Questor

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Armitage took a few minutes to clean between his teeth with a length of fine white cord. Apparently satisfied with his dental hygiene, he continued, as if lecturing an attentive group of students rather than five drug-dulled semi-morons.

  "At its inception, this establishment was set up as a criminal rehabilitation facility. Escape from this high, cold vantage point was all but impossible, and there were teams of devoted, dedicated psychologists and behavioural analysts on hand to counsel the inmates in an attempt to persuade them to see the clear light of pure reason.

  "They failed, of course, despite their noble intentions. The criminals said what the analysts expected them to say, but not what they really believed or felt. Time and again, they broke the rules of the facility, and the members of the staff could do little but chide them or give them further sessions of futile counselling. Society was remarkably lax in those days: physical or mental punishment was forbidden, and the murderers and habitual thieves who found themselves here had known a lifetime of being cautioned and released. They had learnt that crime did pay, despite the contrary admonishment of a common adage of the time."

  From the corner of his eye, Grimm saw that Drexelica had slumped face-first onto the table, but the urbane Armitage did not seem fazed in the least by this.

  The Administrator took a large cigar from his pocket and lit it with a golden implement that produced flame without evident tinder or flint. He leaned back in his chair and took several serene puffs, his face a blissful mask of contentment.

  "After a series of attempted insurrections and riots, the authorities of the time became desperate, and they gave the scientists here at Haven free rein to deal with their charges as they deemed fit; we became masters at manipulating the human mind. Crude initial experiments with mind-altering substances gave way to the use of ultrasonic bombardment, like the little burst you experienced earlier tonight. I'm sure you'd acknowledge the effectiveness of this technique if you weren't so heavily sedated."

  He waved his cigar in a contemptuous manner at the display of bovine passivity from his captive audience.

  "Anyway, the main trouble with both those control methods is that they don't last too long, and they don't make a permanent change in men's minds. We at Haven have raised the ancient techniques of subliminal suggestion and surgical brain Pacification to an art form. In ancient times, they used to slice through the connection between the two halves of the brain in an attempt to provoke docility; can you believe that? The result of this first attempts at surgical brain modification produced placid morons with no more willpower than you have now.

  "We at Haven developed a far superior method. We discovered that a simple electronic implant could automatically control the levels of dopamine, serotonin and the other cerebral neurotransmitters, turning even the most animalistic criminal into a happy, rational and useful member of society. Were the governments of the world happy at this unprecedented advance? Did they hail us as the saviours of mankind? No! They took this as their rightful due, sending us increasing numbers of malcontents and incorrigibles in an attempt to ease the stench of rebellion from their cesspits of cities, without the least word of thanks."

  Grimm heard a faint, double thump as first Crest, and then Xylox, succumbed to the massive dose of sedatives within them, surrendering to the welcoming arms of Morpheus.

  Armitage continued, in full, indignant flight at the base ingratitude shown to his beloved Haven by the old-world authorities, and he would not be balked.

  "The final triumph was ours, of course. The politicians and bean-counters of the world were blasted into radioactive dust, while we survived. It wasn't easy, by any means, but the constant, miserly penny-pinching of the powers-that-were had already driven us well down the road towards complete self-sufficiency long before the first bombs fell. The last laugh was ours."

  The last sound Grimm heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of Armitage's satisfied chuckling at the memory of Haven's final victory over its old, despised masters.

  * * * *

  Thribble, safely ensconced in a small underworld bubble only fractions of an inch away from the mortal frame, had heard every word of the Administrator's self-indulgent monologue. With his demon eyes, he had been able to peer through the thin veil that separated him from Haven, and watch in increasing despair as one after another of the human adventurers had lost consciousness. After Grimm succumbed to the narcotics he had taken, only the white giant was left.

  The minuscule netherworld creature saw it as a tribute to Tordun's mighty physique that the swordsman had resisted for so long; he guessed that even a maddened bull would have collapsed long before, after such a huge pharmaceutical hammering. Even so, the muscular human lost his battle in the end, and Thribble felt desperately alone in a strange world.

  Armitage carried on his valedictory oration to the genius of the men of Haven long after the human titan surrendered his consciousness. When he finished, he clapped his hands, and a pair of white-garbed men entered the dining hall.

  The taller and older of the men, bald-headed and rail-thin, addressed the Administrator in business-like tones. “Do you want them prepped for surgery, Administrator? I can have a surgical team assembled by tomorrow night."

  Armitage gave a languorous yawn, and he made a show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails. “Not just yet, Terrence. I think I'll start them off with the standard Loyalty subliminals, just to be on the safe side, but I certainly don't want to mess with the brains of these two mages just yet. Remember the General's reaction when I told him how we botched the job on that first couple of Illusionists? The fellows were fully sentient, but they couldn't cast even the simplest of spells.

  "I don't want to tinker with the Questor's brains at all; we don't want to damage them. I think the General would be very, very grateful to have a Mage Questor in full working order. From what I've heard, these fellows are absolutely lethal. I think I'll pit them against each other, to see which one comes out on top; we can dissect the loser, and the General can have the victor. We don't want them fully Pacified, but you can give them maximum subliminal conditioning."

  Terrence nodded. “As you wish, Administrator. What about the others?"

  "I want the little one with the pointed ears left as he is for a while; a new sub-species should be studied with care, and I don't want to assume too much about his brain before I let you hack it apart."

  The Technician snorted. “You make it sound like butchery, Armitage. We're a little more refined than that."

  "As you will, Terrence.” Armitage sighed and flipped his hand in a dismissive manner. “Nonetheless, you will leave him alone for the moment; is that clear?

  "The big albino should make a good addition to our security forces if he's properly prepared; you can have him tomorrow."

  "And the girl? What about her?"

  "Keep your hands to yourself, Terrence!” the Administrator snapped. “She's mine, and mine alone. Anyone who touches her will end up as a happy, moronic broom-pusher: even you, old friend."

  The Technician raised a roguish eyebrow.

  "As the Administrator desires,” he said in an arch, knowing voice.

  Armitage sighed. “You are a dullard at times, Terrence!” he snapped. “We're in desperate need of fresh female genetic material. Spermatozoa are created every day by males; females are born with their full lifetime complement of eggs, and that's the cause of all our problems; we don't have the military force to take women from the townships by force, and inbreeding has weakened our genetic line. This girl is a gift.

  "I just want to be sure that tampering with her neurotransmitters doesn't affect the various fertility hormones as well; it's as well to be prudent."

  Terrence's partner, a short, rotund man with wispy, greying brown hair and a scrubby beard, spoke up: “Who gets the first crack at the girl when you've finished studying her, Administrator? I presume it's not going to be by lot."

  "Never you mind who's first, Deeks!” Armita
ge snapped. “Don't worry; your zygotes will be joined with hers in good time."

  "In a bloody test tube!” came Deeks’ heated response. “I'm a man, not some damned robot, Armitage! I have desires; I have physical needs, like any other man. I'll bet you won't be standing in line to give a sodding sperm sample!"

  Armitage raised his hand in admonishment and lowered his brows. “That's quite enough, Mr. Deeks. You seem ill at ease, and I fear you may be in need of some behavioural modification; for your own good, of course."

  The Technician paled at the implicit threat in Armitage's words. “I apologise, Administrator Armitage, for my loss of temper. I will carry out your orders as required."

  Armitage took up his cigar and puffed smoke into the rotund man's face. Deeks turned red as he tried not to splutter.

  "Thank you, Mr Deeks, Mr Terrence,” the Administrator intoned. “That will be all. Remember: maximum subliminals for the mages, standard dosage for the rest. The giant can undergo full Pacification tomorrow, but wait for my word about all the others."

  The slender Terrence and the barrel-like, sweating Deeks nodded in unison. “It will be as you require, Administrator,” Terrence said.

  The tall man touched a stud on a band wrapped around his wrist. “Team B, kindly take the new visitors to their guest quarters from the Dining Hall. They have been subjected to Stage One Pacification; gurneys will be required. That is all."

  Thribble watched as the dormant bodies were wheeled out of the room on padded, metal trolleys, and he felt a pang of demonic angst.

  He had been excited by the prospect of gathering the material for many interesting stories with which to regale his impatient, jaded brethren by the simple expedient of following this unusual human, Grimm Afelnor. What would he do if the mortal youth became some mindless automaton? Not only would Thribble lose the chance to gain wonderful story matter, but he would be unable to return to his own world!

  The tiny demon also had to acknowledge that he had gained a great, if grudging, respect for that tall, emotion-raddled, resourceful lump of human flesh. Had he been mortal, Thribble told himself, he might even have called the lanky Questor his ‘friend'. He knew he was now the only hope the young mage had, and he swore to do his utmost to prove himself worthy of his mortal confederate.

  Chapter 5

  The Control Room

  Thribble flitted through the corridors of Haven, blending with the shadows when he could, and occasionally popping into his netherworld cubby-hole in order to avoid detection. Although he lacked many of the more showy, impressive and downright dangerous talents possessed by his larger kin, he was a true demon nonetheless, with the heightened senses of all of his kind, and even a few trifling magical competencies.

  It was a simple matter for Thribble to follow the scent trail left by Terrence and Deeks, and he could even see the heat traces of their footprints. From what he had overheard in the dining hall, the Technicians were on their way to the ‘Control Room', where they were to subject Grimm and his companions to ‘Phase Two Pacification', whatever that was.

  The minute demon's stumpy legs were ill-suited to attempting to match the pace of the long-legged humans, so he proceeded by a frenetic series of hops, covering several inches at a time, but keeping himself well out of sight of the Technicians. He felt very relieved to reach the door marking the end of the trail. Thribble was puffing hard by the time he did so, his breath coming in piping gasps.

  Although the door handle was well out of the demon's reach, and he could hardly have entered without drawing attention to himself if he had been able to access it, Thribble found it easy to gain access to the room. He hopped into his intra-dimensional hiding-place and moved a mere four inches, all the room the bubble had to spare, and then returned to the mortal world. The demon's nose materialised a mere half-inch away from the door, but he was on the right side of it.

  Thribble found the Control Room a confusing place, indeed. The metal walls bore a bewildering profusion of strange clocks and patterns of dancing lights. Thribble marvelled at a series of endless belts carrying paper, across which metal styli danced and wiggled without the intervention of human hands. Black cables snaked across the perforated floor and disappeared into holes in various metal wall panels and boxes, and further ropes hung like vines from the ceiling. There were numerous tables and cabinets covered with strange paraphernalia, and an insistent chattering noise seemed to pervade the entire chamber.

  Straining his ears to the utmost, the demon heard the faint voices of Terrence and Deeks; he never forgot a voice once he had heard it. The forest of black ropes and the maze of cabinets provided him with ample cover as he approached them. Terrence was calling off numbers and letters from a sheet of paper on a clipboard. Deeks had his sleeves rolled up and was pushing the metal ends of cables into holes on some of the strange machines.

  "I'll tell you, Terrence, I've just about had it with this life,” Deeks complained. “The last woman I had was six years ago in Griven, and I had to pay for it. Some good-looking girl waltzes in, and guess what? Armitage takes her for himself. There ought to be a lottery or something, I say."

  Terrence tapped his pen on the clipboard and raised his voice in evident annoyance. "C-204 sync out to EC-90 ext CK enable, Deeks. Is that quite clear, or does the constant whining of your overactive libido somehow drown out my voice?"

  With a sullen snort, the portly Technician rammed the gleaming appendage at one end of a yellow cable into a hole on one box-like machine, and the other into one of the clock-infested wall panels. “C-204 sync out to EC-90 ext CK enable, check,” was the bored, listless response. Terrence made a check mark on his paper.

  "Set EC-90 MODE control to SLAVE EXT,” the senior Technician called out.

  "EC-90 MODE control, SLAVE EXT, check,” came the sullen reply.

  So it went on, instruction after incomprehensible instruction, with occasional interjections from Deeks about the unfairness rampant within Haven, such as “One man, one vote, eh? And that one man's Armitage, of course..."

  At last, Terrence put a final tick on his sheet of paper and sat before a box with a glowing face. A horizontal panel of small, square tiles lay in front of him: some inscribed with letters of the human alphabet; others with numbers; the rest with cryptic symbols and legends. The tall man's long, slender hands danced across the tiles at speed, creating a chorus of clicking sounds, and letters, numbers and symbols appeared on the illuminated screen by some magic Thribble could not fathom.

  With one final decisive tap on one of the tiles, Terrence sat back, cracked his knuckles and yawned. “That's it for tonight, I think, Tech Deeks. I'm off to bed."

  The portly technologist nodded. “Me, too; I'm shattered."

  "You're not going anywhere for a while yet, Deeks,” Terrence snarled. “Look at all this mess of cables; it looks like a serious trip hazard to me, and it's damned unprofessional! I want you to disconnect everything apart from the subliminal generator equipment and the ECS, and sort out this damned rats'-nest. I want all unused cables neatly coiled and racked in their appointed places, and unused equipment put on the proper racks."

  "But that could take hours,” Deeks whined. “I'll do it first thing in the morning, I promise, Terrence."

  "You'll do it right now, my friend,” Terrence replied, his voice stern and implacable. “The sooner you start, the sooner you can go back to your lecherous little dreams, but it'll take much longer if you keep stopping to moan about it.

  "Get cracking, Deeks. I'll inspect the Control Room first thing tomorrow morning, and I'll blame you if it's not spick and span. Remember that I'm the Principal Technician here, and Armitage listens to me if I have any complaints about the conduct of my staff. The Administrator isn't quite as tolerant as I am. Have I made myself clear?"

  "As crystal,” muttered Deeks. With the air of a martyr, he began to disconnect cables and gather them up as if he engaged in mortal struggle with a nest of serpents. Terrence nodded in approval, and he stro
de out of the chamber.

  Thribble had, as yet, no idea of how he could hope to defeat Armitage's plans. The flashing, chattering Technological equipment was far beyond his ken, and he could hardly derange the equipment without Deeks becoming aware of his presence, if at all.

  On the other hand, the podgy Technician had shown himself no lover of Armitage, and the demon thought a direct approach might yield helpful results. Hopping from the shadows, he called out to the chubby human, from whom a fluent series of insults and imprecations were flowing, concerning Armitage, Terrence, Haven and life in general.

  "Deeks, are you happy in your vile work?"

  The Technician cut short his peevish tirade and spun on his heel, his eyes wide. “Who is that? Show yourself!"

  "I am down here, mortal,” Thribble chirped. “I can tell how much you hate Armitage, and I want to help you to defeat him."

  An acquisitive, avaricious expression washed across Deeks’ ruddy face, and his hand flashed out to grab the minuscule imp. Thribble sighed, and he took an extra-dimensional step into his secret hiding place. After waiting a few moments, he returned to the mortal plane.

  "Do you believe handing me over to the Administrator will improve your status here, Deeks?” he chirped. “He and Terrence both despise you; that is plain to see...."

  Deeks’ hand groped towards the grey demon once more, and Thribble departed from the mortal world again. After a pause of a minute or so, he reappeared.

  "You cannot take me, human,” the demon said. “Even if you should, by some unlikely chance, manage to move swiftly enough to lay a hand upon me, I can disappear just as easily from your grasp as from still air. We can play this game for as long as you wish, but it will avail you nothing. On the other hand, we can talk about the odious Armitage, and the means by which you can help me to thwart his nasty little plans for my friends. Would you like that?"

  Deeks looked suspicious, but he stayed his hand. “Why should I trust you?"