The day drew on to its troubled close. When the soft light began to fail, they halted for the night, and the gifted members of the group joined minds and talents to create the usual barrier of protection enclosing their small camp. Outside the invisible wall floated the three plague-wraiths, and now there was something more. Another figure stood there among the wraiths, this one indisputably material; male, short of stature, indeterminate of age, stumpy of build, with the disintegrating rags, grey complexion, milky eyes, and missing digits of a Wanderer. He was leaning his full weight on the barrier, mutilated hands pushing and questing as if in puzzlement, decaying cheek flattened against the invisible impediment. He could not get in, and he would not go away. The last vestiges of the dying daylight illumined his forlorn figure, arms spread wide to embrace the bubble of arcane nonsubstance. Then night fell, and the darkness hid him from sight.
Sleep did not come easily to the Magnifico Aureste. Despite his fatigue he lay wakeful, the determination of the Overmind weighing upon his mind, its pressure painless but relentless. One day soon, his mind would be his own again. For now, containment was the sole defense. He must build mental partitions strong as the walls of the Witch.
The ramparts of his mind were thoroughly secure, but still he did not sleep, and it came to him that he was afraid. In sleep, his vigilance must slacken. In sleep, perhaps the Overmind would find Its way up into the centers of thought and will; and when next he opened his eyes, the individual entity known as Aureste Belandor would no longer exist.
But slumber found him at last, and he woke in the morning light to find himself whole, identity intact. He saw at a glance, however, that the Overmind had not stood idle throughout the night.
The protective bubble continued unbreached, its invisible boundaries defined by the ring of visitants standing just outside. The three wraiths from the previous day remained; presumably the same three, but this was uncertain, for Their appearance had altered. Today They had assumed the form of broad, thick, slowly revolving ellipsoids, each studded with fungiform protrusions and rapidly spinning indentations suggestive of small whirlpools. Last night’s stumpy Wanderer was present, cheek still pressed to the barrier, but now he had company of his own kind.
No less than ten undead stood clustered about the bubble. There were men, women, and a couple of children. With them stood a few animals—two dogs, a goat, and a ferret—all of them in the early stages of decomposition. Only the proximity of some obscure, plague-stricken hamlet could account for such numbers.
For a moment Aureste studied them, fascinated and revolted. One of the dogs was missing a leg. Both children were crawling with insects. Then his mind resumed functioning, and he looked to his companions, who were all awake and observing the Wanderers with an uneasy absorption that equaled his own.
“Can we travel while enclosed within the bubble?” Aureste demanded of his brother.
“Very difficult,” Innesq replied. “If possible at all, only achieved at great expense of arcane vigor. Look at that young man, there—see how complex and coordinated are some of his movements. How adroitly the Overmind manipulates his body! Its skill is marvelous.”
“Oh, indeed. Admirable. Well, then—can you and the others clear the Wanderers from our path, allowing us to pass on our way without touching them?”
“Beyond doubt.”
“Very well.” Addressing the group, Aureste commanded, “Pack up quickly. The barrier will vanish, my brother will clear the way, and we’ll move on at our best speed. The Wanderers are slow, they’ll not keep pace with us. Make ready.”
His authoritative tone drew a couple of scowls, but nobody paused to argue. Within minutes, the bubble was gone. As it faded out of existence, the conjoined minds of the four arcanists exerted force upon the human and bestial undead. Step by reluctant step, the Wanderers backed away, and a path through their midst opened.
Aureste hardly marked the lagging withdrawal. As the barrier enclosing the camp vanished, the exterior world came pouring in, and with it, the full force of the Overmind’s presence. The pressure upon his mind and senses heightened. The huge will of the Other roared against restraint, and for an instant he believed that It would conquer.
His mental defenses held. Grasping the handles of his brother’s chair, he advanced. For a few moments he struggled to force the vehicle over trackless grasses and ground cover before the talents of the arcanists manifested, and the stretch of pathway materialized beneath the wheels. The chair rolled effortlessly, and Aureste increased his pace.
The Wanderers lurched and stumbled in their wake. The decaying hands reached out, clutching air. Very soon they had fallen far behind. The three plague-wraiths, however, easily kept pace, gliding along above the ground at a nicely calculated velocity.
When the undead had receded into the far distance, well beyond the range of sight, they judged it safe to pause, compose themselves, perform neglected morning rituals, and consume a morning meal. All of this they did under the close observation of the plague-wraiths, then moved on.
Two hours passed—hours of seemingly featureless progress across a damply unchanging land. But there were changes—unseen, yet revealed in the attitudes of the four arcanists, whose awakening eyes swept the world as if in search of treasure; whose animation and suppressed enthusiasm seemed to strengthen by the minute. Even the wan face of Innesq Belandor was tinged with a rare hint of color.
What had they to be so excited about? Aureste saw no reason for it. Nothing looked any better, any different, except—
He blinked. His eyes, which usually sought to avoid the plague-wraiths, were now drawn to Them. There, but a few feet distant, They hovered inscrutably, all four of Them.
When had the three become four? Had another joined while he wasn’t watching, or had one of Them divided? It wasn’t reasonable, and it wasn’t fair. Irrational anger filled him and, as usual, anger served him well. This time, its fire helped him to resist the perceptibly escalating assault.
He needed that help. Nothing drove the point home more clearly than the moment wherein he first experienced a brief shift in his point of vision. For the merest fraction of a second, he seemed to view the world from a position a few feet to his left, and noticeably closer to the ground. A sense of deep purpose and profound certainty shone within him—pure, perfect, and inexpressibly alien. It was the echo of another universe, unknown yet somehow familiar. All of this was present and then gone, almost instantaneously. The world and his view of it resumed normality, leaving him astounded and confused.
He glanced to his left and saw at once that he must have viewed the world from the vantage point of Innesq, seated in his wheeled chair and presently pushed along the path by Yvenza. Of course, it had been a trick of his imagination; just a strange little kink of the mind.
Innesq turned in his chair to look at him. “Yes,” he said simply. “I felt it, too. Astonishing, is it not?”
“It was real, then? I don’t understand.”
“The Overmind has not conquered, but It has gained entry to every mind; It now resides within each of us, and Its influence increases. Remember, It is a single vast intelligence. Thus, Its activity now commences to carry perceptions and impressions from one human consciousness to another.”
“You’re saying that we’ll soon be mucking out each other’s heads? Sharing thoughts?” Aureste shot a glance at Yvenza, who pushed his brother’s chair, patently absorbing every word.
“I doubt that we shall exchange coherent thoughts—at least not initially. For now, it is more likely to involve sensations, general attitudes, strong emotions—both our own and those of the Overmind, mingled together. Just now, for example, the two of us shared—”
“Unacceptable,” Aureste snapped. “The Overmind is a thing unto Itself, but I won’t tolerate mere humans poking about my brain.”
“I fear that it is the inevitable concomitant of—”
“Enough. I say I won’t have it.”
“Ah, Aureste. May
you prevail. If you do not, however, be assured that all of this will end quite soon, one way or another.”
He soon learned the futility of resistance. The day wore on, and twice more he touched minds with his brother, experiencing Innesq’s contemplative serenity oddly mixed with the measureless resolve of the Overmind. He could endure Innesq’s mental proximity, but Yvenza’s was another matter. Just once, briefly, he caught the echo of her mind, the iron fixity corroded with hatred, and an almost sickening revulsion seized him. It was as if hot sewage had flooded his brain.
He turned his head to look at her. She was staring at him, and for once her expression was revealing, the hatred twisting her lips and igniting her eyes, all there inside him.
The contact broke and she was gone, her face empty again, while he himself was clench-jawed with disgust.
For the next hour he concentrated on reinforcing his mental walls, only to find them breached again and again. He noticed that Yvenza’s cheek was branded with red marks, and realized that her efforts to eject mental intruders must have included the application of fingernails to her own face. He glanced at Sonnetia and saw that she had bitten her own lips bloody. There was no help he could offer her.
Around midafternoon, for reasons known only to Themselves, the four plague-wraiths abandoned the group, drifting off in silence to meld with the mists. One moment They were close and visible; the next—gone. Their withdrawal, however, in no way lessened the pressure of the Overmind’s attention. The Overmind was still very much present.
Shortly thereafter, Vinzille Corvestri addressed a question to his colleagues. “Here, d’you think?”
“Can’t see how it could get much better, lad,” Ojem Pridisso replied.
“It is a wonder,” Innesq agreed. “It is like music.”
Nissi clasped her hands to her breast.
“Place of power?” Aureste inquired. “This is what you’ve been looking for?” His brother nodded, and he looked about him, eager to behold wonders.
There were none. Empty hills and hollows, dank vegetation, oppressive mists—the same uninspiring scenery that had filled his vision for so many days. This was the object of the quest? Aureste contained his disappointment. Presumably these arcanists knew what they were doing. His brother did, at any rate.
“My colleagues, we must try again,” Innesq announced, and his voice was low, manner unassuming as ever, but every eye turned to him. “Now, while the wraiths are not present in visible form to distract us, let us put forth our best effort—let us strive as never before. We all know too well that we cannot afford to fail.”
His meaning was clear. Then and there, in the midst of that desolate place, the four arcanists focused their minds, joined their talents, and sent out a call to Grix Orlazzu.
At the summit of a sharp rise, not far from Grix Orlazzu’s underground refuge, lay strewn the remains of a stone tower or keep. The presence of such a structure out here in the middle of nowhere was puzzling, and therefore attractive to Orlazzu. Despite all his learning, he could not identify the builders, nor could he fathom their purpose in constructing upon such a site. He could not date the ruins, but surely they were ancient. Not a wall nor so much as an archway remained standing aboveground. The destruction of the tower had been complete, and probably violent. At the center of the wreckage yawned a wide crater with sloping sides and a flat bottom, still littered with assorted paving blocks; all that remained of the original foundation and cellarage. But the cellar did not mark the lowest level; there was another place deeper yet.
Near the northern face of the old foundation, positioned to suffer the worst effects of cold temperatures, gaped a circular pit with inward-sloping stone walls, still largely intact. One of the paving blocks lying near the lip of the pit still displayed rust-discolored indentations—all that remained of the deep bolts securing the hinges of a heavy iron grate, long gone, that must once have covered the entrance to this antique oubliette.
Grix Orlazzu often came to stand beside the pit, for there was something about the place that invested his arcane endeavors with a distinctive resonance. Perhaps the stones had absorbed the anguish of the oubliette’s occupants, reverberating with pain to this very day. The echo possessed strength, and he sometimes made use of it, despite an element of danger.
Of late the area had become infested with Wanderers, more so than ever before. In all likelihood, the waxing strength of the Overmind accounted for it. Should the undead come upon him as he stood there entranced, lost in communion with the Source, they would find him vulnerable, helpless to defend himself or to flee. Still, the rewards justified the risk.
Thus, Orlazzu halted beside the pit, swiftly scanned the crater for intruders, of which there appeared to be none, and then opened himself. The great chorus began to swell inside him, and he was struck by its quality of dissonance. This had been happening often; in fact, it had become the norm. There was no time to analyze, however, for the influx of energy was blocked by an arcane call riding the epiatmosphere.
Orlazzu’s concentration flickered, and his contact with the Source splintered. His lips tightened with annoyance. He recognized the senders. It was the same group of arcanists who had been pestering him for weeks, and they were now infernally near; almost on top of him, in fact. He had recognized this possibility days ago, but had clung to the hope that it—or rather, they—would not materialize. Well, they had found their way to this place of power, just as he himself had, and now he would have to hide underground until they went away again. His refuge was well protected; even the most accomplished among them would not find him there.
He was in the habit of blocking their calls from his mind. He intended to block this one, but something in its exceptional intensity caught his attention. Never before had the appeal been so close at hand, so powerful and urgent—even desperate. For a moment, he was caught. Almost unwillingly he listened, his attention so firmly engaged that he lost all awareness of his immediate surroundings.
A firm poke in the ribs recalled Grix Orlazzu to the mundane world. A voice of metal clashed upon his ears.
“So. Here you are at last, Leftover. You have proved difficult to locate, but I have never doubted a successful outcome.”
Orlazzu blinked. His connection with his fellow arcanists broke, and he found himself alone amid the ruins, confronting his mechanical simulacrum. The automaton stood squarely before him, stocky homespun figure blocking escape, so close that he could make out tiny flecks of rust flecking the wires that composed his creation’s beard. There was nowhere to run. An uncharacteristic sense of fatalism seized him.
“There have been times,” GrixPerfect continued, “when I have entertained the theory that you deliberately avoid me. But now that you are here before me once again, and I look upon your moist organic imperfection, I am reminded that I must make allowances for your shortcomings. You have been careless, incompetent, and irresponsible, but it is not your fault. You are badly made, that is all, and you cannot help it. No matter. The error has been corrected, the breach bridged, and we are together again, forever.”
Grix Orlazzu searched for words, and found none.
“So then. Let us repair to your cabin, wherever it may be. You may refresh yourself there, in the manner of organics, and then we shall talk at length. The transfer of your knowledge to my memory will recommence. And then I shall tell you of the feelings and sensations I have experienced during the course of my travels. Many of these feelings relate to you, and you will no doubt wish to respond in kind. You may now lead the way.”
“There is no cabin.” Orlazzu found his voice at last.
“Cabin, hut, tent, cave, hole in the ground—it is of no consequence. You have found or made shelter somewhere. You will lead me to it now.”
“GrixPerfect. Listen to me, and understand. We are not going back to my shelter. We are not together. That’s over now.”
A series of internal clicks signaled the automaton’s assimilation of new data. Apparently reac
hing no satisfactory conclusion, it inquired, “Why do you say this?”
“Because it’s necessary. I study and practice the arcane arts. To do so, I need to live alone, free of distraction.”
“I am no distraction, I am a masterpiece. And what of my needs?”
“You are strong, with a body that will function for ages, a mind that works at lightning speed, and a memory filled with vast quantities of information. You are capable of self-sufficiency. It’s time for you to make your own way.”
“Ah, Leftover, you are as morally inferior as you are physically obsolete. Do not think to shirk your rightful responsibilities, for I will not allow it. You brought me into the world. It is your duty to ensure my contentment, my well-being, and sense of fulfillment. You must do all in your limited power to make me happy. You owe me this, at the very least.”
“No. I don’t. You’ve all the tools and skills you need, and more. You’re responsible for yourself.”
“I see that you have failed to grasp my meaning. I will try to explain in words suited to your understanding.”
“No need. Your meaning is clear. I hope that mine is equally so.”
A succession of low, analytical beeps issued from the automaton, as if GrixPerfect reviewed new information. At length it inquired, “Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to live with your most remarkable creation?”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“I’ve tried to explain. I both need and prefer to live alone. I mean no offense. I’d give the same answer to anyone.”
“I am not just anyone.” The eyes of clearest amber glass glittered. “I am GrixPerfect, flawless final realization of the Grix design. I am a marvel, a triumph, deserving of the best in care and maintenance, entitled to constant attention and willing service. You owe me these things, Leftover, and I will not be denied. I will not accept refusal.” The steel-jointed hand reached out and grasped Orlazzu’s arm. “You will now lead the way to your shelter. There we shall sit together, discussing my feelings, and all will be as it should be.”
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