robert Weinberg
Cover Art by Peter Scanlan
ISBN 0-441-00059-2
CONTENT
Excerpt
Quotes
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Excerpt
LIVING LEGEND
"MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE, Jack," said the man, casually waving to a chair in front of his desk. "We have a lot to discuss.... I think you're the man we need."
Jack grinned. Today was his lucky day.
He sobered almost instantly. There had been no mention of salary. Or exactly what position he was being offered.
"How does a thousand dollars a week sound?" said the bearded man, as if reading Jack's mind.
"A thousand a week?" repeated Jack, stunned. "For doing what, Mr. Ambrose?"
"The forces of darkness and everlasting night are rising in our city. Civilization is terribly threatened. Humanity needs a champion to battle them. You're that man, Jack. And there's no reason for you to use the Ambrose alias. I prefer my real name. Call me Merlin."
"Merlin?" asked Jack, still reeling over the bearded man's initial remarks. "Like the famous magician of King Arthur's court?"
The bearded man laughed. "Like him? You misunderstand, Jack. I am him. I am the legendary Merlin the Magician."
Quotes
cogito ergo sum
(I think, therefore I exist)
—DESCARTES
factlis descensus Averno
(the descent to hell is easy)
—VIRGIL
Prologue
ROGER QUINN CONSIDERED himself a very careful man. Each morning, while still lying in bed, he planned out his day's activities in excruciatingly fine detail. Afterward, he followed that outline in strict order, refusing to deviate one whit from the proper routine. Twenty years of computer programming had instilled in Roger an appreciation for exactness. He thought his actions perfectly normal and extremely logical.
Such a rigid adherence to schedule caused numerous problems for those who had to deal with him on a regular basis. They had to play the game his way or not at all. No one dared drop in unexpectedly on Roger. If they weren't listed in his appointment book, he completely ignored them. It didn't matter who they were or what company they represented. Roger refused to make exceptions. His rules were never bent, much less broken.
Business lunches began exactly on the hour, not a minute late. Presentations ran by the clock. Thirty minutes for a report meant that one second afterward Roger refused to listen to another word. His world ran like clockwork, and everyone on his payroll worked by the same schedule. Or they didn't work for Quinn Enterprises.
Behind his back, most of Roger's several dozen employees agreed that their boss belonged in a lunatic asylum. However, one and all they kept their doubts strictly to themselves. They jumped to obey their boss's slightest whim. In a period of retrenchment and recession, working for a lunatic was a lot better than not working at ail. For, where most other scientific consulting and marketing companies had fallen on hard times, Quinn Enterprises continued to expand.
Without exception, all of the major financial experts agreed that the phenomenal growth of the company related directly to the unique genius of its founder and CEO, Roger Quinn. Virtually unknown only a few years before, he entered an already crowded field and beat the biggest companies at their own game. Started as a small sideline operation in Roger's apartment, Quinn Enterprises had become a major West Coast corporation, poised on the brink of global expansion. In the last six months, QE had opened offices in New York, Chicago, and several other major metropolitan areas. Rumor had it that foreign offices were soon to follow.
What baffled his rivals and many of his own employees was Roger's amazing skill at exploiting the problems and failures of his rivals. Whenever another company experienced difficulty in fulfilling a contract, Roger and his team were there with the necessary answers just in the nick of time. If a material shortage caused a backup in manufacturing a new product, Roger knew where to find the necessary ingredient. Moreover, he oftentimes controlled the only available supply of the goods and priced it accordingly.
It was almost as if Roger knew when and where problems were going to occur before they happened. His rivals suspected sabotage, but there was absolutely no evidence to support such claims. No one could find a thing to link Roger or his employees with any of the problems or failures experienced by the other firms. The only explanation consistent with all the facts, incredible as it seemed, was that Roger possessed a hidden talent for sensing trouble. No one accepted the theory gracefully, but they had little choice in the matter. Roger wisely kept his mouth shut. He didn't really care what his rivals thought. As long as they never guessed the truth.
Humming softly to himself, Roger made his way down the lone staircase leading to the subbasement of his mansion. A tall, thin man with a scraggly beard and bright blue eyes, he wore a pair of battered jeans and a faded black sweatshirt embossed with his company's logo—a five-pointed star with a large R in the center.
Surprisingly, no one drew a connection between the symbol and a pentagram. A fact that pleased Roger no end.
Always the maverick, he delighted in thumbing his nose at the establishment. Corporate executives considered Roger eccentric. But plenty of other CEO's of major corporations were equally odd. All each of the money men cared about was that his firm delivered on tough assignments when other businesses failed. Quinn Enterprises had saved dozens of important contracts that otherwise would have collapsed. It provided a necessary service and charged premium prices for that work. "We help you out when you need us most" was the company motto, one that had become famous throughout the manufacturing industry.
Roger chuckled softly. He shook his head, imagining the shocked looks of those same corporate executives if they ever learned the truth behind his success. They might not be so pleased if they knew the whole story. Which was why he kept his revelation locked in the subbasement in a room that only he could enter.
The stairs ended abruptly at the base of a huge steel door that took up the entire rear wall. There was no keyhole or lock visible. A solitary metal plate some six inches square was the only break in the cold, unyielding surface. Roger flattened his right hand against it. It required the built-in sensors a few seconds to recognize his palm print. Silently, the huge door swung open.
Technically, criminals intent on discovering his secret could kidnap Roger, force him down to the subbasement and press his hand
against the entry plate to open the vault door. He strongly doubted that corporate raiders would be so bold. And even if they were, the payoff inside the inner room would prove to be something outside their usual line of business.
With a confident smile, Roger entered the nerve center of his secret headquarters. Shaped like a square twenty feet long by twenty feet wide, with a seven-foot ceiling, the chamber was entirely devoid of furniture. The walls were stone, the ceiling and floor both concrete. A pair of naked hundred-watt light bulbs provided the only illumination. More than anything else, the Spartan room resembled an army pillbox.
In the exact center of the room was a vermilion circle some nine feet in diameter. Roger had carefully painted it there a few days after moving into this mansion two years ago. Before that, a similar pattern, drawn in chalk, had decorated the living room carpet of his apartment. Vermilion was used because its color came from mercury and sulfur, key ingredients of the fabled Philosopher's Stone.
Inside the first circle was a second, eight feet in diameter. Together, the two drawings resembled a round plate with a narrow rim. Names of great power were written on that rim, transforming it into a barrier that nothing evil could cross.
Inscribed inside the two circles were the Pentagram of Solomon, as specified in The Key of Solomon, the most famous of all magical texts. It was constructed with two points upward, symbolizing the twin horns of the infamous Goat of the Witches' Sabbath. The sign of a black magician.
Nowhere was Roger's exactness more evident than in the construction of the mystic design. Here his computer background served him well. One wrong MS-DOS statement and your program refused to run. One misdrawn line or incorrect symbol in your pentagram and all hell broke loose.
Roger knew quite well the dangers he faced practicing the black arts. The literature of demonology specified in gruesome detail the grisly penalties paid by those not extremely careful in their dealings with the inhabitants of the nether regions. Death was the least of the fates suffered by the unwary.
The pentagram served as more than a doorway for the inhabitants of the outer darkness to enter our world. It also acted as a trap, holding those monstrous beings prisoner inside the design. Only by performing a specific task demanded by the summoning wizard was the demonic presence allowed to depart. Once banished, the being was never again subject to the whims of the sorcerer. One wish per demon was the rule. But, as Roger discovered early in his experiments, there were many thousands of demons.
Four years ago, he had been a second-rate computer hacker stuck in a go-nowhere job in Silicon Valley. His obsession with exactness had earned him a reputation as a difficult employee. None of the major firms in the area were willing to hire him. So he slaved in obscurity, designing computer games at a salary that barely covered his living expenses.
Supremely egotistical, Roger never once considered changing his behavior. There was no question in his mind that the world was wrong, not him. Thus, he was resigned to earning half of what he should and being routinely passed over when it came time for promotions. Life seemed to have passed him by.
That all changed in the course of one evening. A group of programmers at work, the closest to what might be loosely defined as his friends, invited Roger along to a party where a well-known Channeler was guest of honor. Imbued with the typical disdain felt by all scientists towards New Age mysticism, Roger treated the entire experience as one big joke. Until the Channeler, a short, stocky woman with piercing black eyes that stared directly into your soul, sank into the deep trance necessary for her to call upon her Spirit Guide.
"Who seeks the hidden knowledge?" The voice that emerged from the woman's throat was deep and harsh, a man's voice. A vague thrill of fear swept through Roger as he listened to those guttural tones. In one astonishing instant of epiphany, he transformed from a harsh skeptic to an ardent believer. "Who seeks the hidden knowledge?" the voice repeated, and Roger felt it spoke directly to him.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Whatever revelations the Spirit Guide offered, they made no impression upon Roger. His mind was already buzzing off on tangents far beyond his initial revelation. For once Roger accepted the fact that the occult existed and could be contacted, it opened an entire Pandora's box of possibilities to be explored. A man with unlimited ambition and ambiguous morality could achieve great things if he dared. And Roger dared.
Within a few days, he assembled an occult library consisting of some of the greatest and most frightening volumes of black magic lore ever written. Many of the books were readily available in cheap paperback format, thus leading to Roger's second great revelation. Over the centuries, many thousands of people had access to these same works and the spells they contained. But little evidence existed to show that any of those other seekers successfully mastered the powers described.
It was obvious that the spells as written were not enough to summon the forces of darkness. Ever the computer hacker, Roger guessed the solution in an instant. No magician willingly shared secrets with his fellows. All of the spells in the forbidden books were complete. But they each contained minor mistakes and glitches that only the original user knew to be false. It was as if they had been published in code, without the necessary key to unlock their power.
Fortunately, Roger owned the greatest code-breaker of all time, a home computer. He had been using it for cracking access codes and breaking into secret files for years. The magic tomes were just another hacker challenge—one that he accepted eagerly. For a change, the payoff would be worth the trouble.
Defining terms and listing proper names demanded time. Patiently, Roger fed all of the necessary data into the machine. He spent a day revising his software, making minor adjustments wherever necessary. The work wasn't very hard. Seven nights after his encounter with the Channeler, he was ready to raise his first demon.
The spell he used came from The Key of Solomon, with minor modifications and corrections courtesy of his computer. His magic circle and pentagram followed the instructions of Eliphas Levi, one of the most famous magicians who ever lived. The determination and courage came from Roger.
Slowly and carefully, he recited the summoning spell as reconstructed by his word processing program. Accents were extremely important, and one misspoken word could doom the whole project. Another crucial element in the process was naming a specific demon. Evidently, the summoning spells only worked for distinct supernatural entities. There was no generalized spell to produce a devil. Proper names were a must. Quite handily, the paperback version of The Key of Solomon contained an alphabetical appendix of famous demons. For his first try, Roger settled on Astaroth, the lord of Hell most closely associated with the sciences.
Walking widdershins, counterclockwise and thus unnatural to the order of the universe, Roger began the spell. Once, twice, three times he read through the entire conjuration. Only then did Roger look up from the computer printout. And found himself staring at a creature of nightmare.
It stomped about angrily in the magic circle drawn on Roger's living-room carpet. Four feet tall, the being resembled a bizarre cross between man and lizard. Along with the proper number of arms and legs, it displayed a multicolored crest that ran down its back from the base of its neck to the end of its spine, where it terminated in a long, sinewy tail some six feet long. Completely nude, it was obscenely male, seemingly in a constant state of arousal.
In contrast to its grotesque torso, Astaroth possessed the head and features of a handsome young man. Long brown hair fell to its shoulders. Its cheeks glowed with good health. Bright white, perfect teeth gnashed in anger, while blue eyes that never blinked surveyed its prison. Only an immense, forked tongue that darted in and out of its mouth made mockery of its seeming humanity. There was no mistaking the devil's identity. It matched perfectly the description given in several of the black magic texts. This horror was Astaroth, demon from the foulest pits of Hell.
"Who dares disturb my rest?" hissed the creature, in a voice sounding like st
eam escaping from a kettle. Its foul breath stank of sulfur and corruption. "Are you ready to meet thy end, mortal?"
Roger licked his lips, feeling slightly numb. He actually had not expected the spell to work. It took him a few seconds to gather his wits. Meanwhile, the demon peered closely at the lines of the pentagram, searching diligently for any break in the pattern.
"I name you Astaroth," said Roger finally, remembering the necessary binding spell. "And by your true and proper name I command your obedience for one task. Hear me and obey."
Slowly, reluctantly, Astaroth nodded its head in reply. "You know the ritual. What do you want—women, gold.... revenge?"
"None of those," said Roger, on firmer footing now. "Women mean nothing to me. Gold or jewels would raise tax questions I couldn't answer. Revenge is for impatient fools."
"Then what do you desire?" asked the demon, sounding curious.
Roger told him. In great detail. Even Astaroth was impressed.
That night saw the beginning of Roger's empire. His scheme was brilliant in its simplicity. Though the demons he raised were limited in their supernatural abilities, all of them possessed enough skill for the task he required. He used the minions of darkness as an unsuspected business fifth column.
Summoning demons wasn't particularly difficult once he got over the initial shock of their unearthly appearance. Like any routine task, it soon settled into a familiar pattern of behavior for Roger. One that paid incredible dividends.
Again and again, he sent the monsters out searching for secret information he could use to his advantage. The diabolical creatures made wonderful spies. Invisible to all but other magicians, they eavesdropped on confidential conversations and reported their findings back to Roger. Nor did classified documents present any more of a problem. Within weeks, Roger knew all of the innermost secrets of the major corporations in the area.
Such knowledge was worth more than all of the gold and jewels that the devils could offer. Quitting his job, Roger went into business as a consultant. Using what he learned through his spies, he built his new firm into a major force in the manufacturing community. Knowledge was power, and the demons provided all the knowledge he needed. However, in the rare instances when insider information wasn't enough to make Roger millions, he used his evil helpers in other ways.
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