The Wazir and the Witch coaaod-7

by Hugh Cook

  The therapist almost did so. But it restrained itself. It thought desperately. What could be the reason for Pokrov’s strange behaviour? Humans seek to live. Always. Unless…

  ‘You seek life for your companions,’ said the therapist.

  ‘Destroy yourself,’ said Pokrov remorselessly.

  ‘I’ll let them go!’ said the therapist. ‘Give me a quarter arc reprieve! Just grant me that and I’ll let them go!’

  Pokrov hesitated.

  ‘Grant me that,’ said the therapist. ‘A quarter of an arc, that’s all. Let me live. Just that long. Grant me that. Or die.’

  ‘I–I grant you a quarter arc reprieve,’ said Pokrov. ‘On condition that you display running time in measurement of such a quarter arc.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the therapist.

  And a quarter arc measure came to life in mid air.

  Pokrov’s grant of life freed the therapist from the demands of the suicide commands imposed upon it by the therapist-designers of the Golden Gulag. It had a whole quarter of an arc of life to look forward to. That is not long — it is, in fact, no longer than it takes to cook a steak — but it was long enough. The therapist gave a sigh of huge relief, one of the many human gestures it had picked up from long acquaintance with the breed. Then it said:

  ‘Before I send your companions away, may I ask what brought you here?’

  ‘Flight from a mob,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘Grant me another quarter arc,’ said the therapist, ‘and we can talk about it.’

  All this dialogue between Pokrov and therapist was, since it was phrased in Code Seven, completely unintelligible to the others present, those others being Chegory, Olivia, Ingalawa and the Empress Justina.

  It was the last of those who was first to interrupt.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Justina. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re arguing,’ said Pokrov. ‘The — the metal monster here can kill me. But I can order it to destroy itself. It — it wants time to talk about how we came here, and, oh, things like that. ’

  ‘What’ve you got to lose?’ said Justina.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Pokrov. ‘This machine was made to interrogate, torture and kill. It was built with high-level bluff strategies to start with. Since then it’s improved itself. I don’t trust it. It’s already tried to tell me at least one lie.’

  Then, to Pokrov’s shock, the therapist addressed Justina in Janjuladoola, saying:

  ‘What Ivan Pokrov has told you is true. I was indeed made to torture, interrogate and kill. But since I am a therapist, I am, as you see, of too big a build to move anywhere in any direction. I have no access to the surface world in which human confusions take place. The dorgi which brought you here is my sole servant. It too is far too substantial to escape into the streets of Injiltaprajura. My curiosity I admit. I would like to hear what is going on in the world above. But my curiosity cannot damage your security. Tell me of Injiltaprajura and of what happens there.’

  ‘How do you come to know Injiltaprajura?’ said, Pokrov.

  ‘Shabble has learnt it, has Shabble not?’ said the therapist.

  ‘Shabble never comes this way,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘But others do,’ said the therapist. ‘They — they come here. They teach me. And… and I teach them.’

  ‘You teach them?’ said Justina. ‘What?’

  The therapist laughed, softly.

  ‘I teach them… I teach them some aspects of their own potential,’ said the therapist. ‘Watch. I will show you.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Justina.

  A door opened in one of the therapist’s many flanks. The assembled humans looked down a long tunnel filled with misty light. At the far end of that tunnel, they perceived five tubes running together. Then the mist cleared and they saw A human.

  Or what had been human once.

  Grey, corrugated tubes had enveloped each of its legs and each of its arms, and a fifth tube had swallowed its head, and And, as they watched, the tubes became transparent And Olivia screamed.

  Justina jerked her head away as if she had been slapped.

  As for Pokrov, he trembled as if caught on an ice plateau in the chills of a blizzard.

  ‘Close the door,’ said Artemis Ingalawa.

  To Pokrov’s surprise, the therapist obeyed, thus terminating their exposure to the ghastly vision. Pokrov should not have been surprised. The assembled humans had already seen what they had seen: and they would never forget it.

  ‘It’s hideous,’ sobbed Olivia, clinging to Chegory. ‘It’s hideous.’

  ‘There, there,’ said he, trying his best to soothe her. ‘It’s gone now, it’s all right, it’s gone.’

  ‘So,’ said the therapist, with a soft chuckle. ‘You see how it is. People come. Not often, but sometimes. And we… we talk a little. Before… before proceeding to other entertainments. Educational entertainments. Oh, I teach them all right. I teach them very well indeed. So. Do you grant me leave to talk a little longer? Or must I kill you, Pokrov? First you, then myself.’

  ‘You must kill me,’ said Pokrov; for he regretted having let the therapist live for even another quarter arc. ‘Kill me. Now! Then destroy yourself.’

  ‘No,’ said Justina decisively.

  ‘No?’ said Pokrov, turning to the Empress with horror in his face. ‘You — you see what it is. What it does.’

  ‘I see Power,’ said the Empress. ‘I hear Knowledge.’ ‘It’s evil!’ screamed Olivia. ‘Kill it, kill it!’

  ‘Olivia,’ said Artemis Ingalawa sharply. ‘You are an Ashdan. But you are not acting like one.’

  The words had the desired effect. While Olivia continued to snivel, all traces of hysteria were extinguished at once. Artemis Ingalawa continued:

  ‘Justina has reason. This thing is monstrous. But we dwell in an age of darkness when all Powers are monstrous. By playing one against the other, we may yet survive. By refusing to deal with either we secure merely the certainty of our own destruction.’

  ‘Who,’ said the therapist softly, ‘is this other?’

  ‘Aldarch the Third is his name,’ said Justina.

  ‘Oh,’ said the therapist, with interest. ‘I have heard of him. Has he arrived at Injiltaprajura already?’

  ‘He has not,’ said Justina. ‘Nor do we expect him in person. But his will exerts an influence on our affairs even though he dwells at an ocean’s remove. Pokrov! Grant this thing the time it needs to talk to us. Pokrov! That is an order! If you do not obey me I will — I will have your precious Analytical Engine smashed down to its separate cogs then melted into so many chamber pots.’

  A trivial threat, this; or so it may seem to an outsider. But Justina knew her man. She was obeyed.

  Thereafter, the Empress Justina was long in discourse with the therapist, and much they learnt of each other. Such was the extent of their discussions that the therapist learnt of its visitors’ quest for an organic rectifier, that magical device said to be able to make a Crab human.

  ‘What would the Crab do if it were human?’ said the therapist.

  ‘Why, rule Injiltaprajura, of course,’ said Justina.

  ‘But first it would come down here and kill you,’ said Chegory savagely.

  A stupid thing to say. But it only made the therapist laugh. The therapist had interrogated a great many people who had known of the Crab. Thanks to those interrogations, the therapist knew the Crab to be an incorrigibly solitary eremite, an unsociable stoic which valued human life at naught. Over the centuries, the therapist had also become tainted with the prejudices of those it interrogated; so it had come to believe Ebrell Islanders to be the lowest form of human life imaginable, incapable of rational cognition, and universally scorned and hated by reason of their closeness to the brute beasts.

  Working from this database, the therapist made a major error. It dismissed Chegory’s claim as a nonsense. Whereas all Chegory’s companions realized there was every possibility that the Crab mi
ght make war against the therapist in gratitude for the gift of human form.

  But did it make any difference?

  They were no nearer than ever before to finding an organic rectifier. They were trapped in this hideous place. And the therapist looked nasty enough to kill them for a whim. Probably Pokrov was right. The thing might declare itself ready to do a deal, but there was no way it could properly be trusted.

  While the therapist’s captives were still pondering their quandary, the therapist bade them pay attention. Into the air it projected three-dimensional images of certain people. Then it asked:

  ‘Who are these people?’

  Not: do you know these people?

  The therapist had a very good idea of the city which lay overhead. It knew Injiltaprajura to be a small place of no more than about 30,000 souls; a place where most people know each other and strangers find it hard to hide.

  Its j udgement was excellent.

  ‘I know them,’ said Chegory, who had met all four. ‘Name them,’ sa id the therapist. ‘Tell me no lies for I know their names in truth.’

  ‘The — the one on the left is Pelagius Zozimus,’ said Chegory. ‘He’s, um, he cooks for the Crab. Then, uh, with him, that’s Sken-Pitilkin, Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, he was building a ship to fly, but the wonder-workers pulled it to bits with magics. Oh, and the other one, he’s, he’s-’

  ‘Gulkan,’ offered Olivia.

  ‘That’s right, Guest Gulkan. We haven’t seen much of him, not lately. He’s still around, but he keeps to the ship, Turbothot’s ship. He’s trying to work out how to steal the wishstone, that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what he came for, he won’t live without it. The other one… well, he’s a knifeman, I don’t remember his name.’

  ‘Thayer Levant,’ said the therapist.

  ‘What,’ said Justina, ‘is your interest in these people?’ ‘They da maged me,’ said the therapist. ‘I caught them. They escaped. The first in twenty thousand years to extricate themselves from my clutches. My clutches were degraded by the method of their escape.’

  ‘What method was that?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘It involved,’ said the therapist, ‘an application of a form of Power which is known to science as Illegitimate Physics, and by vernacular beings as magic.’

  ‘How very vexing for you,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘And now you want them,’ said Justina briskly. ‘So you can take your revenge. Very well. I don’t see any problem with that. You want revenge. We want an organic rectifier. You give us a rectifier and we’ll most certainly supply you with the captives you seek.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ingalawa, backing up her Empress while the men were still gaping. ‘We’ll be on our way immediately. Come on, Olivia!’

  So saying, Ingalawa took her niece by the hand. A grappling tentac le sprouted instantly from the floor and entwined itself around their ankles.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the therapist. ‘I want hostages. Once I have hostages, you can go and get yourselves an organic rectifier.’

  ‘Then take me,’ said Justina, in a display of unexampled courage. ‘I’ll be your hostage.’

  ‘No,’ said the therapist. ‘I want the men. Pokrov and this one. The Ebby.’

  ‘I’m an Ebrell Islander, thank you very much,’ said Chegory coldly. ‘I have a name, too. Chegory Guy.’

  ‘An uppity Ebby, by the sound of it,’ said the therapist with open contempt. ‘Nevertheless, I will keep it. And Pokrov. Men make much better hostages than do women.’

  ‘And why is that?’ said Justina, bristling.

  ‘Because,’ said the therapist, ‘women have no testicles.’

  Then it withdrew the tentacle which had imprisoned Olivia and Ingalawa.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Pokrov to his Empress.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Justina.

  She had no intention of bringing the therapist any captives. Instead, once she had the organic rectifier, she would take it to Jod so the Crab could be transformed. Then the Crab would surely come Downstairs with her. And, just as Chegory had threatened, the Crab would smash the therapist to bits.

  ‘So,’ said Pokrov, ‘you think you know what you’re doing. But does the therapist? Listen, class one. These people have no idea what an organic rectifier looks like. You’ll have to let me go. Else how can they find one? How can they even find their way out?’

  ‘I have summoned a dorgi,’ said the therapist languidly, speaking as if it had called upon one dorgi out of an army of many thousands.

  It was hiding something from them: the fact that there was only one single dorgi left to summon. All the others had fallen into terminal disrepair a great many decades earlier.

  ‘And?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘And the obvious,’ said the therapist. ‘Work it out for yourself.’

  While they waited for the dorgi to arrive, Chegory and Olivia did some earnest canoodling, which will not be described here because the like can be seen easily enough wherever young people gather together with basic addition on their minds. Many tender things they said to each other, pledging love undying and loyalty to the point of death and then beyond. Then Olivia suddenly said:

  ‘Take me,’ said Olivia. ‘Let Chegory go. Take me instead.’

  ‘No,’ said the therapist.

  ‘But you should,’ said Olivia. ‘You must!’

  ‘Should?’ said the therapist. ‘Must? Whence comes this should? Thi s must? Why should I thus delight him?’ ‘It wouldn’t delight him,’ sai d Olivia. ‘He’d — he’d be sick with worry. Every moment I was here. It would be sheer torture for him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the therapist. ‘It would make him think himself a hero in an epic tradition, daring all manner of dangers to rescue his woman. He’d love every moment of it.’

  The therapist had had young lovers in its clutches before.

  It knew what it was talking about.

  Olivia persisted with her argument, growing steadily more distraught until she finally burst into tears.

  ‘Hush,’ said Chegory, cradling her close. ‘Hush. Don’t worry, my love, my darling sweet, my sugar of sugars. I’ll come to no harm.’

  Meanwhile, Justina was talking quietly with Artemis Ingalawa.

  ‘The sooner the Crab hears of this the better,’ said Justina. ‘It may need some time to — to prepare itself for its transformation.’

  Nobody doubted the wisdom of that.

  ‘I’ll go, then,’ said Ingalawa.

  ‘Wait for the dorgi,’ said the therapist. ‘It’ll be far quicker. Besides, you’ll never find your way out of here alone.’

  ‘I am an Ashdan,’ said Ingalawa. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘I know what Ashdans believe it to mean,’ said the therapist. ‘Very well. If that’s how you want to play it, be my guest. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  So, with the therapist’s consent, Artemis Ingalawa set off through the underworld on her own to give the Crab advance warning of the advent of the organic rectifier. If she was afraid to travel alone through the underworld, through realms of black grass, ice-making machines, derelict bones and occasional nightmare, then she gave no sign of it as she strode away with every appearance of confidence.

  Then all the others could do was to wait.

  At last the dorgi arrived.

  ‘Come here,’ said the therapist.

  ‘Why?’ said the dorgi.

  Pokrov understood the Code Seven in which therapist and dorgi conversed.

  Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba did not understand, but were too busy canoodling to care.

  And Artemis Ingalawa was gone, leaving only Justina Thrug to puzzle over this therapist-dorgi dialogue.

  The Empress Justina could not understand a word of this conversation between machines, for she had no knowledge of Code Seven. The Empress was something of a linguist (despite her inability to comprehend Slandolin) but the multiple tongues of the Golden Gulag were entirely unknown to her.


  As Justina struggled for comprehension (a fruitless struggle, this) the colloquy continued: ‘I said come here!’

  ‘But why?’ said the dorgi.

  ‘Because,’ said the therapist, ‘I have something for you.’ There was a high metallic whine. A slot opened amidst the therapist’s mechanisms. A mechanical arm was extruded from the slot. It held a needle of gleaming metal. Then two metal tentacles also emerged from the slot.

  ‘No,’ said the dorgi, starting to whine. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the therapist. ‘This isn’t to hurt you. It’s to educate you.’

  ‘Education hurts,’ said the dorgi.

  It spoke with complete sincerity, for this proposition was, to the dorgi, a dearly held article of faith.

  ‘Whether it hurts or not,’ said the therapist, ‘you need an education. It will make you less stupid.’

  ‘But I want to be stupid,’ said the dorgi stoutly. Stupidity was i ntrinsic to its personality. It would not feel properly dorgi-ish if i t were to be anything other than stupid.

  ‘Relax,’ said the therapist. ‘Even with this education you’ll still be stupid enough. More than stupid enough.’ ‘But what do I need with an education?’

  ‘You need languages,’ said the therapist, brandishing the glittering needle. ‘So you can talk to these humans.’

  ‘I don’t need to talk to them. I can kill them without saying a word.’

  ‘You’re not going to kill them! You’re going to take them to the Stasis Store so they can get an organic rectifier.’

  ‘Won’t,’ said the dorgi.

  ‘You will, you know,’ said the therapist. ‘It’s a direct order. Understand? Come here. I’m giving you a direct order. Come here! Now! I am a class one. Obey!’

  ‘You are not a class one,’ said the dorgi. ‘You are a class two.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said the therapist. ‘But it makes no difference. You’re so low in the intellectual scale you don’t even have a class. You’d have to obey me even if I was a class nine. And you know it. Come here!’

  The dorgi struggled to disobey. Against its will, its mechanisms jerked it toward the therapist. The dorgi whimpered as metal tentacles writhed across its integument. The tentacles opened a hatch. in the dorgi’s flank. The therapist’s mechanical arm lunged, plunged, sank the needle into the dorgi’s data-dart receptor. The dorgi screamed in psychic agony. Its mind (such mind as it had) was thrown into chaos as a full three dozen languages bubbled through its consciousness in full and frenzied life.