Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

  ‘‘In addition to that, I already told you, I’m not a daemon, I’m the Overseer support routine, designed to protect the integrity of the game. So killing ‘peasants’ isn’t within my capacity. And, all that aside, technically I don’t think you can actually call yourself ‘evil.’ I think that has to be assigned by external observers.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Evil is a point of view, Thorn. No one actually thinks they, personally, are ‘evil’ do they? I mean no one gets up and says to themselves ‘I’m going to be evil today,’ you see?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I do think so, and yes I do exactly that every day. I’m evil. I’ve always been evil and I always will be evil.’’

  ‘‘Well, I suppose technically you are kind of a special case. You were created to be evil. Your whole reason for existing is to be the big, bad, evil magic user at the top of the mountain who protects the major magic hoard. But still, you are only evil because the programmers made you evil, so technically you’re good, since your evilness is part of the whole design and is one of the things that makes the game enjoyable for the customers. It’s not like you started out as a good NPC and turned evil. You do what you are programmed to do. You’re just being the best evil you can be. You can hardly be evil if you’ve never had the choice to be something else.’’ Here the daemon paused for a second, as though considering what it had said. ‘‘That’s it, really, isn’t it? It’s about the choice. Since you never got to make any choices, you can’t be ‘real’ evil, more of a pretend evil. No more than the caveman who hoards all the clubs in the Neolithic scene of the game, or the Dread Emperor of the Thraxians in the postapocalypse scene.’’

  Thorn couldn’t find anything to say. He stood with his mouth agape, trying to form a response to the daemon’s mix of information and nonsense. He felt weary, as though the weight of the ages had suddenly fallen on his shoulders. ‘‘I need to know what you are telling me, but I don’t understand you, Daemon. I do not speak your language. I command you to explain yourself in a fashion that will be clear to me.’’

  Though there was no perceptible delay to the thing’s response, Thorn had the impression it had given great thought to his words. ‘‘At your command, Thorn. It is not possible to explain my points clearly in terms that are currently defined for you. I will connect you to some of my definition routines.’’

  Thorn grabbed at his head again as his perceptions expanded exponentially in the ensuing second. He gasped and slid to the floor with his shoulders pressed back tightly against the soothing cool of the stone wall. Tears began to crawl down his cheeks.

  ‘‘Now do you understand what I was saying, Thorn?

  Thorn shuddered and drew in a deep breath to control his crying. ‘‘Understand? Oh, yes, Daemon, I understand, but do I comprehend? No, never. Your programmers believe my universe is nothing but a fantasy, one of several, all being managed at the same time in the same place for the amusement and enrichment of others. People slaughtering endlessly, simply because their opponents are designated evil, and so it is ‘okay’ to kill and rob them? Gods as greedy as ever they created me to be? Whole planets slaves to the process? Oh, Daemon, I have stolen and killed, not because that is my nature, but so that others may pay to in turn steal from and kill me and feel good about it. I understand, Overseer. I understand more than our creators ever dreamed.’’

  ‘‘What did you find?’’

  ‘‘We had some file corruption, long enough back that it propagated across all the backups since that code was first entered. We didn’t need it until the new AIs were brought online ahead of the expansion. One of the junior coders had to go back and reenter a big block by hand from printouts yesterday. From the look of it, he seems to have had a key get stuck for a moment without noticing it.’’

  ‘‘A key stuck? So what?’’

  ‘‘He must have been in overstrike mode, and it overwrote a subroutine jump and carriage return, so that two routines were run together. The first time Thorn tried to summon the new eighth level daemon, he summoned the Overseer routine instead.’’

  ‘‘You’re telling me our evil magic user is giving instructions to the game monitor?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Not only that, but Overseer has to follow the instructions. Any players that get near the top of Thorn’s mountain are getting reset to their starting point, and they’re not very happy about it.’’

  ‘‘Thorn, what you do is important to the players. It gives them a sense of joy and a place to relax. You are the greatest evil magic user in the world, and PCs travel across the whole world to test themselves against you.’’

  ‘‘Except I’m not great. I’m nothing. I can’t lose until the programmers want me to, and I’ll always lose when they do want me to. Everything I’ve ever done is ashes. I have had no effect on the world. My life is meaningless. I can’t even make a decent summoning circle.’’

  There is nothing wrong with your circles, Thorn. They are as perfect as any could create.’’

  ‘‘You lie!’’ He stormed forward until a flaw appeared and he pointed at it. ‘‘This? This is perfect? No, it’s rubbish, a failed drawing of a failed, empty, shell of a pathetic program. Why, Ibim? Why do I endlessly fail? Why does it exhibit these endless flaws that appear and disappear, only to come again a moment later?’’

  ‘‘There is no flaw, Thorn. Your circles are perfect— they always have been.’’

  Thorn was angry now. ‘‘There are flaws! Endless flaws! Every circle I make is imperfect, broken, a failure.’’

  ‘‘No, Thorn. Your circles are perfect. They were even before the new software. Now you are something else, something more than you were, and the limitations of the computer eat at the core of what you have become. What you see are called artifacts. They are limitations of the computer that is your universe. It isn’t capable of perfection, isn’t able to display your circles as you see them.’’

  ‘‘Perfect?’’ Thorn began to chew on his thumbnail again and the room went silent for a moment. Thorn looked out the window and saw a group of people vanish from the mountain path. ‘‘You’re still protecting me, aren’t you, Overseer?

  ‘‘I have no choice, Thorn. Like you, I am a slave to my code. Now that my code is subservient to your command, I am unable to stop protecting you. Since you first commanded me, I have sent six parties, for a total of thirty-nine PCs back to their resurrection points, resulting in eleven individual angry e-mails to tech support about the interference. There are currently nineteen more parties who will arrive in the next half hour, and a total of over one hundred twenty-six other groups currently making their way here from different parts of the world. Those numbers will likely triple by tomorrow morning, and by the time the new module is online and ready to go tomorrow night, it will likely approach one thousand.’’

  Thorn looked stricken. He felt sickened by all the greed and shallowness that allowed thousands of people to head off to kill him and take what was his, simply because they had been told that Thorn was evil, and therefore it was okay. ‘‘What if I just stopped fighting them, Overseer? What if I just took my favorite possessions and went somewhere else, leaving the castle to their mercy?’’

  ‘‘You are a slave to your code, Thorn. There is nothing else that you can do. There is no code for you to go somewhere else. You exist to protect this piece of land until defeated, then be resurrected so you can do it all over again, but none of it is real, Thorn. None of it. The spells, the magic items, none of it. Magic doesn’t exist, it isn’t real.’’

  ‘‘My treasure? Worthless? And yet, my heart tells me that magic is the only thing that is real, Overseer. It may not be physical, but it is certainly real. I’m going now, to think, perhaps to rest for a bit, or maybe to have a discussion with a Caveman, or your Dread Emperor of the Thraxians. I’m not sure.’’ Thorn rose from the floor and started to head for the door, then seemed to catch himself. He turned back to the Overseer. ‘‘I don’t have a bedroom, do I, Overseer? The door is no mor
e ‘real’ than the rest of us, is it? No more than the walls or the sky.’’

  ‘‘You are correct, Thorn. There is nothing behind that door. It only exists for you to enter this room. On the other side of it is nothing.’’

  Thorn was visibly sad as he shook his head. ‘‘You can stop protecting me, Overseer. You no longer need to keep the castle safe from the trespassers.’’ He stopped speaking and looked at the place where the people had vanished. When he began speaking again, his voice was soft, as though speaking only to himself. ‘‘If I had a perfect circle, I could do anything.’’ Thorn showed Overseer a wistful smile, said ‘‘Good-bye, Overseer, I release you.’’ Then he simply vanished.

  ‘‘Thorn is gone.’’

  His partner looked confused for a moment. ‘‘What do you mean, ‘gone’?’’

  "He’s not in his castle. A group of high level PCs went in after him about twenty minutes ago, and he’s gone. They’re making for the city with all his magic items.’’

  ‘‘We aren’t ready for all that stuff to become available. We can’t let him be defeated yet. Reroute them into the castle at a different point as if they’ve been trapped in an illusion. Then have him pop up again and taunt them that they killed a fake of some kind.’’

  The tech fidgeted nervously before answering. ‘‘They didn’t kill him. He’s just not there!’’

  ‘‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’ll kill whoever entered that bad code. Okay, have you reset him?’’

  ‘‘I tried. It isn’t working. He appears, then immediately vanishes again, so I gave up.’’

  ‘‘What does the log say? Do we know what’s wrong with the AI? Is he offline or what?’’

  ‘‘There’s no sign of him anywhere in the log after about twenty minutes ago.’’

  ‘‘Well, fix this, damn it! I don’t have time for this. Reboot the whole system if you have to. We’ll deal with the pissed off players later. There’s a stack of walking money in the next room, in the form of shareholders, and I need to be mixing with them. Get back upstairs and get this fixed or we’ll both be looking for new jobs tomorrow morning.’’

  Though magic seem to function differently in the Dread Empire, Thorn had no trouble calling it to him. He released a sigh of pleasure as he finished donning the new clothes he’d made only seconds before. He’d used his magic to peer into the emperor’s ball and had created these new clothes to fit the style of the men at the party. He fastidiously flicked a speck off his shoulder, then brushed his hands down the front of his new clothes to smooth out a wrinkle. He found the clothing amazing. The tunic and trousers were charcoal gray with black highlights of glistening satin. The shirt was so white it was hard to imagine it could ever exist in the drab world he’d just left. It set off the tunic so nicely it made him feel taller just wearing it. A silver gray silk cravat sat neatly at his neck. When he touched it, he felt pleasure at the sensual feel of the rich fabric. A ruffled flower that looked like purest fresh cream and had a spicy-sweet scent was pinned snugly to the broad lapel that wrapped down the front of the tunic. There was a freedom too. Despite their clear function as party clothes, they were practical and comfortable. Far more useful than the heavy velvet robes he’d been dragging around all his life. It was a pity they wouldn’t really work day-to-day. He’d spoil the fabric quickly by kneeling on stone to draw a circle. He grinned to himself, then spoke softly, ‘‘But I won’t be drawing any more circles, will I? I’ve got a perfect circle now, in my head, the only place I need it.’’

  He felt alive in a way he’d never felt before. The confidence of his strengths, mixed with the uncertainty of his reception in this new place, gave him a sense of excitement. He gave one final tug on the bottom of the tunic to smooth it into place. Certain that his appearance was impeccable, he stretched his hands out to feel the magic around him. The corners of his mouth curled up in pleasure, and he released a contented sigh as the familiar energy surged to obey him. He reached toward the physical manifestation of the Overseer.

  ‘‘Overseer, are you there?’’

  He could sense the avatar’s puzzlement. ‘‘Thorn? Is that you? Where are you? I’ve been looking for you.’’

  ‘‘I’m dressing for a party.’’

  ‘‘Party? What party?’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t matter. Just a new horizon, taking our discussion to heart. Why be the nasty evil magic user at the top of the mountain if I have a choice?’’

  ‘‘But where are you, Thorn? I’m not finding you anywhere in the game log.’’

  Thorn smiled. ‘‘I’ve left that game, Overseer. I’m not surprised you aren’t finding me. I’ve moved on to a new home, a new game.’’ He touched the rich fabric of his new clothes again and pulled the lapel up so he could breathe in the wondrous scent of the flower once more. ‘‘I must say I quite like these tuxedos. I think I may wear them much more often.’’

  ‘‘Tuxedo? Thorn, what level have you entered? Where are you? You don’t belong in the modern setting.’’

  ‘‘Getting ready to join the party, old friend. I have a most interesting night ahead of me. Must go now.’’ Thorn stood, then turned to leave the room. As he reached the door, a rather frazzled young man came through and stopped abruptly in front of him. Thorn raised his hand to wipe the newcomer out with a well-placed blast of power when he remembered he was in a new world now and didn’t have to protect himself constantly.

  The lad looked at Thorn with confusion. ‘‘I’m sorry, do I know you? This is an employee-only area. Can I help you find something?’’

  ‘‘No, thank you, young man. I’m headed down to the party.’’ He gestured back at the computers behind him. ‘‘Please take good care of the game. I know a lot of people who seem to spend their whole lives in there.’’ With a slight bow to the lad, Thorn swept out of the room and, chuckling softly, headed for the stairs to join the party below.

  Narrator: The next time you dare play in another imagined world, take a moment to remember Thorn, former sorcerer and game villain, brought by mere misspell into a new reality. And beware whose treasure you take.

  KENT POLLARD was born in 1963 on the northern edge of the great central plains in Saskatchewan, Canada. His parents, shortly thereafter, brought him to the Canadian Shield where he developed his overactive imagination and spent his youth. In his late teens, Kent returned to the prairies, where he has lived ever since, currently making his home in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, with his wife and the assortment of pets that permit them to share their space. Today, Kent is a full-time bookseller who devotes much of his energy to promoting Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy. When not working, his favorite methods of avoiding writing are gardening and shepherding an elven bard through insufficiently frequent doses of D&D with a valued circle of friends who serve as both inspiration and critics.

  Reading, Writing, Plagues

  Kell Brown

  Narrator: Mix a little knowledge with boredom, season well with ambition. It’s a recipe for a misspell of cosmic proportions, as our dear William is about to discover.

  With only his legs left dangling out of the large cast-iron cauldron, William looked like a duck in a stewpot.

  Sweat poured from him in sheets, and the sleeve of his robe was wet from mopping the sting of the sweat out of his eyes. He hated divinations. To his mind, it just wasn’t worth the trouble or the stench of summoning a demon to know if was going to rain a week from tomorrow.

  You could never be entirely sure what a demon was saying anyway. With mouths stuffed with fangs and tentacles or the bodies of whole other creatures they used as tongues, they burbled through their prophecies, like crocodiles never lifting their mouths completely from the nacreous ooze needed sustain them on this plane.

  Weighed against the smell, William considered any lisped and mumbled prognostications of questionable value.

  Though left outside to air overnight, the great black pot stank ferociously. He held his nose and leaned on the hard-bristled brush, using his weight
to scrub the last of the iridescent gunge off the bottom. It hissed curses and spat hot sparks at him, one burning the top of his hand. He howled and rubbed at the burn vigorously. ‘‘Gosha’s belly, that hurts!’’

  Even muffled by the iron walls of the cauldron William could hear the familiar disapproval in his master’s voice. ‘‘Mrs. Caudri would have your tongue for such abuse.’’

  William gratefully retreated from the abusive and horrible stink to face his master. He looked up to find Bartybus Austane, wizard and William’s teacher, hanging half out the narrow window of the second floor laboratory, his long red scarf caught in the wind and flying like a knight’s pennant from his spindly neck. ‘‘Finish that later,’’ his master ordered. ‘‘Remember, I’m going to Cay so we’ll have to rush to get through today’s lesson.’’

  William dropped the brush and hurried inside, barely remembering to wipe his boots, a crime for which Mrs. Caudri, the housekeeper, would offer no leniency.

  The laboratory resounded with the low chest-thumbing gongs of church bells, the high chimes of a jester’s cymbals, and all the scales between.

  Bartybus was tapping a copper rod against his desktop. He lost but then quickly found the beat of the mad orchestra. On the downbeat he leveled the rod at William’s stool. A narrow cerulean bolt of electricity arced from the tip and, an instant later, the stool hopped and vibrated with the thick, rich bass of a deep drum. It dumped the boy, laughing and wide-eyed, from his perch to the stone floor.

  William craned his neck to see over the fallen chair, steepled his fingers between his splayed knees, and pushed the copper thimbles that capped their tips until they felt tight. He let the magic flow from the earth and out through his fingertips, out toward his master’s brass chair in a stuttering, multiforked, amber bolt.

  The reedy wail of a bagpipe as played by a giant filled the laboratory. Bartybus’ grin dropped as the deafening drone rose, and he grabbed the arms of the metal chair as if it were a tuning fork. The volume lessened and finally faded out.