HELP, it said. AM BEING HELD PRISONER IN GRAIL CASTLE. DUE TO BE FED TO DRAGON ON TUESDAY. VERONICA.
Suddenly, remembrance and accompanying love and yearning coursed through Todd with such force that he became faint, almost toppling over. He remembered the woman’s soft touch, the promise in her voice, the glimmers in her eye—and was suddenly swimming again in dizzy infatuation.
“Todd? You okay?” Angharad asked, concerned.
“Oh, fine. Fine,” Todd returned. “Uhm, Angharad. Mind if I ride on your back? A questing knight generally needs a steed.”
* * *
Armor glinted in the sun. A sword flashed as it rang from its sheath. The white horse reared and chain mail jingled. The knight eyed them suspiciously.
“Hal Foster,” Todd said. “Prince Valiant.”
The knight jogged their way against the blurry watercolor background.
“Whatever are you talking about?” Amber asked, shying away from the sight of the knight’s razor-sharp blade.
“Hurt and his computers must have plundered the old funny-papers of the 20th and 21st centuries. Although come to think of it, the knight here looks something more like an Arthur Rackham illustration.”
“Don’t look now,” Amber said, whiskers twitching, “but I think you’ve offended him.”
The knight spurred the flanks of his roan mare and commenced a wild charge toward the trio, his sword swinging mightily. The silver and dull bronze of the armor and steed, the crimson and turquoise of his helmet plume, seemed to bleed into the neutral-colored air, aswirl with the faintest hint of computer-dot animation.
Stylized dust puffed at the hooves.
Speed lines developed, trailing behind him.
“Here’s a thought,” Angharad said. “Suppose we get killed. We’ll just get resurrected somewhere else, right? I mean, computer-generated swords can’t really affect computer-generated bodies.”
“Yeah,” Amber said, “but it will hurt!”
“That’s true. We’d better run.” The uni-donk about-faced and raced away at surprising speed. Amber, in his lion guise, departed quickly in another direction.
Leaving Todd lagging in place.
The snorting horse and sword-bearing knight bore down upon him. “Heathen! Consorter with the Devil’s creatures!” came a tinny cry. “Drink deep of Christian steel!”
Todd managed to get his foot tangled in a root and plunged facefirst into the loam.
The clop of hooves, the jingle of chain mail. The knight dismounted noisily. Todd swung his head up in time to see the sword raise up, streaming after-images.
He wondered what animated blood would look like.
“Wait!” he cried. “I’ve got nothing to do with the Devil, I assure you!” Still, he heard the woosh as the sword sliced through air and he spun himself away. The blade sliced through a sleeve, nicking him, then buried itself in the grass and dirt.
Pain stung Todd’s arm.
The blood that leaked was a theatrical bright red.
“Die, Satan spawn!” the knight said, jerking the sword up again. However, before he could drive the steel down again, a form hurled itself from off Todd’s frame of vision, knocking the knight into a tumble that sounded like a catastrophe in a kitchen. The sword fell away, out of the grounded knight’s reach. The lion that held Philip Amber’s mind leaned on the gleaming chest.
“Now then,” he purred, “what did you say?”
The incongruous animation styles made a surreal sight, like a film chroma-keyed over the wrong bit of video.
“I fear not the likes of you!” the knight declared. “My purity is holy in the sight of the Lord, and I have no need to fear either death or the hellfire from which you emerged!”
“You want to take off that helmet and tell us who you are?”
Holding his arm, Todd stood. He noticed Angharad warily returning.
The knight shed his helmet, revealing a bright-eyed, blue-haired youth. “My name is Sir Galahad, and I am on a sacred quest. No one may stand in my way!”
“And you randomly attack fancied creatures of the Devil,” Angharad commented.
“This is indeed my sworn duty to God. This strange land is full of evil apparitions and illusions. Now kill me, if you must, for it is as good a route to Heaven as any for such as I.”
“Modest guy,” Todd said. “Mind if I steal your scarf? Your sword is quite sharp.” He untied the shimmering cloth from around the knight’s neck and bound his wound.
“Why don’t you go and get the sword, Todd?” Amber suggested, “Before I let His Highness up. He might make a grab for it.”
“Only the best knight in the world may wield that sword. Even Gawain and Perceval could not draw it before my mother brought me to Camelot.”
“Galahad is the bastard son of Lancelot and Elain,” Todd explained. “According to the legend, Lancelot was bewitched into thinking Elain, who adored him, was his beloved Guinevere and bedded her. Elain immediately conceived Galahad.”
“Fertile fellow!” Angharad said.
“This is the sword that Lancelot refused to attempt to draw from the stone, right?” Todd said, squatting by the blade.
“Yes,” Galahad said. “Have you a spy at the court?”
“So tell us what happened later, Galahad.”
“After the tournament, where I beat all challengers, a great feast was held. In the midst of the merriment, a great peal of earth-shaking thunder rolled. The doors burst open and the brightest of white lights steamed in, dazzling the eyes of all. All were struck dumb, even King Arthur himself, filled from within with the light of the Holy Spirit. Then, all covered in white samite, the Holy Grail ghosted in. But none could truly see it nor truly touch it. Soon after its disappearance, most of the knights of the Round Table, including myself, vowed to seek it out, that they might become one with God.”
“You see what I mean?” Todd said. “The symbolism is quite significant, considering Hurt’s goals.”
“Who is this ‘Hurt’ you speak of?” Galahad asked.
“A lot like the Devil, my friend,” Angharad said. “Believe us, we’re on your side. You don’t want Satan himself to lash his barbed tail around the Holy Grail, do you?”
Galahad shook his blue-highlighted curls vigorously.
“Well, then. We can help you,” Amber said. “And you can help us.”
Todd folded his hand around the leather-clad hilt of the sword. Its pommel—a huge emerald—shone green with embedded sparks as Todd picked it up. A spectrum of animated swirls twisted around the blade, then was sucked back in by the tip.
“You see,” Todd said. “It likes me.”
Galahad said, “You must truly be forces of Good. You may accompany me.”
Amber lifted his paws from the knight. “Terrific. And you know, it just so happens that we even have a map to the place.”
“The Lord be praised!” Galahad said, struggling up under the weight of his armor.
“No, I think we can thank the Devil for the map,” Todd said. “Which is why it’s good to have a Round Table knight along for the ride.”
* * *
They traveled for the rest of the day.
With every mile of the journey, Todd noticed, things got stranger.
Apparently, as they followed the parchment map, they departed the portions of the computer landscape where the resurrected Great Minds were conferring among themselves with great vigor. Now they seemed to be delving ever deeper into a land full of shadow and symbol, mystery and magic, cosmic import and comic book heroes.
Superman whizzed overhead at one point, straight out of Max Fleisher Technicolor. The Harlequin tap-danced his way across their path at one point, then disappeared into a gloomy bower, leaving a trail of torn-up playing cards: his Twenty-First-Century trademark. Ricky Robot, Todd’s childhood favorite,
spun in on his rotors for a charming chat and then zoomed away.
Riding on Angharad’s back, Todd caught glimpses of fabled creatures among the woods and fields. Basilisks, baby dragons cavorting in streams, elves and fairies zipping through green leaves and zigzagging tree limbs, shedding Walt Disney stardust.
The land was an amazing patchwork, shifting constantly; a collage of color dredged from the imagination of mankind.
“You see what I mean,” Galahad said as the sun began to jitter slowly into something out of a Greek Orthodox stained glass window. “We are truly in Satan’s province of sorcery.”
The land was suddenly washed in muted pastels as the sun decided to make a quick drop below the horizon. Five-pointed stars sketched themselves brilliantly upon the blank face of the night. A full moon rose, complete with a plaster-of-paris smile face, shedding a spectral glow over the mutating landscape.
“I thank God for my faith in Him, which keeps me steadfast and pure,” Galahad said as they dismounted to make camp and dine on a bucket of fried chicken a fast-food joint had been distributing free.
“To what qualities do you prescribe this great state of yours?” asked Angharad.
“Loyalty to the Good,” Galahad said. “Abstinence from strong drink, and most important, chastity.”
“Chastity?” Angharad said. “What’s that?” Quite sincerely.
“Ask Todd,” Amber said. “He would know.”
“Thanks a heap,” said Todd. “Angharad, Galahad is saying that he’s a virgin.”
“What’s that?”
“He hasn’t had sex, Angharad.”
She turned a horrified donkey face to the knight. “You’re kidding me.”
“Sex?” Galahad said.
“A modern word for having a woman, Galahad.”
“I’d make a pass at him,” Angharad said, “but frankly I’m not into bestiality.” She hee-hawed.
“You jest, but you do not know the power of chastity,” Galahad said. “All my attentions and affections are focused toward God, and thus I am filled with goodness, joy and completion. Can any of you sinners boast such a state?”
“You sound like St. Augustine,” Amber said. “What was it he said? ‘Sexuality is the yearning the human heart has toward God.’ ”
“St. Augustine just got jaded,” said Angharad, stifling a yawn. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to stake out a piece of fabricated reality and take a snooze. The old brain still needs to sleep and dream more normal dreams. Galahad, any dragons roaming about that we should beware of?”
“Nameless, fearsome creatures, newly crawled from the Pit itself,” Galahad said, face stiff, resolute, looking more a cartoon now than illustration.
“Paper tigers too, no doubt,” Amber commented, looking about for a soft bit of lawn to collapse upon. “Todd, how much further do you reckon this Holy Grail actually is?”
Todd rustled open the parchment and examined the map by milky moonlight. “Hard to say. Judging by the progress that you all claimed you made, I’d guess another couple days’ worth of trek—if days are measured out normally here.”
Todd sighed, folded the map and placed it back in the pouch.
He sat down in a clump of akimbo arms and legs, head tilted forlornly toward the ground. “It all seems so hopeless. We’re all being manipulated. Who knows what terrors the Arachnid’s got programmed to strike for our jugulars, lurking among the scenery?”
Angharad strode up to Todd, nuzzled him softly with her moist nose. “Take it easy, Todd. This really is literally a battle of wills. Ours versus theirs. We have to think positively or we’re defeated before we begin.”
“You know,” Todd said, as he watched Galahad tie his horse to a tree, “what I don’t understand is, why the map? If Hurt knows exactly where this Holy Grail is, why have us find it?”
“It’s the process, I presume, that perhaps creates the votive qualities of the so-called Grail, Todd. Hurt does not have full control. He’s playing with powerful forces—forces which have shaped and moved mankind throughout history. It may all explode in his face—which is our hope, of course.”
“Right,” Amber said. “The way Angharad and I figure, if Hurt can use this Grail, then so can we. That is, if we can get our hands—or minds—on it before he does.”
“The energies of the Collective Unconscious are apparently neutral,” Angharad said. “If they can indeed be controlled, tapped into the manner Hurt wants—then why can’t anyone of us do the same thing?”
“If your definition of this Energy Pool is correct,” Todd said, “then every single one of us is already plugged in. Can’t we do something on that level?”
“ ‘Which of you can raise your height one cubit by thinking on it,’ ” Angharad quoted. “It’s something so deep, we really can’t change it. Just as you can’t mentally adjust your chromosome patterns, Todd. It has to be done from outside.”
“By this artificial Macro-self that you think Hurt is trying to concoct,” Amber said. “And in whose very mind we presently walk. A mass-mind functioning as a key to this spiritual state. The landscape we travel upon now is the symbolic working-out of the Individuation of this mass-mind. Through these processes, we are slowly being assimilated into One—and one guess who intends to be in charge of that mass-mind.”
Todd fell back into the cushioning grass and stared up at the twinkling, artificial stars, this time not really wanting to think about what lay beyond them.
THE ENTIRE concave ceiling, sides and bottom of the sphere’s interior were tiled with tiny screen monitors flashing multicolored representations of the activities within the Fabrication.
Whistling softly to himself, Hurt tapped gently on one of the complex keyboards that surrounded his chair like an overlarge life preserver. His chair swiveled gently as a bank of monitors was wiped clean. A composite picture replaced the separated images: the twisting energy vortices and jagged curtains that flowed through Underspace, churning out of the way as the force-field of the Star Fall cut through them like the prow of a submarine making its way through a particularly dark and mysterious section of ocean.
However, there was still no sign of the Energy Pool.
But then, thought Hurt, how would he know what it looked like? Would it even emit detectable radiation? He knew the complex mathematical representations cold; but the Energy Pool would not be a collection of numbers and symbols hanging amid the peculiar complexities of Underspace.
Impatiently, he stabbed a button which erased the picture. Only time would tell. The Fabrication seemed to be performing its magnet function well, pulling itself ever closer to its point of attraction. Hurt had adjusted the piloting systems of the Star Fall to follow this compass effect, thus speeding connection of the ship with the human mind-field.
His observation/control sphere hung in an antigrav pocket, transfixed with wiring and tubing which pumped in his regulated atmosphere mix. If necessary, needles could be attached to his arms to intravenously feed him; an evacuation tube was available to collect his eliminations. Hurt could live in the sphere indefinitely, should that need arise.
A flood of images renewed themselves upon the previously vacant screens, dancing colorful visions of myth and mystery. What a fertile field, the human mind! Hurt thought as he lost himself in observing the parade of creatures and their interactions as they worked their way toward inevitable Oneness. Some unconscious part of him yearned to cast off the burden of awareness and hurl itself into the delight of integration.
But no. That natural temptation had to be ignored. Better things awaited the consciousness of Earnest Evers Hurt.
Better things indeed.
Satisfied that all operations ran properly, Hurt keyed instructions for the sphere to lower itself from its null-grav pocket. A few more items of business demanded attention before the operation’s final phases were instigated.
>
* * *
The man lurched toward her, gnarled fingers outstretched.
Startled, she could not contain a yelp. She sidestepped him and the rumpled fellow, glaze-eyed, stumbled past her. Bits of food matted his mustache; his chin glistened with moisture from a recent drink. The Disbelief Suspender rode his back like some demonic jockey.
“The ontological argument for the existence of God states ...” the man murmured, then sank into a heap in a corner alongside another man and woman. The Disbelief Suspender, its claws and neuroconnectors deeply sunk, spasmed slightly in the strip lighting of the corridor and then was still.
Veronica March felt sick to her stomach.
They were all like this. Even the children had these Old-Man-of-the-Sea devices dug into their backs. Mechanical leeches, that’s what they looked like. Obscene. Two or three times a day each body would jerk itself into zombielike activity, shamble to a food station for sustenance, visit a vac-booth for elimination—then dive back into deathlike stillness.
Earnest had not even hinted of anything like the horror he was perpetrating aboard this liner. He had mentioned involving the passengers in what he called his “consciousness experiments.” He had spoken of some crack-brained idea of contacting “the ultimate state of humanity.” But then, Earnest had always gone on about this or that mystical or transcendental concept as they had lain pillow to pillow in the relaxation of after-sex.
He’d mixed that nonsense well, though, with words of other concerns—poetic ramblings of appreciation for her and her talents, artistic and otherwise. Immediately after she had dumped that martini on his shirt at the Space Eyes Cordial two years before, galleries and opportunities suddenly opened before her; the difficult path of success in the viciously competitive art world was suddenly free of obstacles. Everyone and their clone wanted to have their posterior’s mark firmly planted in Posterity’s Art Show; everyone dreamed of financial success and public adulation. With Hurt’s patronage, she, Veronica March, the “odd bod” of her Commune, Kozmic Klutz of Spool School and deserted zygote of parents who’d hired a cheap spawn-tank, paid upfront, and apparently forgotten her, had gotten it all.
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